Madison Cawein, 'The Troubadour'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The Troubadour

Night, they say, is no man’s friend:
And at night he met his end
In the woods of Trebizend.

Hate crouched near him as he strode
Down the darkness of the road,
Where my lord seemed some huge toad.

Eyes of murder glared and burned
At each bend of road he turned,
Or where wild the torrent churned.

And with Death we stood and stared
From the bush as by he fared;
But he never looked or cared.

He went singing; and a rose
Lay upon his heart’s repose
With what thoughts of her—who knows?

He had done no other wrong
But to sing a simple song—
“I have loved you, loved you long.”

And my lady smiled and sighed;
Gave a rose and looked moist-eyed,
And forgot she was a bride.

( And my lord saw; gave commands. )

By Madison Cawein

"Rose of Jericho" by Cindy Veach

[med_cat]

"Rose of Jericho" by Cindy Veach

I'm not sure about this gift. This tangle
of dried roots curled into a fist. This gnarl

I've let sit for weeks beside the toaster
and cookbooks on a bed of speckled granite.

What am I waiting for? Online I find
Rose of Jericho prayers and rituals for safe birth,

well-being, warding off the evil eye.
At first I thought I'd buy some white stones,

a porcelain bowl. But I didn't and I didn't.
I don't believe in omens. This still fist

of possibility all wrapped up in itself.
There it sat through the holidays, into the New Year.

Through all the days I've been gone. Dormant.
But today, in an inch of water,

out of curiosity, I awakened
the soul of Jericho. Limb by limb it unfolded

and turned moss green. It reminded me
of the northwest, its lush undergrowth,

how twice despite the leaden clouds,
the rain, I found happiness there.

From tumbleweed to lush fern flower,
reversible, repeatable. And what am I

to make of this? Me, this woman who doesn't
believe. Doesn't take anything on faith. I won't

let it rot. I'll monitor the water level. Keep the mold
at bay. I tend things, but I do not pray.

(reposted with thanks from browngirl)