Rorschach Poetry

First up, BEFORE you even try to guess what these photos are depicting, let your imagination run wild a bit. Don’t worry about what they ARE, but what they could be. Do the images, and your imaginative interpretation of them, inspire anything in you? A song? A poem? A story, rhyme, painting, collage, pottery, interpretive dance, mime, performance art, a sidewalk chalk drawing? Or a rhumba?

In any case, here is what they inspire in me. And, one beautiful poetry postcard is the prize to the first person who can correctly guess what they really are. Two poetry postcards to the first person to take these images and create their own artful interpretation of them.

we cannot be held responsible

balanced on the apex of the minaret the
crier spreads the word:
The King is Dead.
The Queen is Dead.
My God. My Children are Dead.
the echo of sweetly mournful didjeridu
fills temples empty of diety
palaces empty of rulers and
schools empty of scholars

the crier returns to a home with no family

above, skies bloat with rain to attack
metal roofs in a wartime surge and
below, green fields turned to brown with age
open to devour that which tried to kill it.
the first cathedral enters the sea by midnight
the last is consumed by 2

the crier sits in the wicker chair
by the fireplace near the kitchen his cat
on his lap and the shawl his wife knit for him on the
occasion of their wedding anniversary over
his shoulders and
waits.