The Laughing Breath of Stars: Magnetic Poetry

Look for magic

on a fire cloud—breezing

 

to embrace the laughing breath of stars–

almost an eternity of rhythm–

 

born if and always

to linger—

 

so, when waked

ghosts go (never sadly)

 

but after-voiced lie healed,

so old and sacred,

 

time-kissed

and remembered–

 

And we will celebrate that which was

and like angels dance

 

over brilliant blushing skies–

a universe at peace

 

This the birthday poem the Oracle gave me.

 

Friday, 2 AM

 Friday, 2 AM

A sound awakens me–

the cat vomiting—

 

I wipe it up from the floor

return to my warm bed

 

cat cuddles against me,

his purrs

 

a calming motor

till they stop—

 

he’s asleep–

I’m not.

 

I listen to the night sounds

through winter-fastened windows—

 

no summer sound of mockingbird

singing through the night,

 

only the buzz of a distant highway

and planes carrying people far away.

 

But I’m content to be here–

my husband turns in his sleep—

 

my cat softly snores,

I close my eyes and dream.

 

Grace is hosting the final Open Link Night for dVerse this year. dVerse will be on break until January 1, 2019.

The Sea Sings: Magnetic Poetry

Guillermo Gómez Gil, “Moonrise” [Public domain] Wikipedia Commons

The sea sings

the music of time

 

recalling

in her shadowed beauty

 

gorgeous life and bitter blue-black

screams of why ripped by purple water.

 

But I sit beneath the light of tiny diamonds

and dream

 

seeing ships go,

and wanting you.

 

The wind licks my skin, whispers

when, if. . .let love in.

 

My weekend message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.

 

River Walk

I walk the water path

then climb the concrete stairs

 

to stroll past statues and monuments,

where apple trees once grew,

 

the sturdy plantation house stands on the bluff,

but it’s the river that calls

 

the battle-dead whisper

unseen, but fitful, sighing,

 

the flying hawk shadows me

while geese bask

 

at high-tide

the waves crash

 

and they fly

circling the water,

 

the river,

home.

Delaware River, Red Bank Battlefield

For dVerse, Amaya has asked us to include a secret ingredient. I’m not sure if this works for the prompt, but this is what the muse gave me in between dreams last night, so I’m going with it.

 

 

 

Ask, The Answer is Blue Beauty

Franz Marc, The Tower of Blue Horses,” [Public Domain] Wikepedia Commons

They ask,

and we arm.

 

There, see the blood spraying,

our heaves and screams?

 

But my ache—

I dream blue beauty

 

showing light and life

after all—

 

a why pictured

to shadowed if

 

Poignant words from the Oracle, who apparently is a Franz Marc fan–

or perhaps Martian sunsets.

Sheep, Perchance to Dream

How to explain the surrealism of my dreams—

the talking sheep—

 

she holds a menu

and politely requests seasoned breads.

 

I’m not confused that she can talk, read

or walk upright—

 

I only regret

that the bread is unavailable,

 

and that the menu should say seasonal

instead of seasoned.

 

I wake laughing,

but later ponder,

 

who knows what talents a sheep has

or what desires?

 

We see the flock, the crowd,

not the individual

 

yearning for something better,

until they take a stand.

Franz Marc, “Sheep,” [Public Domain] via Wikipedia Commons

This is a late offering for dVerse Open Link night, where Mish has asked us to post one poem on snow or anything else. I went for something else. I’m still catching up with reading others’ posts. I’ll try to catch up before latkes and wine on Sunday!  🙂

 

 

The Language of a Thousand Loves

Above, Moon sings

of honeyed times

 

her music rose-gowned

in sweet summer winds

 

sifting shadows

over the sea.

 

And we watch—

asking why of water-pounded rocks

 

as the sun

drives mist away–

 

there still sleeping –

 

the language of

a thousand loves with you.

 

I’m not quite sure I understand what the Oracle is saying, but I like the poem she gave me.

Cold and Burning

Monday Morning Musings:

 “Listen. .

With faint dry sound,

Like steps of passing ghosts,

The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees

And fall.”

Adelaide Crapsey, “November Night”

 

“In the burned house I am eating breakfast.

You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,

yet here I am.”

From Margaret Atwood, “Morning in the Burned House”

 

The sun sleeps

in shadow now

the ground prepares

to slumber, too

covered in brown

then sprinkled with white

golden-leaved boughs

glowing bright

in defiant display—

this they say—

remember this day–

we will return

 

when the sun burns

the frost away.

 

So, we stay inside

watch a movie of sly wit and song,

there death seems to come along,

a bit of jokester, it seems

for which we’re never prepared,

still we turn the pages in a book,

hoping for a happy ending

He is fascinated, watching The Ballad of Buster Scruggs.

And in the night

I dream of petting a sloth

(in a park)

 

then accompanying a pretentious hipster

dressed all in black, dark

like the restaurant where no food is consumed

 

but I outwit him and his friends

and wake laughing at the dream’s end.

 

Score one for the old lady

there’s life here still–

and more to be penned.

 

We venture out to see another film

unfolding tension

(a few jumps in my chair)

 

metaphors and

things that are not there—

 

a tangerine,

perhaps a cat—

 

and there is burning—

of various kinds—

 

and yearning–

what is in their minds?

 

What do they feel,

 

the young woman,

the would-be writer,

and the mystery Gatsby-rich man?

 

What is real?

 

We walk and talk

buy spices

to simmer in the cold,

then in the chilly day

creeping into shadowed night

Pops of November color in Old City Philadelphia

savor the warmth of wine

consumed in cozy light

life enjoyed despite what may

transpire, gloom kept at bay

undesired here and now

and our fate unknown anyhow

 

so, we gather rosebuds—or drink

fruit of the wine, laugh and think

 

but not too long about the future

instead we nurture

 

ourselves and one another

 

cuddle with cats, dream of the moon

enjoy one snowfall, but wait for June

 

still we prepare soon

with family to gather

 

as the seasons turn

burn only candles

 

yet, seek the light

in every room.

 

Applesauce for Thanksgiving

We watched The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, a Western, Coen Brothers style, in theaters and on Netflix. We also saw Burning, Korean movie, a psychological thriller. We liked both movies very much. Wonderful acting in both of them.

 

The Brilliant Blush, and the Stars

The brilliant blush—

fire dancing and

 

the sky warms,

Ghost remembers this—

 

morning and joy

here awakened

 

in champagne clouds

breathing ocean air

 

I was like you—

so young–

 

haunted and not—

the sad slow whens–

 

but sail on

looking at the stars

 

embracing eternity,

almost

I had to get a message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle before really getting started with my day.  But you can see that sometimes I do it in stages.  🙂

 

Recall the Light

Recall the light—

 

a thousand summers,

sun and rose petals,

 

and the moon—

with soaring music

 

diamond language,

cool, but blooded,

 

she chants symphonies

of shadowed sleeping seas.

 

Here is life–

still beating

 

through time

crying if. . .

John William Waterhouse, “Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May,” [Public Domain] Wikipedia

Some cautionary words from the Oracle?