Toads In Tandem: The Oak in Autumn

I could have never imagined even in my wildest dreams to be paired with Fireblossom! I still remember our conversation where the two of us decided to collaborate next year; and then Kerry discovering our shared enthusiasm and giving us the opportunity to appear in October! Needless to say we were absolutely delighted! 

We decided to let our love of nature guide us through our collaborative effort and here is what we came up with. Hope you guys like our poem.

The Oak in Autumn

Lovers and lunatics favor the oak.

Say anything--the oak will still be there,

With its odd-shaped leaves, inconstant as smoke

At their edge, but shy to leave the branch bare.

The thing that enchants, is what’s not shown there,

The mystery of a season--or a smile;

Madly bold or nightjar soft--autumn’s wile.

Oh how can I sleep with leaves all around, 

Wavering to gold from adumbral red.

Your touch imprinted on sensual ground, 

As lips opened amorously and pledged--

Of love being gentle and yet strongest thread. 

At length you had observed most conscious flame,

Erratic and bright as I called your name.

The oak is always last to lose its leaves,

Standing unchanged as if it didn't know

Of nature altered in you and in me;

Disbelieving of first November snow.

And so, I wonder if you really know

How hard it is for me to understand

Why you still smile but then withdraw your hand.

It’s undoubtedly an autumnal day, 

As moody-sweet as words we scarcely spoke. 

Can you feel sombre wind and twilight grey

Round and round the irrepressible oak--

As such reminiscence from slumber woke

Your resolve unchanging has deeper pierced 

A reckless heart hidden in rhyme and verse.

 Source

The form we chose is called Rhyme Royal which is a stanza of seven 10-syllable lines. It was popularized by Geoffrey Chaucer and termed as 'royal' because of its imitator, James I of Scotland, who had employed the form in his own verse. The rhyme scheme is: ababbcc

I remember feeling both nervous and excited as the weeks passed by, and how Shay's fiery attitude and good humor led us along the way. Thank you Shay for being such a wonderful writing partner and Kerry once again, for assigning such a lovely project to us.

 ***

Anima and Animus, from Dream to Flesh

If you could read the thoughts of your wickedest Dream, what would your Dream write about you? We pondered the question, with all the seriousness it deserved (we infiltrated our Dreams’ journals), and present to you the findings:

Whisking delicate

tea into a heady froth

to delight my love,

my bliss is found inside her

enjoyment of my strivings.

I read her soul bright

while feasting on all her dark.

She writes me real…

at midnight, her wild tongue dreams

me alive, tasting her mine.

She gifts me with flesh

substantial enough to touch

past imagined boundaries.

The only reality I want

is the one that she creates.

When morn devours night,

the moon and I yearn for her

soul dancing in mine:

Anima and Animus

as mind in flesh, me in her.

I wish my name on

your lips, under the sunlight,

a dream crafted real—

I will spell ink into flesh,

“Words be dreams and dreams be words.”

the process…

- At first, we were going to craft a poem inspired by the art of writing and the current socio-political madness. But the pain was much too deep and dark and, well… too much. So, we switched to a topic we both love and that often brings us much pleasure *cough*: dreams. We played around with the dream and dreamer shown in Jorge Luis Borges’ “The Circular Ruins”, danced with Jung’s Anima and Animus, and dressed the whole thing up in tanka. 

- We each wrote two stanzas—imagining our speakers exchanging adventures at a dream bar (dream bars are real, really). We wrote the last stanza together, on the phone, serenaded by much squealing. We hope you enjoy the result as much as we delighted in the process.

Magaly and Rommy *still squealing*

the song: “When I Dream at Night”, by Mark Anthony
the visual art: “Hidden Intentions”, by Ana Fagarazzi

Toads In Tandem: Poem Of A Silent Woman

Hey. Look up there. It's a bird! It's a plane! No! It's a Skywriter! But wait. What's that traveling alongside? It's...it's...that aerial curiosity called a Fireblossom!

For our collaboration, which I can safely say we both thoroughly enjoyed working on, we have written a cascade poem. Without further ado, here is our poem.

POEM OF A SILENT WOMAN

You think I am silent; truth is, I never hush.

I am flow as well as bung; either way, I offer much.

You concern yourself with rind; not much further is the fruit.

The climbing rose grows bare and shaded at the root.

I am a west-wind owl in open sky-- I create.

You are the saddle and boot, the bull at the gate;

Wild mane, tossing tail, I canter beyond the sagebrush.

You think I am silent; truth is, I never hush.

My gate is vined, and latched and tall

But opens, lockless, every Fall;

I am baskets hung with tendrils--fire--frost--and flush--

I am flow as well as bung; either way, I offer much.

You believe that you know all that I am,

Read my smile wrong, think me a lamb.

I am child of the moon, ebb and tide--no absolute.

You concern yourself with rind; not much further is the fruit.

Come by the moon--new, quarter, and full--

by degrees, shows its turned face--then shows all;

come through the gate--with the season slip through--

the climbing rose waits, shaded--for you.

 

Toads In Tandem: Observing love and broken things

What happens when runaway sentence and a dash of sunny team up? Magic! When Marian and I first began writing we were practically on the same wavelength and ended up selecting the same topic. Writing alongside her was an amazing experience! Hope you guys like our poem.

                                                               

Observing love and broken things

Through darkness peer your words

                     and songs

we celebrate and eulogize--

in youth, you are the song unsung.

Difficult to rationalize

such a loss, the depth of your eyes

a well from which we all sustained

our sodden tenderness, disguised

as sunshine. Now it looks like rain.

I reach out and extend my hand

to you, a silhouette fading

as crumbled stone on shifting sand.

Love, I fear my heart is breaking.

Now outside daylight is fading--

upon your face I stole a glance.

We used to laugh, but now I am

                 whispering:

won’t you give me a second chance?

It’s when I started losing things

that I stepped back to look at you--

doubly brash, emboldened by drink,

you, whose lyrics always rang true.

Losses aside, the spark of you

roils in my belly like a burn

that’s emberred long, waiting

                            out blue,

then brown, until comes shadow’s turn--

I remember your smile, sweet tune

as waning sky grows pale

                                     and gold.

Your memories flood until June,

trees emblazoned, though sun is cold.

I beg my heart stay strong and bold

now as I live on without you

in world where truth is seldom told.

Love as we knew it comes to few.

Seems unwise to love so truly

given the harshness of our world--

but again, without your beauty,

my meager verse as yet unfurled,

I’d have given in to the swirl

as you did, and chose every day.

So I sing the song of our world,

wishing earnestly you

                    had stayed.

Love, if I could give you one thing

would lend ability to see,

oh, since you taught my heart to sing

from aberrations to live free--

Now all these thoughts

            have come to me--

when life knocks you down, gaze at stars.

Though long and sombre sky may seem,

this place and this moment is ours.

source

The form we chose is called Huitain also known as The Monk's Stanza (first introduced in the Garden by Kerry a few years ago, here). The verse form was popular in the 16th century and was often used for epigrams in the 18th century. The true Huitain is a single verse, eight line poem with eight syllables per line. The rhyme scheme is: ababbcbc

I remember going into panic mode when first trying to write in this form but Marian's cheerfulness and optimism removed every trace of doubt from my soul. Thank you Marian for being such a wonderful writing partner and Kerry for assigning such a lovely project to us.

                                                                         ***

Fashion me your words ~ Collaborating For Christmas

animated gif from Zimbio

COLLABORATING FOR CHRISTMAS
It was the day before Christmas, he was hungry, mighty hungry,
He stalked the pantry, the cupboards were empty,
He didn't want to sleep, he was too hungry for that
Guess what, no, not guest what? Guess what???

Shhhhhhhh!!!
The last festival he had eaten was, Halloween
No, not the last time he had eaten, the last festival!!!

For he was, The Eater Of Great Joy
But that, could never satisfy him.
Shudder, shudder!!!

He had heard about Santa.
He had heard about A Star.
COLLABORATING FOR CHRISTMAS © gillena cox 2016

Hi Toads, Season's Greetings.

Your challenge, on this eve of Christmas, is a collaboration. I have set the pace, be it chapter or verse, you continue in the style and number of words you wish ( yes!!! number of words you wish)

If you are adding from my piece, your post must start with my piece and continue into your piece.

And my generous spirit for the season, adds another bonus option.
You can continue from the piece i have given OR you may read someone else's which consist of [what i gave plus their add on] and, then you add to that.

Please remember, to credit persons, for any part thereof, their work, appearing in your post


Yes toads we are Collaborating for Christmas; Fashion me your words and while you're at it, have lots of fun.

AND

whether you observe or not, Be Blessed for Christmas, have a wonderful one.

❧✿❧

Toads In Tandem ~ It's a Love Thing!

What happens when a Sharp Little Pencil is asked to sketch in Black and Gray? 

You get some serious collaborative genius.

For our last combined poem written by Real Toad members in celebration of our second year of communal blogging, Amy and LaTonya give their interpretation of "free love".

wallpapers77.com

LOVE SUPREME

by Amy Barlow Liberatore and LaTonya Baldwin © 2013

We were children of the 70s,

afros and long hair, psychedelic

colors and velveteen prints.

Love supreme

Uncle John and Uncle Tony

never had girlfriends.

Mom said they loved each other.

“Same love is called gay,” she said.

I just called them Uncle.

At five, love didn't need a label.

We are family

Brenda and Kathleen lived together

with her six children. I never asked why.

To me they were Brendaandkathleen.

Love supreme

Our aunts, uncles and friends loved us.

They hosted baby showers and gave us cars.

Dropped us a rope when we fell

down the rabbit hole.

We are family

Love the member, reject the hate.

Your dad called the people you loved, faggots.

My dad called my friends, sissies.

The bigotry stung. Still we learned to love.

Reject the hate.

Love supreme

We mourn loved ones lost to disease and violence.

We campaign for education, access and truth.

We fight for love and marriage and happiness.

We are family

We are the children of the 70s, afros and long hair.

We are psychedelic babies high on life.

It's time for love, people.

We love disco balls and rainbow parades.

One love, people.

Love supreme

Study In Orphans 3

Greetings Garden Dwellers,

Fireblossom and Izy are here with our sweltering summer addition to the toad collaborations. Now that the summer months have dragged their miserable face across the weeks, we have no choice but to drop this poem on your door step and run off into the woods.  Attached is an urgently scrawled note too sweaty to read.  We hope you can give this piece some warm milk and a comfy bed.  Enjoy....  

When spring comes to St.Alban’s Home for Girls, 

they take the axe from the stump,

and the heavy volumes down from the attic.

Situated on a hillside, at St. Alban’s it is hard to find one's balance.

The teachers will tell you

"a girl on her own is as smoke from the fire--

steam from the kettle--

gone soon enough and little missed."

In Enid Grace's night shirt pocket,

she keeps a scrap of paper

as old as herself.

She folds and unfolds it,

as if this act could level sloping St. Alban’s,

and change the urgently scrawled words:

"Baby girl.  Please keep

until old enough for the workhouse."

St. A.’s, unbalanced landing place

for crow-girls who drop from stricken branches,

girls taught and tethered by wingless women carrying bibles in one hand

and madness in the other--

Wind will always call a crow-girl,

there is no verse to counter that.

When the branch breaks, and there is nothing but air to dance upon,

another chapter will write itself, more holy than the first.

The moment she arrived at St. Alban’s,

Enid Grace started to plan her escape.

One day, she imagined,

she would ride away on a motorbike

while the other girls cheered her on.

She was far too alive for the ghosts

who sat in the shadows

and licked the paste from the wallpaper.

Sarah, her friend, her match, her second wing,

said the ghosts spoke to her,

said they whispered in riddles

and nibbled on her toes.

What would you have done?

Confess it, you'd have done as these girls did--

Enid Grace and Sarah drawing pentagrams on the splintery wooden floor.

What of the cough that made the rounds of the staff?

What of the handyman with his Indian motorcycle and his wrong smile?

What of the the miles ahead and the miles behind?

The girls laid out the cards and asked their questions--

Their answers came from the walls

in faint screeches and tongue lashes

that tickled their knees.

Enid Grace did not understand any of it,

but Sarah’s good ear and Gypsy’s memory

allowed her to translate:

avoid the woods at night

and the handyman--a few girls

already in the ground could tell of his deeds.

Sister Marney and Sister Francis were short for this world

their cough a signal of drowning lungs.

And the miles ahead....

Sarah grabbed Enid Grace’s hands,

flashing a smile so sweet and sad,

she wanted to cry without hearing a single word.

“A fat baby for you,” Sarah said.

“No, two fat babies.

And a husband who washes the dishes.

And an icebox filled with hamburger and cola.”

“And what about you?” Enid Grace asked.

Sarah shook her head, held her finger to her lips,

and said,“A crow-girl never spoils a good fortune 

with her own news.”

In Tandem! Mexican Radio meets runaway sentence: Bonding with Muriel

(Corey and Marian went down to Boo'ya Moon and brought back this story to tell to our friends. Hope you enjoy.)
 
Bonding with Muriel

          When exactly did you lose your Soul?

Chewing the burnt end of Cherub Root waters her eyes

Sitting cross legged, knee to knee, she spoke of her legacy

You touch her breast pocket and your fingers find no purchase

She exhales and lets out a low laugh, a smile through yellowed teeth

She told you your hair was ablaze with Asher’s fire, but you knew

The Gods wouldn’t burn your memories without reason

The root plays its restless song and for the moment, you understand Muriel

Lucky for you, the gods do not approve human sacrifice

You sprawl in a bed strewn with paper dolls and daisy chains

Dreaming of salt water, wishing for that crosswalk moment

Like navigating a quicksand Moat, slow progress across

Sinking until your lungs begin to collapse and you encounter him

The glitter of his purpose an aura, redolent like a bachelor’s aftershave

An elixir, eternal youth promised, or joy, if only you can last this bog

          Why exactly did you paint your Heart?

When you ask him of her intentions he shrugs and leaves your head hollow

She picks all moments, not just the ones you ask for

And you must hope to all hell that her womb doesn’t quicken

For progeny born of a union consecrated on the root becomes his child

Beautiful in scope but hideous where justice and compassion are concerned

Have you learned nothing from your childhood tales of beasts and banalities

She is Muriel and you are a faded memory before her horse rides south

It’s hard to know what will work if we are to learn to cross this bridge

Sitting Indian-style, your earth-earring warms your celestial lobe

And you imagine all the days you have ahead together, a Kodak moment

Slide-show to come, but first, the span. You have no fucking idea

You squeeze your eyes until the red behind your lids glows fire-wise

Like the gash on your breast, the one you keep pasted with gauze, never looking

Avoiding the service, it’s better to remember his mouth on your heart

          When exactly do you expect to Return?

Mourning never ends as yesterday fades into a year later, and then masked

As night it’s the moment you always anticipated, but wait, where’s your hovercraft

And how are you supposed to acclimate when you recall what it’s like to tumble

Through the apex of a reflective Triangle on the bumper of a horse-drawn buggy

Sugarcubes wait in a saucer for your coffee as you bum a smoke from that farmer

Beard but no moustache, tall hat but bare hands chapped from shoveling

Your memories into the incinerator and man, you gotta locate an analyst pronto

“Muriel?”

“Yes, my light?”

“Is that scar on your cheek from me?”

“No, my light.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Leave it be, it exists only as a reminder of your birth.”

“Why my birth?”

“It’s not my scar, it’s a bastard. You, my light, are a bastard.”

“Yeah.”

The soil of an inherited future is hard to scrape from the sole of one’s shoe

But Muriel had a stick and could wash free any sediment with a glance and a sigh

He would try and stop her, shouting that Gods don’t pour watered down drinks

On Monday, she would kill him with his own words and take you as a prize

It was your dream but it always caught in the back of your throat with a click

Forever was as much sin as savior in those days, days with Muriel

Always with your protestations, Muriel this and Muriel that
                                                 A pipedream, all it ever was

Felix Vallotton, The Dordogne with Carrenac, 1925