About my blue earth
moon in cycles shining
murmurs sweet harmony,
soft poetry,
(listen)
it wanders peacefully here and there,
beneath
between
a quiet secret breeze of ancient souls
and pure light blossom in color
It’s been a busy week. I needed this message from the Oracle.
Wake and embrace—
linger for a universe of morning
perfumed with coffee and color.
Picture this,
(my window, see?)
breathe the peace surrounding you and me,
flowering cool green
on velvet words almost to eternity
Today is our 39th wedding anniversary! I’m glad the Oracle came through with something nice, even if she sometimes messes up the spelling.
Yesterday morning we had thunderstorms with tornado warnings, but then the sun came out. Sometimes nature gives you a metaphor. Some of you know I’m past deadline on a manuscript for an encyclopedia, and that I’m now researching and writing a second chapter because a contributor did not come through with something I could use. It’s been quite a storm, but I’m embracing blue skies and velvet words today. 🙂
“Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door.”
–Emily Dickinson
In life a secret blossoms
beneath cloud and air
between dusk and dawn–
follow it
about wild river song
here,
but almost there
I read facts and statistics
documenting the evils humans do to one another,
then I read about the kindness of strangers
fighting hate and bigotry
helping others with words and gestures–
I spend days reading and writing
of hate and of human resilience
of the darkness that falls
and the light that comes
I spend days writing and reading
editing,
documenting evil–
and then I take a break
I write a poem
drink some wine
(bottled poetry)
and then some more
hug my husband, daughter, and cats
eat Pakistani food outside on a beautiful June night
I listen to the mockingbird
(sing )
I think about good and evil
and life’s secrets
blossoming like spring flowers
here
I wait for dawn to come
opening every door
till I am almost there
The Oracle gave me the opening.
Almost 30% of women have faced violence from an intimate partner. World Health Organization,
“Every 98 seconds an American is sexually assaulted.” RAINN
We drank wine at Heritage Vineyards “Vino and Vibes” and at Sharrott Winery’s Wine and Music Festival. We got take-out from Meera Khana restaurant, and the food was delicious, as always.
Do we remember poetry and desire, come eternity?
embrace old rhythms of green and lingering life,
a brilliant blush,
a fired heart—
listen to this blue salt ocean, Fool,
the angel said,
magic lies here, there, all about and after
it dances and laughs, surrounding you like perfume–
go breathe peace and heal
Caspar David Friedrich, “Northern Sea in the Moonlight,” 1823-1824 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I’m in the midst of crazy writing and editing. The Oracle knew just what to say. I added some punctuation. I hope she doesn’t mind.
“And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”
–William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 5, Scene 1
“The system here is rigid, strict, and hopeless solitary confinement. I believe it, in its effects, to be cruel and wrong. I hold this slow, and daily, tampering with the mysteries of the brain to be immeasurably worse than any torture of the body.”
–Charles Dickens, 1842
A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the Indian ocean.
–Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit
In the deep soft blue of night,
a full bright moon murmurs
which path would you stroll
always night
or beautiful dawn?
Would you breath the sweet air of ancient breezes?
I ponder mysteries of life and time,
the paths we choose, the where and when
the roads that make us who we are
the journeys that lead to discoveries,
do the words I write,
the forms of things unknown,
take flight across the world,
in a poetry chaos theory
to effect change?
One of my writer workout shirts.
I’m at a book fair,
I don’t sell many books,
my profits come from knowledge gained
or reaffirmed,
books have power,
the reason why slaves are not taught to read,
they release the minds of those bound by ignorance
they free those imprisoned by walls of stone
or by barricades of bigotry,
they build bridges of enlightenment,
people are drawn to them
in excitement, wonder, and surprise
I watch the boy’s eyes
open wide at the thought of reading magical adventures
then disappointment,
“My mom doesn’t have any money.”
“Today is your lucky day, says the author,
“I have something special,
a free book for you–
see, the cover is slightly damaged.”
He signs the book for the boy
who takes it,
holds it reverently,
a treasure.
I hope he remembers this moment.
West Deptford Township Book Festival. Yes, I did bake cookies, too.
My husband and I visit the art museum
not for any particular exhibition,
“Sunday at the museum,” someone says,
people there from all over the world
(even though the “Rocky Steps” are closed)
I hear many languages: French, Chinese, Russian.
We walk through the Impressionists,
see the real and surreal,
View from the Duchamp Gallery, Philadelphia Museum of Art
look at art and people,
adults and children,
viewed and viewers.
Reading at the Museum—Mary Cassatt, Family Group Reading (c. 1901) Philadelphia Museum of Art
We walk from the museum
across the Parkway to Fairmount
and on to Eastern State Penitentiary,
the world’s first penitentiary,
conceived with a purpose–
to induce penitence in its prisoners,
the original building completed in 1836,
though the process began earlier
with efforts to relieve the conditions of the Walnut Street Jail,
in 1787, Dr. Benjamin Rush founded a group to reform prisons,
The Philadelphia Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons,
an organization that still exists,
the new penitentiary is thought to be humane,
a wonder of technology and innovation,
a central hub with spokes,
cells with plumbing and heat
designed by architect John Haviland,
but prisoners were cut off from human contact
and sometimes went insane.
Charles Dickens wrote of the torture of solitary confinement
and later the prison became too crowded for the concept to continue,
a second tier of cells was built
and prisoners shared cells.
We listen to actor Steve Buscemi
tell us about it in the audio tour,
we’ve been here before,
but it is good to be reminded,
and there are new exhibits we haven’t seen
there are other visitors and tour groups,
but when it is quiet, without other visitors around,
I feel the ghosts around me
there amidst the rubble
Prisoners
in dark fevered air
decayed concrete and old secrets,
a dirt home
listen to who was
they live not
but almost open,
in time
It is a reminder
of good intentions gone wrong,
yet there are traces of beauty and goodness,
even here,
the tales of good and humane guards
the art created by inmates,
the synagogue
The original synagogue door. (For my blogger friend, Robin.)
but still there are ghosts,
the imprisoned,
some died here,
and I have no answers for those who are imprisoned still
but I hope they have books and art
and that their minds can roam, even if their bodies cannot
do they wonder about the paths of their lives?
Which path would you stroll
always night
or beautiful dawn?
Would you breath the sweet air of ancient breezes?
Tonight I dream of wide-eyed boys
of beauty and art
amidst decayed walls
a cat purrs softly in my ear,
I am home, but my mind roams free.
The kind author was Ben Anderson, who shared a table with me at the West Deptford Township Book Festival at Riverwinds Community Center. His books are chronicles of Irish fantasy, targeted for middle grade readers, but suitable for “eight to eighty-eight” he says. You can read about them here .
We joke about the Magnetic Poetry Oracle, but she gave me this poem (incorporated above) the morning of the day we went to visit Eastern State Penitentiary. She also came me part of the opening.
You can find out more about Eastern State Penitentiary here. Here is an article on programs for prison literacy. And a list of additional resources here.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art is always worth visiting, even with construction going on.
We sojourn on between the moons
climbing full and white and bright and clear
but still the dark I feel is near
though here there is more luminous light
where comes the song of ancient sprites
wandering through shade, illuminating sight,
nearby, a diamond girl shimmers and glows,
ensorcelling face, radiant clothes,
her tongue sings music of forest and glen
urging spring and summer, again, again,
and time is endless here and always
with shadows splashed by sun-shining blazes
and roses bloom with sweet perfume
like golden apples of the sun, yet unconsumed
and gleaming, Earth seesaws now between beginning and done,
we’re dreaming, spindrift from slipstream, time’s run
Odilon Redon, Beatrice,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Day 29, WaPoWriMo. The penultimate day. The prompt was to take a word or phrase from a favorite poem, free associate, and then write a poem. I took some words and phrases from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle and went from there.
I’ve borrowed an image idea–using one that is similar to the one Jane Dougherty used in her dreamy vision–because I thought this golden Beatrice fit the poem. So thanks, Jane. 😉
Sweet spring shines
come flower,
bird, and bee,
squirrel over tree,
a secret song,
pure poetry
must grow, thrive
at peace, but knowing
if my blue earth, a sanctuary
is soon through,
we blossom, berry, bough, follow, too
from sacred garden to prairie brown,
how eden leaves
By NASA/Apollo 17 crew; taken by either Harrison Schmitt or Ron Evans [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Day 22, NaPoWriMo. The Magnetic Poetry Oracle was true to the prompt. She gave me an Earth Day Georgic Verse.
Window to a secret universe,
perfume of coffee & caramel
brilliant colors, velvet words, day & night,
heart & desire remembered,
it is here time
it is eternity
breathing magic,
joy smiles
This is Day 15 of NaPoWriMo. We’re halfway through, so the prompt was to write about something in the middle. This is more of in-between than middle, but I love the ideas that the Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me today, and I won’t have time to write another one today.
Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.
–Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-Four Variations on Voice*
“History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”
–Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending
“Raise a glass to freedom
Something they can never take away
No matter what they tell you
Let’s have another round tonight”
–Linn Manuel Miranda, “The Story of Tonight,” Hamilton
We wandered
wet spring stone,
an ancient bough,
poetry of lonely bird & squirrel
Listen
There
I know
(almost)
this secret garden
life
The dawn chorus sang
before the sun appeared
their secret language of chirps and trills
floated through the damp air,
early spring.
I began the day.
We wandered old city streets
stepped on bricks and cobblestones
the stories these stones and buildings could tell
the Founding Fathers wheeling and dealing,
letters and documents they wrote, still preserved,
our laws, our past, present, and future,
but what of the buried secrets
items tossed into privies,
and bodies,
thought to be moved long ago,
a lie from the past,
the new built over the old,
history in layers,
the way our life tales are constructed
with secrets and stories
hidden and revealed
private secrets and public secrets
the lies we tell ourselves,
the lies politicians tell us,
“Let sleeping dogs lie,”
bold-faced lies
little white lies
lies of omission
lies of commission
“What does the president know
and when did he know it?
We saw a movie about lies,
the lies a man has told himself,
stories he never told his wife
(omission)
buried in a secret room in his mind
rooms we see on the screen
his past played over and over
more revealed each time,
we all have secret rooms,
compartments,
where history is written and rewritten,
the personal,
the political,
and as we walked along these streets
we push past ghosts who linger there still
in rooms where they told their stories
and raised a glass to freedom
City Tavern, Philadelphia
We drink to our own freedom. Pondering the second round at Tria.
We saw a play,
Prague and New York City, 1977
there is an immigrant,
a Czech woman in a surreal dream
wanting the freedom to express herself,
to be an artist,
we hear the folksongs of her friend, Marek,
he was arrested for singing them,
a bird-woman goddess,
she who existed before the Thunder God,
shows the immigrant woman,
what?
Her past?
Her possible future?
Men with pig faces,
followers of the Thunder God,
builders of walls,
conquerors of women,
they exist everywhere,
must we adapt,
live our secret lives within a police state,
a surreal dream
for the immigrant,
what will freedom bring,
What happens when the walls are torn down?
What is the American dream?
Is it a cautionary tale
that anyone can become the president—
cowboy, actor, failed businessman?
Perhaps their time is numbered.
We walked past a rally for the current president,
in the neighborhood where men gathered
over two hundred years ago
to give them that right to protest
in secret hearings
closed to the public,
they crafted a body of law,
then explicitly added others,
free speech,
freedom of the press,
I am thankful to live in a place where the president’s supporters have the right
to gather with signs and make speeches–
though I disagree with their views–
and will use my own voice to protest against hate and ignorance
to sing out
against oppression when I can,
but like a bird woman,
I will celebrate the world, too–
we all need a pop of color on a dreary day,
daffodils in the rain
and secret gardens.
*Thanks to Robin of Breezes at Dawn for the reminder about this quotation.
The Oracle gave me the magnetic poem that was perfect for the day.
We saw the play, Adapt, a world premiere by Blanka Zizka at the Wilma Theater. We saw the movie The Sense of an Ending.
Moon needs music,
recalling in honey’d language
like smooth chocolate
the sea symphony she wants still,
watching with sweet crush
shining beauty from above,
over dreams–
there–
in purple shadow time
Guillermo Gómez Gil, “Moonrise,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
A poem for the full moon. The Oracle was not in the mood for poetry yesterday, but she came through today.
