Visions of Orion Poetry

Writers Group Theme: Currying Favour

Writers Group Theme: Currying Favour
(A Bitter & Twisted Writer’s Dream Theme)

It’s not in my DNA;
fawning over gatekeepers
with gift wrapped cupcakes,
or doting on editors
in honey voiced platitudes
at a publishing house soirée.
It’s lame – a step away
from hip replacement surgery.

Far better to curry flavours;
sautee onion & cheeky spices
with virgin oils – rustle up
a tomato or coconut based hothouse.
Give me a flaming Vindaloo
on a billow of fluffy rice
any day of the week,
and twice on a Sunday.

And as for puffery,
I’ve something more tasty
in mind. Perhaps the Literati
could redefine human physiology;
bend over backwards,
rotate ninety degrees
like a corkscrew
and kiss their own backsides.

©️Orion Foote

Newton’s Epilogue

Newton’s Epilogue
(In Memoriam)

Once, on a cold incline
named after your mother,
you turned as if Karajan to his Figaro;
as if Jesus to Simon and said
To conquer death,
we only have to die.

At the drop of a baton,
time holds sway like a dirge,
wincing at the refrain
of it’s own untold forecast;
we only have to die.

And what of gravity
– we ask in ashen faced repose –
what if clouds lifted
like Vaughan Williams ascending;
as if a Lark in vertiginous flight.

©️Orion Foote

Where Stories End & Dreams Begin

Where Stories End & Dreams Begin
(Choka for Fran))

You wrap the night’s breath
in ivory sheets with stars;
in monochrome dreams
of wild Gypsophila snow.

You hear words spoken
in the language of a mother
tongue, that knows the lay
of the landscape in night’s pall.

Moonbeams shoot the breeze.

By morning, a grateful sun
dotes on gilded braids;
coaxing highlights, like dawn’s hush
over dew soaked fishing nets.

©️Orion Foote

Last Call at Shangri-la

Last Call at Shangri-la
(Tanka)

Solar fireball shrinks
into a fluorescent dusk;
he knows how to mix
a Caribbean cocktail
in layers of ochre crush.

©️Orion Foote

After the Wrap

Darkest Hour (2017) – Directed by Joe Wright

After the Wrap

Call it the hypnotic pull
of icicles holding court
on a frigid window pane.
It’s like watching time dissolve
inside a Rothko expanse;
a wordless haiku
that requires no translation
in any known language.

A speechless actor
doesn’t need subtitles
when zoning out with eye clouds;
It’s a final print in empathy.
A quiet affirmation
of all that is understood
through the hushed crescendo
of time’s pungent haze.

Over scorched expresso
and sun dried Cuban leaves,
stalwart & understudy mime
off-screen improvs ad libitum;
call it widescreen telepathy.

©️Orion Foote

On Awakening

On Awakening
(Tanka)

Kiki scans pages
of morning’s feline gazette.
She nose tracks letters
in earth scented light columns;
marks time shoveling fur dew.

©️ Orion Foote

Postcards from Kobayashi

Postcards from Kobayashi
(Haiku Chain)

Your rabid fire song
fades – a dull yellow echo
of bilious hues.

Leering clouds obscure
our prime source – I catch their drift;
hours shrink like burnt leaves.

I sweep charred ashes
of warm smiles into crisp wind;
time sings rubato.

Portrait with skyline
sleeps darkly in foxed pages;
a digital ghost.

Hushed low strung murmurs
recede into winter’s call;
the moon swallows tears.

Horizons gather
beyond day’s filtered lighthouse;
night’s cloak has her way.

In clockwork stasis,
we bathe in quiet longing;
pine for scorched kisses.

©️Orion Foote

Autumn Trinity

Autumn Trinity
(Three Haiku)

Your rabid fire song
fades in yellow echoes
of withered sad hues.

I sweep charred embers
of warm smiles to crisp four winds;
knowing time runs true.

In subdued transit,
we bathe in quiet longing;
pine for scorched kisses.

©️ Orion Foote

Rewriting his Plaque

On Rewriting his Plaque

Three weeks shy
of a neat three score,
I come to your river pew
in midday’s yellow blaze.

I wait for the trill
of the rivers song;
for arms of valley hills
to wrap around me,
like pale limp flesh, that once
draped across my ribs
in morning’s wondrous light
that yawned through waking curtains

To eavesdrop on grating cicadas
in shameless full swing.
To strip away the blight of varnish
that obscures this self portrait;
In the end, I will return to another
place – womb of eternity.

The days that remain were never yours;
are never promised ours to hold.

©️Orion Foote

Editing Natural Selection

I secretly enjoy the rigmarole:
it’s like self medicating on words
after arcane dental work,
or playing devil’s advocate
for a mixed marriage between
a CNN reporter & a Russian diplomat.

I’m bent over foul papers
at three in the afternoon – shuffling
arbitrary shorthand symbols,
until it’s time to tango; time to start
dropping liquorice in the snow.

At day’s end, a clean slate
would suit me fine – throw in
the towel and opt for silent gestures.
Let the emperor’s new clothes
assault the catwalk, as some
kind of not so subtle innuendo.
Maybe the editor would play along;
perhaps he would even get it.