Connected

Buds and blooms, Colonial Garden on a foggy morning

Connected

In a dream, you were asked to follow,
to behold the soft things in the air
and beneath the earth, the seeds, roots—
the ifs of gardens, forests, meadows,
the cycles of darkness and light calling
the ancient songs of stars
echoed by birds, whispered by bees.
You listen, hold the secret close,
this deep-time ache carried in blood and bones,
every speck connected, and you smile.

My poem from the Oracle with special ifs for Derrick. She knew it was foggy this morning, and it seemed the world was full of dreams and secret things. I took this photo today at the park. This is the garden at the entrance to the eighteenth-century Whithall House. It would have been the back of the house then, as the front faced the river.

Awakened Again

Edward Burne-Jones, Sponsa de Libano (The Bride of Lebanon)

Awakened Again

Listen, see if my tongue speaks the language
you want to hear–
there’s a storm coming, you can feel it in the air–

the blossoms murmur
watch for the blue of after,
this is the secret told
in vine rustles, gentle then wild.

They love each breath,
each river bend—these birds,
these ghosts, carry song from gardens
on dawn winds, the buzz of awakened bees,
falling words
falling worlds
reborn

My message from the Oracle. There’s a lot going on in the world. Good luck to all who are marching and fighting for freedom here, in Ukraine, and throughout the world. I’ve had a busy week and a busy weekend, but I’ve just finished some work, so I will still try to catch up with reading posts over the weekend.

Secrets

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

Secrets

In blue-chorded night, the moon murmurs secrets
so the earth is never lonely

as between friends,
the ancient words fall like petals

to take root
beneath snow blankets and on stony beaches

gulls gather them—dropping them with a laugh—
see the flowers growing amidst the rocks?

Now the storms bury and the mad men trample,
but the seeds are there,

think not only if, but when
the ghost-light of long-dead stars arrives
we feel the ache, hear the promise in infinite.

My poem from the Oracle–and this painting again seemed to fit.

The Recollection of Dreams

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

The Recollection of Dreams

In the picture,
when the music dream-splashes color
and light,
like sea waves against rocks—
we hear storms and whispers
in the red and blue,
feel heartache and love–

and if you must see the sorrow,
also recall the luscious scent of rose gardens
the taste of honey on your lips, a kiss.

My poem from the Oracle. The tile said fiddle, but the image of this Redon painting was in my head, not Chagall.

Aubade

Aubade

Odilon Redon, Flowers

Star-birds murmur
with ancient light-breath, and if

they drop a seed–or two—
a rustle in the quiet night
between cycles of moon-song,

it is the thing you almost-saw—but

the flowers are there at bird-dawn

blooming,
magical, something like love.

There are terrible things happening in the world, but I went walking on a beautiful spring morning, and the Oracle saw that, too.

Behold Peace There

Marc Chagall, Death

Behold Peace There

Look! There, the blooded death ships sail.
Cry. Recall in dream whispers the mother-roses
once languid, once luscious, now storm-blown
by withering winds—

but sea-gowned blue, the earth revolves,
above, the moon sings,
and the fiddler sprays the night sky
in echoes of the stars,

an exhale—we hear when–
the breath of time
circles with if.

My poem from the Oracle. It’s a collaboration, but the title comes directly from the her.

A Question of Flower Light

A Question of Flower Light

With ferocious blue-shift, the breath
of ghost flowers lights the night
with an eternity of dazzle,
the fire-magic of before time
carried in vast-voiced song
measured in infinite heartbeats, drifts. . .

and if we survive the shadows,
will we wonder why we didn’t cherish this light
that lingers like smoke, like a kiss, like a laugh remembered?

My poem from the Oracle. It took some work today, and the first attempt before my morning walk was much darker. 😏

Déjà Rêvé: NaPoWriMo2022

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

Déjà Rêvé

I dream I dreamt these dreams before,
of crows’ black tildes that punctuate a violet sky
and break the silence as they crocitate—

when time whispers always–and I almost see,
almost know
what the moon sings,

and I wonder if ghosts are the universe remembering
a laugh or a smile
in starlight-dazzle carried on eternity’s breezes.

Since I always visit the Magnetic Poetry Oracle on Saturdays, I also incorporated today’s NaPoWriMo prompt to take a word from Haggard Hawk’s tweets. I chose “crocitate,” which means to caw like a raven and déjà rêvé or “already dreamed.”

When or Ever

John Constable, Stormy Sea, Brighton

When or Ever

My dreams were moon-whispered songs–
if rain came, it touched with gentle fingers
and breathed honey-sweet breath on roses,
their luscious scent awakened with the sun.

But now–
storm winds beat with nightmare wings, and the seas
send lathered purple tongues to lick the rocks,
leaving bitterness to cling to them
like an ache

we feel
death come, an ever-expandable ship
sailing to the after–

and thousands of mothers cry why—
for what, and when
can never ever give you what you want?

My poem from the Oracle. As always, she knows what’s going on.

If I Could

If I Could

If I could, I’d play for you a moon-hummed lullaby,
the sound of rivers and moss green springing,
the tune of bee waltzes on white-bloomed clouds,

and you would hear the poetry of stars,
like flowers drifting from the sky–

not red-raged bursts,
or dolorous willow whispers, the anguished cries
of mourners left behind, and mother’s tears–instead

the wind would carry rose petals, petrichor,
and daffodil laughter, echoing as

each dawn awakened rosy-cheeked
with blue-eyed innocence
and birdsong would soar, never bullets.

I didn’t get a chance to post my poem from the Oracle yesterday, but I’ve revised it, and perhaps it’s more appropriate today on the first day of spring.