Pi; a tanka

submerged origins

stretch this jazz of blues to gust

bright brine-washed being;

I see clouds and wings trace Pi

sweeping up a cyclone’s tail.

Paper Towers

Lured

They wait

As lies fold

Up a fortress

Of paper towels

To fight the furling rain,

Gusting like old promises

To race the edge of reasoning,

We are the blurring syntax written,

Ruched towers tear the torrents beginning.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Wolf Sky (#Writephoto)

Thanks to Sue Vincent for this week’s #Writephoto prompt. Not done this in a while but glad to be back. So here goes:   Wolf fur sky, Ink scratched branches reach From golden Fallow curves Where rays write green ligaments Into lead and white. Antonia Sara Zenkevitch  

Unquiet Dream

Emerald Borderland

Where once the fey

Kept their gateways

Between realms,

Now, the frontier of man

Patrolled, man marking ways

As in more troubled days

Clutching old guns,

Yet, one day the Fey return.

Zebra Unicorn

Alternative Text: a zebra unicorn stands on clover grass under a starry night sky full of shooting stars   Unicorn Zebra rarest of the rare, horses say we don’t exist, seek us where we roam.   Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

The Last Free Form Friday

Life will use the air abused by ill words as offerings for trees who paint our futures with their leaves.   Happy Friday Everyone, This post is later than originally planned but as a Brit going through the chaos of Brexit whilst processing a few things in my own life, I’m going to forgive myself. …

Citizen of Nowhere

I’m called ‘citizen of nowhere’

by Theresa May, who asserts

this as the British Prime Minister,

though this is the land of my birth,

The Slide

Bone weary; this drama has me soul fatigued; diversions perform faux democracy; facts erased; side-lined.   Antonia Sara Zenkevitch   a shadorma in grateful response to Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday Challenge words to find synonyms for: ‘hobby’ and ‘play’ (alternative text for below photo: an ambiguous graduated grey – a wall or misty window no one…

Returning

sweetened seeds in sheaths,

spring’s tunic dressed in

last sun’s poppies,

twelve moon pirouettes since

we consumed these;

Sand Treads

Tracking the lost ones I listen to the desert where the sands tread us.   Antonia Sara Zenkevitch