Folklore

Sooooooooo I'm not entirely satisfied with this one. I feel like I somehow need to conclude it better. Generally concerned about some of the imagery, as usual. It feels...uneven. And I sort of like the format, but I also don't. Comments appreciated!

PS. Thoughts on a title? I hate this one >_<

"Tall Tales"

I find myself taking posthumous advice
from Anansi.
        I swallow him regularly as I sleep
        and morning birds snap him up in their beaks
        and carry on singing.
His careless webs span
the inhale and exhale of chasms.

I regularly hang my head
upside-down beneath bridges.
        Only the ducks bellow at me
        and demand nothing more than
bits of bread.
 
I try to pile stones along roadways
but the walls are never tall enough
for Mercury to hide behind;
        children or sprites follow behind me,
        skipping the wall-stones across ponds.
Mercury whispers from all the wrong places,
        suction-cupped to the kitchen window
        and fleeing up and down the glass,
a silver bead that boils and burns my veins.

I don't set even a toe
inside rings of mushrooms
        and I wield "I wish" with care,
        but there are no more elves or goblins
        hiding under my bed
or at the bottom of the well in the garden.

I have never seen nightmares tangled in dream catchers,
but still I am careful with plants like mistletoe
that have been the death of gods.

Rocks and Water

Based off Deb Talan's song, "Rocks and Water" (which can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoRVzSup5WY). It has such a wonderful warmth to it...like the desert at night as it's still losing its heat...

I couldn't resist writing a poem about this one. Unfortunately, I am entirely unsatisfied with what I have. At some later date, I will likely write another one, because I just love this song too much to be satisfied with what I have come up with.

Comments appreciated!

"Desert Widow"

Isis bears the sienna brown of a desert -
she is a terra cotta jar,
twisted and turned by expert hands
to be evenly baked by a lidless sun.
Her hands are a scroll of flax or parchment,
old, careful, experienced,
a cluster of pictograms
with knuckles sturdy as rocks standing guard -
a pride of lions against the sky.

Her sun
is a nest of copper wire,
the smell of blood
breathed in through open mouths.

Isis grows sunflowers between her toes
and goes down to the water at sunset
when she is lonely.

She sits by the riverbanks
and waits for the spring floods
that carry her husband home.

Isis is red clay -
crisp, sunburnt,
and covered in ivy,
full to the brim of nighttime rainwater.

Cycle

Okay, believe it or not, I did actually write the following poem with cycles in mind. I'm not sure how clearly it came through...

Written in the form of a sonata, which you can read about here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonata_form) if you're interested. Written mostly to the sound of Yo-Yo Ma playing Beethoven's cello sonatas. check youtube if you're interested

Just to clarify: a la orilla del mar = by the shores of the sea
a la luz de la luna = by moonlight (therefore, la luna = the moon)

What do you think of the format? Do you like the way I've broken up the "solo" and "accompaniment"? Does it work?
As usual: how well does the imagery flow? Do you like the images themselves? Do they fit well together?
How do you like the repetitions?  Is the "theme" (by which I mean musical theme, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theme_%28music%29 for reference) fairly evident?
Any other thoughts?

"A la Orilla de la Luna
      Cello Sonata in E minor with piano accompaniment"

La luna brushes
The spirits in their seasons
Against the wall,
Then tilts and turns
Toward darkness.

A la luz de la luna,
The dead tilt and turn
By the light of the moon.

                        she says it with a smile
                        that cuts your
                        knees out from under you:
                        'a la orilla del mar.'
                        by the shores of the sea,
                        in the season of snow
                        she still grows up from the earth -
                        saw-grass climbing dune crests.

                        the magician wolf-child
                        twists her fingers
                        and does not trust her words
                        the whole of winter -

                        and in spring
                        a spade turns the garden
                        from weed-green to brown,

                        flames turn the fields
                        from brown to volcanic black,

                        while, cello between her knees,
                        she plays to the ghosts
                        who know her name,

                        plays her cello
                        to the red wallpaper
                        soft as cream.

The black water
Beneath la luna
Shines pewter at
Its wave-crests.
The salt smells
Like summer hurricanes.

                        a la orilla del mar
                        the sand still clings to
                        the heat of the day.

                        the milky way
                        is a waving field
                        of wheat and silver barley grass,

                        and the wolf-child's padding feet
                        track sand inside the house.

                        she plays
                        with sand under her fingernails,
                        and her spirits
                        kneel and bow
                        to pick it out of the carpet.

                        their faces are painted
                        on the red wallpaper -

                        red
                        like the fires
                        in early spring fields.

                        and the magician
                        runs her fingers
                        through the barley grass
                        to teach it to sing.

With a sigh
La luna turns away from the sun.

                       'a la orilla del mar,'
                       she says with a smile like cream.

                       she grows up from dune crests
                       with her cello between her knees
                       and autumn leaves
                       burning into the carpet,

                       returns her ghosts
                       to what they once were
                       as crumbled leaves
                       and old wheat stalks,
                       brown and gold as ashes.

                       a la orilla del mar
                       the cello-player
                       sends the spirits to the earth,

And autumn fades
To the season of snow,

A la luz de la luna.

Psalms

Wow. I have been waiting to write a poem that really encompasses my homesickness since I got here, and finally, 3 weeks before I'm headed home, I've written it. But I love it :)

So yeah. Questions for critique:
How do you feel about the dialect? Too strong? Not strong enough?
Plot: is the "story" cohesive enough?
How do you feel about the words themselves? Does it get too close to prose?
I'm also concerned about the beginning of the "David" stanza - does it make sense, or do I need a better transition in there?
Thoughts on imagery in general, or any other comments are definitely appreciated!

"Psalm for the South"

Momma gave me a quilt when I left home
so I could lie me down in green pastures,
jus' like her black book says.

I learned to read
in a town where the churches got porches
jus' like everybody else.

Taught myself astronomy
with cogon grass ticklin my bare legs n'feet
n'ticks on the backsa my knees.
I couldna shown you
the long necklace'a stars
people say is a dragon,
but I could hunt down rabbits n'hazelnuts
on their way to Heaven.

Since I left
I've seen long plains a' steel buildins
that crowd out the sky
n'shine their own stars.

Grandaddy Solomon still sings to me in my sleep
in Grandma's old wicker rockin chair,
still reads to me from Momma's black book.
I like him better'n God.

My first music lesson
was the wind in the blue grass,
my breath vibratin the green ribbon
crushed between thumb-joints.
Since then I've learned from voices jus' as sweet.

I read lots more than the black book, these days.
I've walked through lotsa valleys,
dryer'n salt or wet as an afternoon in March—
walked there myself
with a cane I cut from the oak tree out back.

Sometimes Grandaddy Solomon
sings me the songs David wrote.
I don't like David much.
His graspin hands
never reached for anything,
jus' begged to be filled.
He ain't strong as Grandma,
with her hands knotted like wood,
n'he ain't strong as me.

I've got more time on Sundays now,
but I dress up anyway.
It's a holy day,
sure as the summer brings pollen
to paint the screened porch yellow.
Whether God says it's holy or not.

I shoulda known
you gotta get everything for yourself.
I shoulda known
I could study a universe
in the hickory trees along the driveway.

The bricks for the tall, new city buildins
may be baked in the sun, just like ours.
But I'm gonna build my home
from wood n'stone first.

I still know when a thunderstorm's comin
n'when it's gonna break.
I know the shape'a clouds
n'the way they fill with heat.
It's something in the air's smell,
the way the electricity gathers on your skin
n'pulls you towards Heaven.