Tag: spring
Tribute to Maia
I submitted a poem about Maia, the goddess for which the month of May was named. Unfortunately, it didn’t do so well. The silver-lining is I can share it with you.
Tribute to Maia
yellow was the only color
beside green; grey rocks
white mountain snow;
he discovered her and
fell in love with rhythm
from the lyre; gentle,
sleep-inducing, quiet
just like her.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
Easter Sunday
sometimes we pass over
lunisolar tides of ravishment
violet shrouds in self-denial
spoken jealously inside
an empty tomb.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
Lured into Spring
Every month I meet with my poetry group, as part of The Mid-Ohio Fine Art Society. We discuss weird things, write and share poetry. It’s a lot of fun and if you’re in the Marion Ohio area, I encourage you to join us. You can find the Facebook group here. During the last meeting three of our members, including me, wrote a short poem together. I would like to share it with you today.
Poem composed by Agnew Pickens, Ben Ditmars, and Cheryl Wilcox:
fishing with dead body parts
you know I stuck a fishing lure
up my butt one time
I didn’t catch a thing
spoiled the whole fishing trip
until the sun spawned
crappie dreams of rectal spasms
detached metatarsals
in a cool retreat from spring
is it really that hot in your
little pond,
you’d chase a foreign object?
those UFOs that skip across the water
in colors of sundown
sentences spelled out with rods,
punctuation from loose hooks
tick, tick, tick
I got a bite
I got a nibble of a nibble of a bite
caught between the noble demise
of sushi dreams or fish filet.
War Wounds
she speaks war wounds
from a flame, sobbing wine stains:
death-defying light,
a sudden mist of silver lining
bent on superstition.
frozen in the stratosphere;
your trust a heavy breeze
of free electrons, charging
atmospheres we left behind.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
Photograph Courtesy of Helle Gade
Embers
embers caught by her
silk shoes near wishing trees;
night changes into something red,
we dream of hazel, now surreal.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
Image Courtesy of Paula Walker Baker
Apache Verse
I was inspired by the song Geronimo by Sheppard to read more about Apache history and culture. I found a fascinating religion and story of resilience. These are two poems I wrote concerning my observations:
***
Like Wind
I move like wind
around the edge of fire
dancing with the earth
on strings and hearing
thunder from your voice.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
***
Eclipse
beads of sweat eclipse
grey mountains
and coyotes howl
at memories.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
The End of Nights Part 5
I published a poem in my collection Inhale the Night called Dark Knowledge. It’s about a lost woman named Leanne who struggles after a debilitating accident. This is the final part of her story in The End of Nights. Find the last episode here. And the first one here.
The End of Nights
She sacrificed
Her body on the stillborn
Altar– Gene had stayed
Because of pregnancy and
Little else concerned him
Or his lies.
Leanne glared at
Incandescent lights,
An endangered species
Like herself.
Her doctor and
The hospital slipped
Out of view, remained
Consistent for a spell of torture
On the whitewashed walls.
“Leanne,” McCormack told her:
“I know you loved him, but let go.”
“I thought he understood…
I fooled myself.”
“Men aren’t saints, Leanne,
The best of them will use you.”
“I knew that going in and
I accepted and embraced it
For so long…”
“He came here earlier today,
But they didn’t let him in.”
“I wish I hadn’t,”
Leanne said mournfully.
“He didn’t say much, but left a
Bill with the receptionist.”
“I imagine for the Firebird…”
“Gene also wants the ring.”
“He can have it,” Leanne remarked
“When he learns to swim.”
“So it’s with the car?” McCormack asked.
“Last I checked, but I had had
A lot of rum before I crashed with it.”
McCormack nodded in acknowledgment
While he checked her medication levels.
“It will be all right,” she thought.
“Winter and my life before have died;
Spring is morning and the end of nights.”
© Ben Ditmars 2015
Flying Machine
Hallowed nerves, an empty shell
Overflowing, headless on the beam.
We crash a glass half-full of relapse
Like the chambers of a Rozière balloon
Or loaded gun, she speaks
In syllables releasing hydrogen
As Lightning strikes.
Come Josephine,
The moon is on fire.
© Ben Ditmars 2015
The Midnight Writer 