Cape May—a “girls’ weekend” on a summery-spring day. We delight in the warmth, and later watch the sun fire the bay. Overnight, the weather turns and rages, but we laugh and have brunch.
April nor’easter,
tom-catting deck chairs scatter–
inside, fond hearts glow
For dVerse, a haibun quadrille. Grace has asked us to use the word sun.
“Painted portraits have a life of their own that comes deep in the soul of the painter.”
–Vincent van Gogh, 1885
Angels dance across the sky
kissing the grass with morning dew–
there, a door opens,
there, a door closes
ephemeral as a ghost.
Do you hear the belly laugh
emerging from the silence?
It is wild and warm,
life.
***
Impressions of a week,
moments stored, like snapshots
a truth we seek, we speak
of how my mom is weak
our lives tied-up in knots,
and the world is often bleak,
but we take a long walk
by fountains and statues,
we talk
Swann Memorial Fountain, Logan Square, Philadelphia
“Social Justice” Philadelphia Museum of Art, Association for Public Art
of family, admire brushstrokes and dots
in bathers, poplars, and fields–
impressions formed from all these spots.
I want to be in this scene
I say, and wonder what it’d be like—
I dream. . .
but we walk past the sycamore trees,
an urban oasis, cool in the summer heat
from the welcome breeze
Rodin Museum, Philadelphia
in the garden, a rabbit darts
and bees flit, while birds sing
perhaps all patrons of the arts?
The Impressionists would enjoy
the gardens here, I think.
As we walk, I see a little boy
his shirt, says “Just Do It,”
and he looks eager to—
my impressions flit . . .
It’s a beautiful July day.
We drink wine, eat cheese,
wanting a moment to stay
here, in a bit of peace,
sitting, dreaming, a sidewalk café
(though the texts don’t cease)
Tria, Washington West, Philadelphia
we drink wine and beer,
eat luscious cheese,
and find some cheer that we’re here.
Then a day with our daughter
(more wine and cheer)
she tells me how her father taught her
and her husband how to fix things.
and we talk of friends and dreams,
and how funny it is, the way life brings
us to these moments, and all the feelings—
love and tears, dogs, house, spouse—
the roller-coaster ride that sends us reeling
and hallucinating. Yet we stop,
read a book, sit here
in a pleasant, tranquil spot. . .
Impressions, fleeting
they come together
completing
somehow, my life.
Impressions–look, see
forget the moments of strife—
there, the lucent moon sails high
her ship glowing
across the sapphire sky.
. . .and there are cats.
In honeyed light
time whispers if. . .
Is it about
cool forest beauty
and purple mist,
the music of water and wind?
Or is it
the language of sky-shine and
watching through the storms?
Aching moon recalls it all,
yet sings.
Somehow “if” and “moon” insisted on making an appearance. On July 20, 1969, astronauts from Apollo 11 walked on the moon. There has been a lot of attention given to the fiftieth anniversary of this event. Perhaps the Oracle is remembering, too.
Credit: Philadelphia Museum of Art The Muriel and Philip Berman Gift, acquired from the John S. Phillips bequest of 1876 to the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, with funds contributed by Muriel and Philip Berman, gifts (by exchange) of Lisa Norris Elkins, Bryant W. Langston, Samuel S. White 3rd and Vera White, with additional funds contributed by John Howard McFadden, Jr., Thomas Skelton Harrison, and the Philip H. and A.S.W. Rosenbach Foundation, 1985
She glides,
elegant, her
wings whisper feathered hopes,
listen. . .she hoots a warning call,
beware
fierce claws
grasping rabbit–
stunning, horrid nature!
Predator and prey in moonlit
death dance.
A Crapsey cinquain sequence for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday. using synonyms for pretty and ugly.
“Legacy, what is a legacy?
It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see”
From Lin-Manuel Miranda, “The World Was Wide Enough,” Hamilton
All ghosts linger–
they sail on secret rhythms,
brilliant in the joy
they celebrate
floating beyond
the melancholy twilight,
blushing in time’s embrace,
they laugh the poetry of morning
and cry midnight’s anguished tears.
***
Legend says—
at Yorktown, the British played
“The World Turned Upside Down”
But now
let’s sound the truth–
(facts unknown back in our youth)
of the airports there
and the rockets’ red glare
over forts that didn’t yet exist
People believe, they twist
facts to follow ignorance
a delightful dance
enhanced
by putting down others
smothering new thought
we say, we ought
to do this or that
and debate
ideas reborn, the hate
lingers, like ghosts
unfurl the blue, white, and red
we eat, well fed
find comfort and ease
with old friends,
no worries to please
they accept me
as I dance, don’t flee,
smile to see another side
of me (I sometimes hide)
well maybe it’s the drink
(very pink)
but doubtful, I think
since I danced around my kitchen
making ratatouille, listening
We’ll tell the story of tonight. . .
or we’ll forget
no regrets
in memories fragmented
by time segmented
the ghosts linger
like dreams
my mom tells, unreal,
but she feels
somehow, they appeal
false stories
in strange categories
one day weak
the next lucid, painting
no straining, no waning
her truth, her art
from her heart
that her eyes can’t see
she’s free in creating,
though it’s frustrating
for her and us
the ghosts linger, discuss
in whispers
we sisters fret
regrets,
but let’s
just do this
on another day, we’re fine
homemade pizza and wine
Stranger Things
the Upside Down brings
relief, as believable
not inconceivable
in this crazy world,
where conspiracies unfurled
believed as fact
impossible to retract
swirling in tornado winds
we wait to see what sunshine brings
a new day
a new way
yet the ghosts linger in
morning laughter
midnight’s tears
all the ever afters
of joy and fears
future on past climbs–
we see the light
of stars long dead,
still traveling through time
in sparkling trains go, come
and still, a legacy
(enduring beyond)
the moon, she hums.
Another strange week with presidential lunacy amidst his narcissistic parade, storms alternating with sunshine–and some quality time spent in the basement during a tornado warning! My mom is perfectly fine one minute, and totally not the next. We watch the new season of Stranger Things (still a couple episodes to go) on Netflix, but sometimes feel like we’re already living in the Upside Down.
Marc Chagall, The Cemetery Gates
Bitter-breasted men crush us
driving us on
in a repulsive show
of blood and sweat.
As storm sprays a blackened sky
and wind screams,
“Never again,”
we sing of if
and whisper when.
Even the Oracle is appalled, but she still gave me “if.”
This week protesters in New York, Boston, and elsewhere were singing mir veln zey iberlebn “We Will Outlive Them.”
Today tanks roll through the nation’s capital, and jets fly over a divided country, but I remember another Fourth of July where people came together to witness a union. Outside fireworks boomed and flared, but inside, love lit up the room. No excess displays are needed to whitewash the facts. Here, we share a couple’s happiness. With the stomp of a goblet, we’re reminded of the simple truth that love. . . is love is love is love. . .and that it endures.
lovers stand and watch
colors streak across the sky—
shattered glass echoes
through time, a kaleidoscope,
love forms and reforms again
Today is my younger daughter and son’s wedding anniversary. A few years ago, we celebrated three weddings within about two years. First our older daughter married her wife, then younger daughter married her husband, and then my sister married her wife. (You can find posts about them, if you’re interested, by searching Love and Marriage.)
This is a Haibun with a tanka instead of the traditional haiku for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday. and Frank Tassone’s Haikai Challenge, “Independence.”
“Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—”
Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Music When Soft Voices Die.” Full poem and analysis here
“When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin”
From Andrew Lloyd Webber, Trevor Nunn, “Memory,” Cats
We who were
are ghosts,
are almost not
lingering
here a slow smile,
there a kiss of fire—
this rhythmed dance
of remembering
ask her about the laugh,
wake him with the used-to-be
all now born away
by clouds and time.
***
A week that seems
both timeless and harried
behind us and carried—onwards
we go
from anniversary meal
the feel of fresh air
and laughter
people watching
and city-walking
talking of this and that
as texts fly
from sisters
all the sighs, the whys
of life
and strife
in the play
(on words)
mines underground
young lives destroyed
some never rebound
from unsound decisions
and derision
a corrupt system
a week of memories
and old friends
who remember what
once was
comfortable pauses
and laughter
remembering
who we were
cherishing who we are—
there a wish
upon a star
as stormy skies clear
for sunset rays—
a stay
of hope
that beauty lasts.
We watch a movie
of ghosts
memories of things
unseen—and seen
pretty things that live
in the wall–
they call
from time
and books–
she looks on
staring
the women
sharing, imprisoned
by this house
We eat and drink
stop and think
laugh and talk
then take a walk
And then there are cats
onstage they prance
but at home, they entrance
with acrobatics
and sleepy glances
share our space
(caress that face)
we drift. . .
in dreams, memories come
and done
are things that never happened—
but seem so real
we feel
joy, terror, hope
beyond the scope
of everyday
wake to find the dawn
new day
the past a memory
the future looms
blooming like a flower
sweetly scented–
and thorned—
dropping seeds
and withering
to be reborn.
We celebrated our wedding anniversary this week. We saw a play Minors, watched a Netflix movie, I am the Pretty Thing that Lives in the House. It’s the kind of horror movie I like, a ghost tale where you are not sure of what’s real (like Hill House)—not a full-of-blood slasher movie. Also, it has Ruth Wilson and Paula Prentiss. We also saw Cats, which we only saw because it was part of a theater package—but I did enjoy it. All of the actors/dancers/singers were excellent.
Franz Marc, Blue Horses
Wonder
as bright stars fill
night sky without design,
arranged by chance, dancing light sings
through time
find peace
in prismed glow
sparking within your soul–
rainbowed worlds where blue ponies graze,
content
I’m feeling the need for the blue horses today–a Crapsey Cinquain sequence for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for plan and spend.
Breezes born in cloud kisses
explore this night,
waking stars to give them voice
to dazzle the universe,
smiling with their delicious secrets
of fire-magic and desire–
and there, like perfumed words
haunting the morning air with if
they flower days to come,
embracing the poetry of life
It’s Saturday and time to consult with the Poetry Oracle. For those who are keeping track, I had to do a couple word refreshers to get “if.” 🙂 I took the photo last night after we left our friends’ house. It had rained while we were inside eating dinner.
