Salema Moods: Three Short Poems

I. Ocean Pulse

Rising, curling, foam unfurling,
waves of cold Atlantic sea,

next one coming, meet it running,
plunge into the safe beneath.

Avoid crashing, hard sand-smashing
that could knock me to my knees.

Out here holding. Look I’m floating!
Blood-beat drumming in my ears.

Waves keep surging, endless burgeon
sent up from the darkest deeps,

surface playing, breath delaying,
I dive into your mystery,

always saying all to me.

II. Here is Where
I've been here
before but
now I’m here
for healing.

Twice times ill
with cancer
and its cure
here is where
I’ve come. Numb
beneath – or
should I say
beyond? – these,
my extremities.

I've been here
before but
now I’m here
for healing.

III. Seeing Eye

I’m rocked in salt arms: the ocean,
waves pillowing under my head.
The sky’s eye seems to wink open
to glint all I seek to reflect.
For one glittering, infinite instant
I can’t tell the fall from the swell.

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Eight Poems

The Writer's Call:
“…I work for you kind reader, dear,/who walks my words across the page,/who seeks clear ground in paths I’ve made…”

Speechless:
“…Kings will do/what kings do. Soldiers too./And if you don't want to know, I won’t keep you…”

A Reply & An Answer:
“…Soon, birds won’t be able to sing./Listen. Hear me. Our time is for turning…

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Sunday Poem: Spinning Still

In the amber of a late October,creative intelligence leaf
altered by illness
and a mauling from friends, we have
come again to London, and come
one to the other,
in truth,
it seems, for the first time
in twenty-something years.

These are our days.

Above, white lines from Heathrow
streak the sky, an airplane flashing

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Speechless

Her name? Her name is Generose, here is how her story flows: Alice Walker's Creative Intelligence

through the latest news of war
our ruler coming out to say
‘Bombs Again!' Though his minions'
mincing words, force-feeding what
‘we' need to do, and why, (with regret)
some evil people (and some others)
must die;

through the soldiers jumping to,
while I, and my kind, are left gasping
behind, holding a small stand somewhere
like this, appealing to someone
like you.

So…
Can you come with me
to a place far from here, where
four or five m– No. Let
me begin again. Let me start
with myself, with yesterday when I

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Answering Back

One major inspiration of art and writing is… art and writing. I'm reading a brilliant anthology, creative intelligence sunny windowedited by Carol Ann Duffy, called Answering Back, with a simple, delightful concept: a living poet chooses a poem from the past that has touched them and writes a new poem in response.

It's a beautiful collection of calls and replies, echos and illuminations across centuries — and gives a vivid sense of how, through writing, language and human connection transcend time and place.

Here's a poem about art by WH Auden, chosen by Billy Collins and,

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Spinning Still: A Poem

So now we meet each evening to meld/the passing and the coming life/suspended/in fading light
that knows/ just what it holds…

Life's Work

P1010298

The great Artist is at work.
Around his house, his children move
in whispers, while his wife
lays down a dinner tray,
tells that it’s there
with two soft raps – no more – tapped on his study door.

The great Artist begs his work

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Time Out At Glendalough

I consider Glendalough, Co Wicklow, Ireland, to be one of the most inspiring places on earth.  It's where Iseult Gonne is buried and where some chapters of But A Dream, the third book in my WB Yeats trilogy are set. I spent as much time as possible there when I lived in Ireland, especially while researching  that novel.

This poem is a tribute to all that was given to me there.

Time Out At Glendalough

After you have walked the ruins
of seven churches,
tilted back your head to seek the top
of the tower that took
the rounded point
of Kevin’s steeple
and thrust it up,
three times as high,
from earth to sky to mark
the ground you walk upon
as holy;

after you have circled green lake paths
that urge you up, then further up,
to top the crashing
waterfall, then
higher;

after you’ve been stopped and stopped again,
by sight of ice-sliced mountain cut to valley
its mesh of rivers and falls,
rushing to empty all into two, long lakes
that somehow take this ceaseless gush
and hold it
still,

you will know
the allure of here,
as of all the places we call sacred,
is the silence.

You will have heard
the voice
of your own blood
dropping into
the deep.

Become a patron today and please accept my endless appreciation for your support and encouragement … and for your love of poetry.support orna ross poetry on patreon