Shadows Amidst the Spring Light

Shadows wind through the spring green,
recalling winter, they carry the scent of blood
and despair driven by lies, the play of elaborate schemes,
and delirious dreams and desire blown into the after time,

and I ache,
wishing, wondering if I see light,
honeyed rays through verdant trees,
the pink-petaled spray of hope—

full of ever and always,
somewhere my mother is in a garden
or gazing at an azure sea,

she takes her brush,
erases the storms, the grey-clouded earth,
paints bright color on her canvas,

and I wake to birdsong and feathered-wishes
diamond bright in the still dark sky.

The Magnetic Poetry Oracle knows everything. The political situation here in the U.S. is quite troubling; Mother’s Day is tomorrow, and it’s spring. We collaborated on this poem.

The Birth of Venus

Odilon Redon, Birth of Venus

If, bare-breasted, moon-blooded,
I bloom
above the blue sea, in diamond-sprayed splendor,

then ask—why

I am woman-formed
of raw winds and whispered light,
green-gowned and peach-scented—
but as a day here and away–

I am time-stilled
beyond recalling fiddle beats
from the shadows,
where a thousand ruins stand,
sun-petal-swept and silent.

I am all—
most eternal, champagne cool,
velvet fire,
seeing, embracing secrets,
the delicious brilliance of star breath,
dancing in darkness.

My May Day poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. As usual, even though I thought this poem would go one way, she sent me somewhere else.

Never, Always Ask

Ask if
the sea still glitters diamond-bright
in the sunshine,

and if
it recalls the whispers of
a thousand stars, the humming of the moon,

the voices of time, a champagne cloud of color
vanishing to form again

never, always

ask why
some don’t know the delicious dazzle
of light’s brilliant kiss,

and can’t feel the universe’s embrace, lingering
in an ocean breeze.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.

When the Moon Sings, NaPoWriMo, Day 17

Guillermo_Gómez_Gil_-_Salida_de_la_luna

When the moon sings,
time stills, and
after-aches sleep in the purple-shadowed night
while diamond ships sail,

~spraying if in silver light~

love comes, seafoam-born,
ephemeral and eternal
crushing worlds and driving dreams—
listen to the sky– a symphony of roses rises at dawn.

A collaboration with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle that also works for today’s NaPoWriMo prompt. She loves the moon–and the puente form.

May Queen, NaPoWriMo, Day 10

She sleeps in a thousand blues
of forest-shadowed whispers, waiting
for the world to wake, now in-between–

and in her dreams, she listens
for sky voices, the laugh of stars and birds remembering
the rhythm of days, tiny rose-tips, yet unseen

but when, not if, they come again
dressed in honeyed gowns of golden light, lingering–
she’ll wake to take her place, sweet May Queen–

with each embrace, she color-spaces
a trace of perfume recalls her paces,
and soft poetry where she has been, always and forever green.

I haven’t done too many NaPoWriMo prompts this month because I’m writing for an Ekphrastic Challenge, and there are only so many poems I can write each day! But, I always visit the the Magnetic Poetry Oracle on Saturdays, and today she gave me this sort of folk tale poem.

Ask What They See: NaPoWriMo, Day 3

Marc Chagall, The Blue Fiddler

The moon sighs and sings, a luscious silver spray in blue,
the fiddler plays along, repeating feather trills,
the universe’s secret smiles–

now watch the ghosts dance, bird-winged, eternal–
or almost–

and ask what they see,
and if they dream, or
revel in argent glow,

their hearts recalling when and never, before
shadows and the afterlight of a thousand stars in song.

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt asks us to create a “Personal Universal Deck,” a card deck of words. I like the idea of creating my own word deck, but today I’m basing my poem on words from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. We have a standing Saturday date to collaborate, and I wouldn’t want to upset her. 😏

The Whys of After and Before

Why have I never seen the turn of spring to summer,
overnight the moonlight sings sweetly into possible

the cycles—storms to sun,
a daffodil, then a rose.

And if time winds through the shadows, why do I not see
that beneath the ancient after, all the befores–

a language barely spoken, questions asked and lost

like faded blooms. But still, the promise, like a smile, recalled,
in the robin’s song at dawn.

The daffodils are starting to bloom.

It took some work to get a message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle today. I’m taking it easy after my second Covid vaccine yesterday, but the moon was humming early this morning and a robin was singing. Tonight is the start of Passover.

Spring Meditation

Ask, as if the still water answers
with blue-blown ripples, and
a tiny thousand lights sing of spring.

What is the question dancing out and in
from shadowed wings,
on the feathered limbs of just-greening trees?

Or this? How life comes
and ends, in whispered sounds
and pastel hues—

ducks quack and geese honk,
the buds of daffodils bob swan-like on sprouting stems–

you recall all the questions never asked
or answered–

she lived a long life,
her laugh mixed with bright blooms,
summer dreams in a garden

red and pink. Past and future are
heart-haunted, but sweet
like birdsong in honeyed glow.

Now, you embrace the after—
the flowering dawn and the caramel glow–and
the secret smile of the morning

calls to you, not why,
but always.

I collaborated with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She’s feeling philosophical on this first morning of spring, and I’m still asking questions.

Waiting

A thousand wonder-worries cloud the night—but

play in shadows and in light,
soar in time, moon-drunk, star-dazzled,
as wind whispers to water, flow, live–

and if you dream, recall
the luscious, languid sighs
of pink-petaled branches after the storm,
and the cool-blue smell of sky and air—

waiting

in honeyed sunglow,
watching the diamond spray
of spring rain on ripening buds,

waiting,

for the moment to embrace
color, to heal the world.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She knows spring is on its way.

Would You?

Chagall, The Blue Fiddler

How is your life a language
of whispered dreams? Aches and honey
beneath the tiny thousand lights, crushed diamonds
shining to recall the delirious dazzle of before

~and if~

you could ask the fiddler
to play pink-petaled spring, would you?
And hold the sky still, timeless
for a moment, black blown away, birdsong rippling blue.

Another puente from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She knows spring is coming, and she was crying out for a blue painting. I almost went with Franz Marc, but this Chagall fits so perfectly.