The Dreams, or What You See

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

Ask the moon what her whispers mean—
dreamtime longing, the after-ache of shadows

that slide or slink, glide, or make us think
of what was–the ghosts of yearning

seek the light. I watch, and if I can’t recall
each pink-petaled spring or purple rain,

I see them all—the symphony that glows and lingers,
or hides in rustling wind-whipped sighs

and suspiration of the sea. Here I hear,
and time fast-stops, while the fiddler plays

the song of life, death, and all that is,
and what is not

but was or maybe what will be.
Listen hard and long . . . now do you see?

The Oracle kept giving me a few words over and over again, like moon, light, after, ache, whispers, etc. and I could imagine her getting exasperated and saying use these already!

When, Then, Now

Sunrise over the Delaware River at West Deptford, NJ

When water watches the pink sky,
and time plays with rust and diamonds–
in that moment the honeyed light sings
with gathered breath of stars and beats
an ancient and eternal rhythm.

Ask then—
if dreams drift from above,
to catch in moonglade,
or sparkle like spoondrift–

and you beneath,
embracing the blue ghosts that linger
in the slow smile of dawn.

My poem from the Oracle. She always knows. This is a strange time of year–beautiful and melancholy. We’ve had some spectacular sunrises lately–this one is from today– but we’re supposed to get thunderstorms later today. Last night my sleep was disrupted by some sort of police activity going on–very unusual. We live in a quiet neighborhood. We have a memorial service to attend, as well.

I guess WP is changing things again–the preview button has options now.

Indefinite

Peder Severin Krøyer [Public domain] “Summer Evening at Skagen beach, the artist and his wife”

Ask am I like the moon
you love with wind-urged language
springing from my tongue?
Together, I say we sail
through star-sprayed indigo —

and if
there, time sleeps,
still, we will hear the fiddler
play across seas and dreams, music
carried on blue breezes into a garden–
and home

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. The painting seemed to fit, and she’s fond of it.

A Reminder

Ask if the moon sleeps as the sky turns rosy,
and with languid tongue, licks black to blue–
does she recall the after-ache of crashing birth,
and dream the songs of a thousand stars?

Now, watch the cool cat breath rise with arched back
over the river, curling into the morning air—

is this what you seek? Recall the beauty of this day—
clothed in peach, pink, and blue–
the chirp of sparrows, the rush of heron’s wing.

When I opened our back door this morning, there was the moon right in front of me. Then when I walked to the river, it was just so beautiful with the sun rising over the water. The world is full of terrible things and horrible people, but there is also such beauty in it. The Oracle knows and reminds me.

What Else Could I Do?

^{Morning Moon Over The Delaware River}

The moon rose through shadows,
to sing a farewell song
over forests and rocks turning softly pink
in the dawn. And I watched—
what else could I do? Ask
if I am moon-mad to hear the whispers
in the wind. Red-tipped trees sigh
in the breath of ancient cycles,
as time passes like the soft brush of heron’s wing.
The geese in flight call, savor this,
and the river murmurs through light and darkness–
listen.

The Oracle obviously comes with me on my early morning walks. The last few days have been beautiful.

We Ask Why

Marc Chagall, Le Violiniste Bleu (The Blue Fiddler)

What if time sails like a ship—
sometimes still, sometimes striking rocks—
We recall the honeyed glow of before, watch shadows
born in moon-whispers grow–as after,
we sleep to the fiddler’s song, blue notes sprayed
into the night sky. The moon hums dreams of mother-love,
a thousand girls and boys smile. We ask why–
but there is this.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She’s in a reflective mood.

Even When Time Stops, the River Flows On

^{Early Morning on the Delaware River, September.}

In the after, there were dreams–
and lies.
We stood together–
and apart, divisions growing
as the wind asked why

~to a silent blue sky~

I gaze–but birdsong floats in a melody
of light and shadows. Here
time never stops,
as past and future merge, and an eagle soars
over my head, into tomorrow.

My poem from the Oracle. She knows everything. I took the photo this morning, and an eagle did fly right over me.

The Ancient Wanderer

In time’s shadow, I recall the languid summer–
light whispered of love, and if the wind called come,
the moon goddess hummed, why go?
Swim, she said, in these blue waters,
feel the blood-beat beneath your skin,
here far from the ship-crushing waves.
Wait—watch, savor
the sweet unknown.

But Death drooled, raining destruction, and
men with their blood-chants beckoned from afar.

Now in the bitter after of broken dreams, I sigh,
while the fiddler plays yet another tune–
still, the stars sing,
and dawn’s maidens toss gilded rose petals
as I wake,
remembering love’s aches, feeling my skin sun-warmed,
and tasting morning’s honeyed beauty on my tongue.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. It’s only fitting that a poem from her would have a mythic feel.

Windswept

Windswept by John William Waterhouse

Beauty beats with aching heart–
beneath the blue of summer sky
tender-veined leaves tremble
at the wuthering wind,

yet, if it moans—
recalling winter’s wayward sway
to black and grey–

let it take you through dream-time shadows
to the after—and again–
the languid bright of summer days,
red-berried and green,
bird-voiced harmony in the light.

I had to struggle to get a poem today from the Oracle. As usual though, she knows what’s going on. Even while it’s still hot and sticky, there are traces of autumn in the wind and in the shorter days.

In Harmony

Peder Severin Krøyer [Public domain] “Summer Evening at Skagen beach, the artist and his wife”

If I listen, lonely
in the long blanket of night—
the moon sings, murmuring secrets,
gathered deep in tree roots
to flow through green tendrils,
and flowering pink–
recalled by birds, and bee-danced along paths,
to the wind-rustled sea.
There, in after-breaths, the world walks on soft blue,
in harmony sky and water, for a moment,
sublime.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.