not a storm, rain, with petrichor and glimmering diamond drops after
the sun rises berry-bright and robins and sparrow breath a rainbow of song, but
if—when–a storm comes like a drunken lout knocking down everything before him,
then what? This is the murmur I hear from the river and in the wind,
in squirrel chatter and blue jay squawks— listen,
to the deep roots and the bees hovering on that sweet wild path
to nowhere, asking to sleep in frost and wake in spring–
the cycles that we almost recall.
I seldom write climate change poems, but one doesn’t argue with the Oracle. She’s certainly aware of all the wild fires, and the recent storms in Kentucky and St. Louis.
Do you need a prod? Do you need a little darkness to get you going? Let me be as urgent as a knife, then, and remind you of Keats, so single of purpose and thinking, for a while, he had a lifetime. Mary Oliver, “The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac,” from Blue Horses
“Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic.” ― Frank Herbert, Dune
Caught between never and never again, we watch skies flame past sunset, colors echoed in streaming blood— as robin’s breast and blackbird’s wing
sing the red of spring. Is it logic that we seek in tumbling waves and earth’s spin? The continuity of sprouting green wakened seeds
though no blue horses prance in meadow grass—never separated from their young by ricocheting shells, they live on in painted visions
after the artist is gone–a truth, as beauty we see around us greening, singing, winging light, echoes of stars, their ancient dust within
A peaceful early morning.
our cells. We ingest fallen traces of before, tidbits of eternal time– passages or gateways? As gulls catch light with fish, swooping
from river surface to rise in feathery clouds, we glimpse blue obscured by grey, till blue appears again. Shadows walk hand-in-hand with light.
War and the seasons—things we can count on to appear over and over again.
Daffodils almost ready to bloom
March is as capricious as ever. Winds blow in cold air, then warm. Today is unseasonably warm. It’s already 70 F, but we have a wind advisory, possible thunderstorms later, and then back to colder temperatures. We had hoped to do something outside yesterday, but though it was warm, it was damp and dreary, then windy.
We watched the movie After Yang (Showtime). It’s sci-fi only in that it concerns an android and is set sometime in the future, but it’s really a family drama. It is about what makes a family and what does it mean to be human, as well as exploring love and parenting. To complete our sci-fi Saturday and Sunday, we watched the new version of Dune (Amazon Prime rental, also on HBO max). I read the books a million years ago and saw the earlier movie. Of course, this was meant to be seen on a big screen, but it was well-done. The movie touches on the layers and allusions, and wars it seems still go on, even in the future.
The breeze brushes, caresses, slips its fingers into pockets, cradling words dropped carelessly with the loose change, lifting the conversational lint embedded in variegated threads— don’t forget to pick up the milk, look at the moon, remember yesterday— I can’t believe how big she’s getting.
The wind slaps feelings from the sun-warmed fabric, dangling them before judging crows and mocking-birds– the baby’s desire to be held, the mother’s desire to be held, the father’s desire—his tough-guy persona flies from his undershirts.
Now the mother’s too-tight skirts wait to dry, wait to be put away in a box, replaced with the loose garments she wore only too recently. Not again, they sigh. All the clothes flap in unison, another mouth to feed, more clothes on the line.
There’s a time for wind and storms that blow and beat and will not stop
for ships at sea and stars above—or me—
but spring whispers to get the garden dressed,
cast off the dun, and wreath the ground in yellow green
as honeyed shine make petals pop and robins hop to sing
in answer to the murmur from beneath.
Now, even as the black-clouds scream, the fiddle sounds from rooftop wings
the argent light of midnight moon to hum in sync until pink-petaled bright
the dawn comes slight–yet still we ask if peace will wake
and the wind answers, almost always, in the after.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. The poem was not inspired by the song Turn, Turn, Turn, but it went through my head after I wrote it and was reading it over. Of course, the Oracle knows everything.
The after-sky dreams red a thousand times, sings fiddle-sweet as bitter black is cast away
again
light me with color-song– a thousand blues together, the river murmurs over and over and honey-tongued earth breathes green.
And if ghosts come with their fevered night secrets, they vanish in caramel clouds and champagne breezes laugh to scatter pink-petaled magic like smiles in morning light.
Last night it got very windy, but this morning is warm for February–about 50F when I got up. But, we’re supposed to have rain turning to snow after midnight tonight. Sigh. The Oracle knows all this, of course. The world is very strange right now, but even crazy truckers and conspiracy spreaders can’t stop spring from coming eventually.
The ancient light, an echo of a thousand whens, a beacon to the ship, blown off course in shadowed seas, while
somewhere, a fiddle sings, in notes that soar with if
under clouds, above mountains, crossing rivers, carrying dreams of blue ponies and verdant lands,
carrying moon-whispered secrets that you almost remember
when you wake to taste the peach-burst sun on your tongue and hear the universe’s wild poetry in wind and waves–and its laughter in birdsong.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. Looking at the image I chose after I wrote the poem (but thinking of the blue horses), and now seeing the lion in it, reminds me that a month or so ago, I had a dream of a house and a lion who came and cuddled with me. (We also re-watched Fiddler on the Roof this week.) The Oracle really does know everything. 😀
I’m love, lust, and power, I’m the rose scenting the bower
with perfumed bloom– I’m scattered in rooms, laid on tombs,
in garnet spread, the shade with which we toast the dead the luscious wine, merely one mourning thread,
or sip of seduction. I’m the crimson of celebration— the color of flags and war decorations.
I’m the moon cycle of daughters and wife– I’m the blood of death, the flow of life,
I stream from wounds and birth, and nourish the earth
with youth blown dead, as poppies yield to battlefields
still, bright color pops amid remains, a buzzard-swoop, a rat hip-hop,
with berry-stained fur— all the kings, politicians, and battles were
for what? Scarlet puddles, decayed remains, only ghosts born from these labor pains.
I’m the she-wolf’s cry, and the vampire’s sigh
beyond all understanding– I am the light of the universe expanding.
A late entry for Mish’s dVerse prompt to “slip out of our human bodies and become nothing but a color.” I would normally pick blue, but decided to go with something different. 😀 I’m also linking it to Open Link Night. It’s a live session, but it’s my husband’s birthday, and we’re going to do a birthday project together instead.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
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