She Calls the Sea: Magnetic Poetry

I dream—

a singing woman

on a ship–

she shines with diamonds and sea spray

(luscious goddess)

she moans and water soars–

a storm smell winds languidly

over and about,

music of sun, rain, sky

recalling life–

the thousand springs


I didn’t consult the Oracle last week, but she didn’t mind. She seems to know I had a bit of an ocean theme going on this week, and she gave me this one.


Sunset: Magnetic Poetry

We watch the

light sleep. Pink shadows

like sky gowns,

rose-blown sweet—

from rust mist, a goddess sings

recalling what was


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The Oracle was quite stubborn today. She ate a previous poem that seemed closer to today’s snowy day.  I think she remembered the Yeats poetry challenge. . .and what was, and so, she gave me this shadorma.


All We Are Saying: Shadorma Challenge

I’ve missed a few days of Eliot of Along the Interstice’s November Shadorma Challenge.

(So many challenges, so little time!) 🙂

To make up for it, the Oracle gave me a few stanzas. I only noticed after I started typing out the poem that she had inserted an extra verse, and since I don’t want to cross her, I put it in parentheses. You can see that I was running out of space on the screen.

Today is Veterans Day in the U.S.


I never

celebrate bleeding–

I listen,

see dark smoke

but picture star-dazzled nights


and rhythm

in perfume breezes

from flowers’

blush of joy.

Go give up ferocious gods,

let poetry fly.


Vast haunted

eternity may

devour them,

this fever,

(Time must sail)

then we this window need use

and bring the word home

Fire Storms and Honeyed Winds: Magnetic Poetry

I used the same set of words for these two poems. I think the Oracle is upset with the world, as evidenced by her first warning poem. She relented a bit for the second. She also has a unique way of spelling. 😉


What were we watching

as armed thousands screamed,

storming in black-rust seas—

away from beauty?

And after,

ask why

life is not shining,

recall all you wanted


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Time-light sings above

together delirious suns play.

You sleep in purple mist,

but smell the summer garden

and honeyed wind.
Here am I–

let your blood beat hot

with mine

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Is it, Was it, Ever Thus?

Show me the beauty

beneath mist a thousand pictures,

in shadow whispers

time’s music urges, please

recall when,

and if—

was it so

or no?


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Claude Monet, “Waterloo Bridge, Effect of Fog,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The Oracle was being coy today. It took me a few attempts to coax anything from her, and then apparently she looked outside my window to see the misty day.