Resting Before Flight: Shadorma Challenge

This is for  the November Shadorma Challenge that Eliot of Along the Interstice is doing. This is Day 18. I am participating sporadically.

 

Birds on a wire

like clouds gathering

for a storm,

or perhaps

like thoughts coming together

resting before flight

 

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I missed the murmuration, but got this quick shot while stopped at a traffic light the other day.

 

Every time I see a bird on a wire, I think of Leonard Cohen’s song. Here’s a live version.

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Earth and Stars, Music: Haibun

I wake to news of carnage. I wonder, fraught at what is wrought by men and guns and crazed ideas. My spirit feels wounded, unable to summon the joy. Yet I know it is there, buried in my heart, waiting to soar. I know that above me, the stars still sing, and the moon hums her changing melody, calling the tides. Come play, she croons, come roll and prance.  Music of the universe, music of Earth. Listen–there the mockingbird, and there the robin, and there up at the top of the oak tree, the blue jay squawking. The gift of song, it’s all around us.

Joyful spirits sing

the sound of a summer breeze

laughs through a window

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Frank Bramley, “When the Blue Evening Slowly Falls,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

This Haibun is a for Colleen’s Poetry Challenge. The prompt words were spirit and joy. Since I didn’t participate last week, I also used that week’s words, gift and song.

 

 

 

 

Journey through my Mind: Haibun

A thought, and my brain takes off on a journey. Turns me around, mind-wandering through worlds we cannot see, time, and space, a trace of Chaos theory, the hard problem, history and mythology. I seek connections, new directions.  I wonder about ghosts, hosts, and cat dreams. Streams of thought, or so it seems. In the end, I hope (familiar trope), looking for the good, the light. I wake up happy to see the sleep-bound moon and the growing dawn. Nothing is foregone. My heart sings and wings with the birds.

 

birdsong as night falls

cardinals’ red echoes leaves

summer sighs farewell

 

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This Haibun is for Haibun Monday at dVerse. We’re asked to write “a haibun about why you write the style of poetry you write. Not why you write poetry, but the why of your style.” This is to be followed by a classic Haiku, which must include a season word. We were also asked (an option) to post a photo.

 

Liminal Skies: Haibun

The days grow shorter, and I wake in the dark. The mockingbird no longer sings through the night on a branch outside my window. It made me happy to hear him, comforting somehow, familiar like the tree itself. Has he gone, or merely changed his timing and repertoire as early summer moves inescapably towards fall? Yet through open windows, I hear other acquaintances, robins and cardinals, still warbling and chirping. A few leaves have changed from green to gold. The bright blue skies of September soon will yield to violet, then grey. The air is fresh, the days warm and the nights cool. The vibrant corn moon blazes in the morning sky. She hums a song, autumn is coming.

 

liminal skies sigh

chasing shadows round the sun

leaves whisper and fall

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This is for dVerse Haibun Monday. Yeah, I’m a bit late.

Toni asked us to write about the in-between seasons. She wrote, “I was thinking intensely of the Japanese word, komorebi (koe moe ray bee) which means specifically light that is filtered between leaves and usually occurring in spring and fall…but in that in-between-season.”

It occurs to me, too, that many people right now (my family and friends among them) are in an in-between state waiting for Hurricane Irma to arrive. My thoughts are with you. This seems to be a time of catastrophe and upheaval everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreams Beyond the Moon

In the darkness and the gloom,

spirits loom,

speaking, seeking

those with natures bright

who dance and sing,

embrace the light

and watch the birds in morning flight

I watch them, too–

wings soaring, sweeping through the blue

beyond the clouds like sailing ships

until they vanish from my view

in flowing streams

on trips of dreams,

far beyond the moon

 

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Jan Brueghel the Elder, “Air,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

I’m feeling the need for a bit of magic.

 

Work, Wine, and Wonder

Monday Morning Musings:

“Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.”

–Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game (1963)

 

“Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we shall know for truth

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth

I look at you, and I sigh.”

William Butler Yeats, “A Drinking Song”

 

I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting

others’ dreadful prose,

I dream then,

want again,

wonder and poetry–

a moonship sleeps through time

dreaming of a glowing goddess

cool, with diamond eyes,

from her starry throne,

she lets a storm moan

and I,

seeing lights from the sky.

watch as mist sprays

plays melodies on garden stones

dances in the light,

a thousand fairies

diamond-eyed.

 

I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting

more dreadful prose,

I watch a morning sparkle and gleam

and dream of conversing with the birds,

how it would be to sing their songs,

flowing thoughts and soaring words?

I wonder of what my slumbering cats dream

(perhaps nothing is what it seems).

Do cats and dogs, do cows

as they graze under the boughs

understand the birds’ songs

moo in harmony, sing along?

 

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I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting–

again, that dreadful prose!

And I wonder

why is there such hate

that negates

joy, hope, and reason

that seasons

life with tears and fears?

Why men would rape out of boredom

(Boredom!)

and why a woman,

or a man,

need to be taught a lesson

stressing

what?

What lesson has been taught?

That someone has been caught or bought?

that life is fraught,

so do not dream of what you could be, or brought

about with books and words and second thoughts?

I wonder who could hurt a child,

can their minds ever be reconciled—

the dreadful deeds and daily doings,

the demons in their souls?

no controls, no goals

lives brutal and bleak

do, die, never speak.

Do they never dream of a goddess glowing

her tresses silver and flowing,

or wonder how to converse with a bird?

heard their songs in morning air

happy to be alive, aware?

Where does the wonder go?

Does anybody know?

 

I spend days writing,

then sighting and fighting–

yes, more of that dreadful prose,

correct the errors, insert a phrase

(my eyes glaze)

then I wonder—

isn’t it time for some wine?

so we go, sit near grapes in the sunshine,

enjoy the beauty of the day

stay

as chatter and music play

in waves around us.

We drink wine,

red and luscious

(no, don’t rush this)

loving it,

loving you

I lift the glass to my mouth

I look at you, and I sigh.

wonder how and why we found each other

created two astonishing daughters

enjoyed days of blues skies and laughing waters,

realize I have found the music and the poetry

in life, in you, in birds, and trees

And though I cannot sing with birds,

I can wonder, dream, and write these words.

 

 

Assume the Joy

Assume the world’s full of joy,

not hate,

stare at birds,

wonder at our fate

and if we’ll mind what happens after–

“the late”

they’ll call us,

if not the great–

but we’ll be gone,

beings that are not immortal

(unless time folds–perhaps a portal?)

and so, we shouldn’t hesitate

just assume the joy

of stars and earth

of moons that hum with charming mirth

then laugh, my dear–

no, stop, wait

—listen

there–the robin on the garden gate

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I needed a poetry break this afternoon!

This is for Secret Keeper’s Challenge.

The prompt words were: Assume/Mind/Late/Being/Stare

 

 

June Magic

daybreak comes early

yet still the moon shines

waning from its strawberry fullness,

(smiling, humming)

greeting me as I pick up the newspaper from the sidewalk,

the heat is already simmering there

but not yet at full boil–

June, almost summer–

a spider has spun a web

sparkling in the streaming sunlight,

birds sing from their green-leafed perches

the cats watch from windows,

then turn to say hello to me

before going back to guard duty,

(we all have our jobs)

even as summer sighs,

slow down

and so, I do,

and watch the birds, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mocking of the Mockingbird

 “Just like that tune,

Simple and clear,

I’ve come to hear

New music—

Breaking my heart,

Op’ning a door,

Changing the world!

New music!

I’ll

Hear it forevermore!”

“New Music,” Ragtime

Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens

 

Was the mockingbird mocking me

as he sang so urgently in the tree?

I awakened from a dream

he seemed haunted,

or was it me?

 

taunted by a world in change

everything upside down and rearranged

hearing new music in the air

wondering why it’s everywhere–

 

the sound of marching feet,

syncopated beats, ragged rhythm of the street,

the sound of hate and guns and bombs

oh, merely percussive runs, my darling ones

 

new music, forevermore

the constant hum of waves, their roar

as islands sink beneath the sea

perhaps the mockingbird sings a ragtime rhythm of nevermore

and the world weeps for what’s now in store–

 

yet, as I turn from song back to sleep

and wonder what the day will reap–

both dawn and dusk share radiant color and diffused light

but we must determine which we want, and what is right

if the sun will rise or set hereafter

on the sound of birds and bees and laughter

 

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Another much-needed poetry break. I was awakened by a mockingbird last night and listened to it sing. Then I read the news and listened to a bit of Ragtime in the car this morning (gym break!). So, this is what happened.

 

 

 

The Robin Sings Before the Light

The robin sings before the light

he chirps and cheeps

and it is right

and fit

and fine–

he shares his song,

I make it mine

 

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I woke up to hear the birds singing about 4:30 this morning, even in the rain, and this poem came to me. We’ve just seen the new movie A Quiet Passion about Emily Dickinson, so perhaps I was channeling her pre-dawn writing. 🙂