A Dream of Ancient Light

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Franz Marc, The Dream

 

Born of ferocious fire clouds—

angel or ghost?

An almost there, like

a trace of perfume lingering

in the indigo night

from bright blooms blanketing fields

in colored harmony

 

~vivid and haunting~

 

somehow like a dream–

of verdant paths with deer and ponies,

where we bird-fly over the bluest river

into the secret of when

and what was, and here—

we follow tendrils of sun-songs

to the ancient light of then and if. . . forever.

 

The Oracle made me work for this puente today.  The humidity has lifted, and a mockingbird is putting on a concert in my backyard.

 

 

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The Clouds Come Drifting, NaPoWriMo2020, Day 5

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JMW Turner, “Norham Castle Sunrise

 

“A few stars glimmered through the morn,

And down the thorn the dews were streaming.”

–Francis Ledwidge, “The Dead Kings”

 

Always the clouds come, drifting

colored in the hazy shades of after

though stars glimmer through, sifting

light diffused from ancient gas and matter,

 

colored in the hazy shades of after

time moves on, translucent or opaque—

light diffused from ancient gas and matter,

and so, we ache.

 

Time moves on. Translucent or opaque,

our thoughts grow dim and dark

and so, we ache—

forgetting glory, gone the spark,

 

our thoughts grow dim and dark

with spite, thinking of past wrongs,

forgetting glory. Gone the spark

of dead kings and their songs.

 

With spite, thinking of past wrongs,

we dream in owl-feathered night

of dead kings and their songs,

and wait for lark-trilled light.

 

We dream in owl-feathered night,

though stars glimmer through, sifting–

and wait for lark-trilled light,

but always the clouds come, drifting.

 

The prompt for Day 5 of NaPoWriMo was way too busy and complicated for me, as it involved “twenty different projects” to include in one poem. Instead, I went to the Oracle again for a start, then wrote a pantoum for Jane Dougherty’s Pictures and Poetry challenge based on the lines from Francis Ledwidge’s “The Dead Kings” and the Turner painting above.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sleepwalking: NaPoWriMo, Day 4

 

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Marc Chagall, Le Somnambule

 

 

Wake to the sky-blush

a brilliant fevered-red

 

breathing spring,

listen—

 

as you recall the dream (was it a dream?)

of moon music

 

floating through the window,

of languorous light

 

dripping puppy-tongued

over the forest,

 

and diamond ships

sailing across the midnight-blue sea.

 

Then ask–

what of the fiddler?

 

whose song whispers of longing,

of belonging, of why,

 

but embracing if

in a kiss

 

of honeyed notes,

almost velvet

 

a symphony of smoke and angels

time and life.

 

The prompt for Day 4 of NaPoWriMo asked us to consider dream images.  Of course, I consulted the Poetry Oracle. Chagall also created paintings of a fiddler on a roof.

 

Golden Apples

Hesperides,_Dance_around_the_Golden_Tree_by_Edward_Calvert

Hesperides Dance Around the Golden Tree

 

I dreamt of golden apples

that fell fragrant from the sun

to land on earth shadow-dappled–

beyond, I heard a river run

and wandered to its grassy bank

where songbirds flocked and flew

to swoop at shining, rainbow fish. I drank

the pure, clear water—well, wouldn’t you?

For this was a calm and peaceful place–

where bees droned and danced a pirouette

in rhythmic waves, almost embraced–

I wondered if they loved or faced regret

at the days that pass all too soon,

when love and loved ones disappear–

yet silver apples of the moon

shine on, in dreams, golden apples appear.

 

This is for dVerse Open Link Night, where Grace is hosting, and also for the Tuesday dVerse Poetics prompt, where Anmol asked us to write about apples. Jane, I managed to get the silver apples in, too. 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At Dawn, I Heard the Mockingbird Sing

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At dawn, I heard the mockingbird sing

his songs and those of his brothers,

I watched the flash of white on wing

as he flew away from others.

 

His songs (and those of his brothers)

combined and sounded from another tree–

as he flew away from others,

one song became more than two or three.

 

Combined and sounded from another tree,

notes trilled and warbled now under the moon,

one song became more than two or three

and in my dreams, I heard his tune,

 

these notes trilled and warbled now under the moon.

I watched the flash of white on wing

in my dreams. But still I heard his tune

at dawn. Still, I heard the mockingbird sing.

 

I haven’t written a pantoum in a while, so I just decided to write one. It seemed like a good way to procrastinate. 😉  This is for Open Link Night tonight at dVerse, where Grace is hosting.

 

 

 

A Dream Rose from Time

 

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NASA Goddard Space Flight Center from Greenbelt, MD, USA [Public domain]

A dream rose from time

and above the moon,

purple-misted shadows

whispering if in honeyed tones

and recalling the diamond light

of a thousand blue stars

 

~sleeping now~

 

she is still,

but soars as a bird

in her slumber

singing of love,

while the music of water and wind

sighs a chant of life and after

 

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The Oracle really made me work this morning for this puente. I’m taking my friend Jane’s advice to make this a collaborative effort, filling in a few spaces when necessary.

Moon Dreams

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Moon rose

whispering if over stormy sea

and diamond-lighting rocks

 

~through a blue-shadowed sky~

 

I dream of a honeyed-tongued goddess

singing the music of a thousand springs

and time stops there, recalling when

 

~and after~

 

we watch

as mist blows away,

soaring pink

 

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The Oracle made me work for this double puente, which probably isn’t a form, but oh well, more rule-breaking. I think she has more to say, but I’ll let this stand for now.

Promises and Dreams

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In the dew-dappled dawn, promises fly,

rising up in murmurations, flowing

into space, tracing patterns in the sky

turning into misty clouds, then throwing

shadows back onto dreams. But then knowing

that the moon rises as the sun sets still

and the earth yet revolves–and will–and will

beyond our mortal lives. So, starlight gleams,

we watch it speckle bright the night—until

it seems, our dreams grow luminous streams.

 

I haven’t been around much lately at dVerse, and I’m sorry for being so behind in reading. I have a lot going on right now. This is my first attempt at a dizain, this month’s poetry form at dVerse.

 

 

 

 

 

Lux Mentis: Prosery

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We sail the night sea in our silvered ark. We’re refugees with lives programmed by machines that tell us when it’s day or night. On the observation deck, I can see the distant light of faraway stars, beckoning but elusive, like dream fragments remembered as you wake. Somewhere out there is our destiny–yet I’m haunted by the memory of sunshine streaming through the trees and the sound of birdsong on a summer day. Sometimes I hear the crash of waves in the constant humming of machinery, and I can almost taste the salt of ocean breezes.

Last night I dreamt I was the moon. I looked down and cried for Earth, gone forever.

 

At dVerse, we’re trying something new: a flash fiction piece of 144 words or less based on a line taken from a poem. We’re calling it prosery. Sarah has offered us this wonderful line, “Last night I dreamt I was the moon” from Alice Oswald’s “Full Moon.”

 

 

 

Dreams of Generations

Monday Morning Musings:

“Time makes room

for going and coming home

and in time’s womb

begins all ending.”

From Ursula K. Le Guinn, “Hymn to Time”

 

“Sunrise, sunset, Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly fly the years

One season following another

Laden with happiness and tears”

–from “Sunrise, Sunset” Jerry Brock and Sheldon Harnick, Fiddler on the Roof

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The dream flits,

flutters

spreading its wings

and soars

as the moon whispers

and shadows dance–

circles of light,

circles of darkness,

together, apart

beginnings and endings

all one thing,

in time

timeless.

***

A hot July day

time with a friend

not wanting it to end

 

we drink, eat stay

talking of what was

and what now is, because

 

we’re catching up

he knew us way back when–

the before, and then

The Cool Lights! Revolution House, Philadelphia

we went our own ways

but kept in touch—

and now this lunch

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though life intrudes

as I get texts about my mother

one after another

 

but still we laugh

then part, agree to meet

again soon—sweet

 

are friendships,

fleeting is time,

the clock chimes

 

echoing

through city streets

in buzzing beats

 

between the pauses, I feel

dreams rise from the cobblestones

beneath us buried bones.

***

 

We watch a movie

of fantasy and dreams

and my mom dreams, it seems

 

not certain of what is real

sometimes, but to her

fantasies, we defer.

 

And it is hotter now

some water ice to keep cool

in shaded bower, where statued pools

spray and children play

while others kept in cages

cruelty growing in stages

 

“Lock them up!” “Send them back,”

the ugly crowds chant

as the demagogue rants

 

and I listen to the fiddler play

and Yiddish spoken–

a culture not yet broken

 

entirely, and being revived

though they tried to kill us

six million then—but let’s discuss

 

how hate never goes away

entwined with fear

year after year

 

beneath the surface

like a dream.

Do you hear the scream

 

of those in a nightmare life

who are fleeing?

What are you seeing

 

when children in cages

appear before you?

Ho, hum, it’s nothing new.

 

Japanese, Jews, camps

of them, this and that–

and off them someone gets fat

 

(follow the money)

through history. We watch

a movie–does the cop botch

 

his life,

or is it ordained

as we see it explained

 

backwards through time.

Sci-fi and noir, violence and lust–

was it a story that must,

 

that always ended a certain way?

So many ifs and could-have-beens,

the outs and ins

 

of love and time

dances in circles, intertwine—

sometimes–

 

but the sun rises and sets

through our laughter and tears

and the years

 

circle in seasons

round and round–

light and darkness abound.

 

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We watched two Netflix movies this week. In Sicilian Ghost Story, I liked the way dreams were a key part of the story and the fantasy of it; my husband not so much. We both liked The City of Last Things.  The story is told backwards in time.

I listened to this Fresh Air episode about the Yiddish version of Fiddler on the Roof. Well worth the listen, if you have the time.