Poetry joy is open—
come dance!
Voices color a universe
with words breathing perfume
and bleeding.
Celebrate and linger–
remembering when, yet, and
always after. . .
in blue clouds of time
The Oracle gave me this bit of joy today. I think it means I should write poetry today and not bother with anything else. 🙂
Let me see dream light
whisper shadow music of red moons—
a language of aches, wind, water,
and time,
singing honey-tongued
of what was or never is
beneath a thousand whys
The Oracle is enigmatic today, as usual.
“The search for meaning, much like the search for pleasure, must be conducted obliquely. Meaning ensues from meaningful activity: the more we deliberately pursue it, the less likely are we to find it.”
–Irving D. Yalom quoted in Brainpickings here
My sister and I listen to the woman,
she is perfectly pleasant, if a bit harried–
it’s possible she’s double-booked her appointments.
We can only offer your mother six hours of care, she says
(that we may or may not pay for)
but we can’t let you know until you pick one of the providers.
(We stare blankly at the five-page list.)
No, I can’t recommend any of them–
can you imagine if it didn’t work out?
But you can call and ask them questions.
(That shouldn’t take much time, right?)
No, the caregivers are not permitted to give your mom medication
I guess you’ll have to work something else out.
Yes, we do offer some free meals, but only if you go with our program–
and your mother would have to pick up a week’s worth at the front desk
Well, yes, I can see she uses a walker and is nearly blind, but that’s how it’s done.
I hear these meals taste kind of nasty–
Now the dinners from that other program . . .
(the one your mother is ineligible for because her income from Social Security is slightly over the cutoff, though it’s not enough to pay her rent)
Yeah, those meals are delicious. . .Do you have any questions?
My sister and I look at each other—we have lots of questions,
but nothing she can help with.
She’s referred inexplicably a few times
to the process, program, situation
as “catch 52”—
perhaps it is all so ridiculous that “catch 22”
is no longer enough to describe it.
My sister goes home, my husband and I go home, too,
we feed the cats, and then visit a winery.
We drink wine, listen to music, and eat mac and cheese.
Decompress, not deconstruct.
Vino and Vibes,
William Heritage Winery
The next day I cook and bake,
the kitchen exorcism
being a well-known technique for
getting rid of any lingering demons.
Artisan Bread
Mandelbrot
Blueberry Peach Crumble
Our younger daughter is visiting a friend in Japan.
she sends us a photo
the two of them with a snake.
I think if anyone could charm a snake,
it would be her–
though she looks terrified.
I think of my younger self–
once I held a snake
and had a head full of dreams,
not as practical as either of my daughters,
and not as charming either,
but in those days
my mother could see and walk
and was raising another child.
I raise a glass to wish,
only suddenly I’m
uncertain what to wish for.
We watch a mystery series
there’s murder, conspiracy, and violence
yet we know that at the end
the questions will be answered,
the mystery solved.
And if it’s not completely tidy,
it’s enough to satisfy.
Maybe the answer is 42, after all
though I’m not sure
of the question anymore.
I pour another glass of wine,
toast, “L’chaim.”
Perhaps “to life” is enough.
***
We watch the storm—
rain urges moon,
and she sings,
bares away language
to let live the cool whispers
of blue shadow light
on aching skin.
Life is wanted here—
trudge, run.
(If not, when?)
Together, we soar.
The Oracle gave me this coda of hope and action. I’m sure she knows that the expression is “bear away,” but she is clever, and no doubt she enjoyed the double meaning here.
After blood moon’s
shadow rose, misted
and rust-still
with music,
a symphony urging you,
Love, to soar away.
But time screams
a luscious pink sky,
here in day–
asks, sweet-tongued–
must and if–and so, I moan—
we trudge together
Embed from Getty Images
The Oracle must have been sky gazing last night and gave me this double Shadorma.
It was cloudy and rainy here last night.
Two poems from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
There the sky sprays
a whisper—
love
If some shadow rips
through the summer
as the moon goddess plays
the storm symphony
driving your dreams—
sleep—
It is death and light and urges
and all the thousand whys
of who we are—
and yet will be.
The moon,
gorgeous gown’d
waxes at sea
on a bed of water.
Some say, she will swim,
then soar,
but I smell rain,
my feet rocked,
chanting wants,
honey music
of skin and sweat—
and you heed my moans–
the storm–
so, sleep
in the mists of time.
Félix Ziem, “The Call of the Sirens,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
A Saturday morning visit to the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. I’m not sure if I should feel empowered or forewarned.
Through the water symphony
a blue ache
of shadow and moans,
a language recalling
within us
all time’s frantic urges
of why, never, and when.
Words from my Saturday visit to the poetry Oracle.
From the forest
languid language soars.
You watch the rain beating
on rocks,
say my skin smells of dreams
and water runs fast beneath my feet.
A ship screams at the lake,
“who is driving death?”
And I cry,
aching if and why.
Henri Rousseau, “Le Rêve,” (The Dream), [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I haven’t consulted The Oracle in a couple of weeks. She gave me this bit of surrealism. It fits my mood.
Over thousand sleeps of
honeyed purple, the smell
crushed from gardens
beneath the moon,
her hair let fast,
she sings a dream–
what if
light is love soaring through time
whispering in sea spray?
Black storm rose coolly–
day was yet springing up light
rain and petals sprayed
the moon asleep, so she soars
dreaming above in blue mist
The rain woke me up early this morning. We’re supposed to get thunderstorms later. As always, the Oracle knows.
