north of the equator
skeletons with crooked little fingers
lie buried in finery, with flowers
faded, yet still fragrant
the moon tops the monolith and grins
pale
the deer on the edge of the forest is indigo blue
and she dances on the shoulder of a shaman
drum beats, footsteps
we seek to keep time
gaze into the smokey fire
and raise our cups to a ghostly clan
I like it.
*
I do, too.
*
Nicely done.
Thank you, Bill.
Thank you, Matt.
Thank you, Jenny.
Thank you, Gary,
*I see it!
"crooked little fingers" Nice.*
Thank you, Nonnie.
Thank you, Tim. It is the curse of the MacCrimmons...I wear it proudly, as does my son!
Perfect to read on November 1st. A gift.
*
I'm a little late to the party, the Day of the Dead. Wish I were in Oaxaca. But this poem will do nicely -- very nicely.
*
Thank you, Ray.
"the deer on the edge of the forest is indigo blue
and dances on the shoulder of a shaman"
Really cool!
Thanks, Darryl. It actually does exist!
*, Kitty. More of your fine, view of the world poetry.
"drum beats, footsteps
we seek to keep time
gaze into the smokey fire"
Good, good poem.
Thank you, David.
Thank you, Sam.