Soaring

Breathe if—

and let time fly into the fevered brilliance of the sky—
fire and ice, the stars know

the secret of eternity,
ghost-lights sailing in a vast sea,

a dazzling memory,
like a voice, a laugh, a kiss that lingers

from a dream
as you wake, surrendering to the now–

summer now an almost-smile
in the blue-shadowed mist.

Did I cry? Did you—
asking for angels–but

a hero gone
to the ever-after.

The stars know the secrets,
ghosts dancing to the music of the universe,

but closer, I watch the birds by the riverside
catch the wind and soar out of sight.

Vulture over the Delaware at Red Bank Battlefield Park

My message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. It was a struggle today to get a clear message. We have lost a hero. Rest in peace, Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

If I Dream

If I beat away the shadows,
will the moon’s music drift
in a shining spray of silver
to dazzle-dance in haunting rhythms
till the sun wakes—then

if I rise,
languid as a summer day,
will the murky mist shift
to reveal an azure sky, where geese wing
above in raucous celebration of life?

If I ask moon, sun, geese,
will they tell me the secrets
of why and when and nevermore—
of how time is a dream, and how dreamtime flutters
and flits, like leaves in the wind?

If I dream of you,
of laughter flowering,
dropping seeds in my heart
do you grow and bloom–
to live forever?

It took me all day today to visit and get my message from the poetry Oracle. I took the photo this morning. It’s a beautiful day here.

Fairy Tale or Dream?

She sleeps, wishing her black dress gone,
an elaborate gown to take its place,
her hair honey-spun and shiny, the air
rain-scented in a sky washed clean–


(she can almost recall this life)

deeper in her wandering vision,
it’s purple-shadowed forests, chanting
beasts, repulsive, steaming hot and streaming fire–
red clouds against the blue-black sea–

she wants to wake to a magic kiss,
feel desire, sighs “if only,”
and a thousand ghost voices answer, “in time.”
The moon hums

a spray of silver light soars,
she follows, a bird in flight
over a river, spirits murmur in the dawn-glow,
she breathes, inhales secrets–

all the versions of herself, there.
Awakens, or does she?
The wind whispers, “why wait?”
This, then, the after-when.

My message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle today.

John Collier, The Sleeping Beauty.

Watching the Breakers

Bitter at after, done with
his red rose lies revealed–
ripping her raw,
till she became wind, water–
a purple storm surging,
crashing on the rocks

~in shadowed mist~

dreams are created,
embracing all the ifs
born of hope—or despair—lingering
like the caress of the sea
in the touch of a salt breeze, recalling
what once was and the words that would never be said.

My message from the Oracle took some work today, but it finally came through, and then a bit of added inspiration from Winslow Homer. Thanks to Jane Dougherty for sharing a fix for the formatting.

Almost: Before or After

Are we almost at after?

The lies of fevered fools still fly high,

fiddling as the world burns, aches, screams

and shadow figures whisper more and faster

the ferocious fight for air,

for a breath

you listen for if in the poetry of rose-tipped dawns,

when the sky smiles through clouds in bird-voiced joy,

here the scent of coffee, a cat at the window

gazing at the light of beyond, and maybe

there will be more

words

of peace

of perfumed breezes from blue-green oceans

of brilliant color in the darkness,

the echo of star-music, whose rhythm beats in our hearts,

recalling the before.

Today’s message from the Oracle. A double-puente, I suppose. I can’t get the spacing right.

Is it All?

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Vincent van Gogh, Starry Night Over the Rhone

 

Is it all

a dark dance? Fools laugh

from a vast

emptiness—

hearts or brain? I remember

stars’ light lingers long–

 

time’s magic

seen after it’s gone–

heart’s-fire,

black-erased,

loss and embraced balanced, moon-

aches and pink roses

 

beneath a blue sky–

both ifs existing

in time and

in dreams, we

soar through diamond-sprayed skies, sing

with stars. Shine, reborn.

 

 

My message from the Oracle in a Shadorma sequence, also for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday challenge. 

 

 

 

 

Beneath the Storm Clouds

 

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Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield

Beneath the storm clouds

purple mist shrouds the horizon,

as cool winds blow away summer dreams

to rain into the ocean, vast and timeless

leaving a breath of perfume

 

~drifting in the air~

 

pink fish fly, and you wonder what if,

as you watch the sun with his dazzle-tongue

paint gold across a fresh blue canvas,

while diamonds sparkle on ruby-red petals,

ephemeral jewels—a smile remembered.

 

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Another puente from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She knows about the storms here, of course. Every day the sky seems to go from grey to blue to grey again. We’ve been fortunate–all around us, people have lost power and faced flooded homes, roads, and business. Last night though, the storm got a bit scary with lots of thunder and lightning and a tornado warning.

What Then?

 

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Above the Clouds at Sunrise, Frederic Church

 

Some days are like a drunk goddess

in delirious abandon

 

toppled her glass,

sending red and pink streams

 

to drift like rose petals amidst

brilliant blues and greens–

 

until the clouds gather in grey-browed fury

and the sea roars,

 

~what then,~

 

sings the universe,

what comes next?

 

What will your ferocious heart

celebrate

 

as time dances

through if and when–

 

will you remember the slow smile of twilight,

the kiss of flower-perfumed air?

 

My message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She likes to mix some humor in her warnings.

Still Soaring

Monday Morning Afternoon Musings:

 

Between the misty amethyst

and the brilliant blue—there’s a pause

in the morning’s soft pink music, a rest

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Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield, National Park, NJ, shortly after sunrise. July 2020 ©️ Merril D. Smith 2020

 

before the restart of staccato cardinal chirps,

the flute of robin trills,

and the crescendo of crow caws

 

burst through the feathered clouds,

with the bright blue of belonging—

here and now

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Delaware River, West Deptford, NJ. ©️Merril D. Smith, 2020

 

I walk

along the day’s determined path,

yet debating

 

both path and determined,

the ifs, whens, and whys

of going further, beyond

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I found an almost hidden path.

to find something else

hidden

like words within

 

waiting to be spoken.

 

“Eat chocolate,” my sisters say,

and share the thought of our mother’s laugh

echoing from the past,

 

flowing like a river through time,

all the versions of me and you,

the world

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in both the radiance of the sun

and the silvery shimmer of the moon,
pale blue and green,

 

and when I wish upon the ghost glow

of a thousand stars

I feel the dust of dreams

 

within and without,

as feathers fly from the sky

to land at my feet in trails of white light

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silent, at rest,

here, now

bits of something larger, still soaring.

A late edition of my Monday musings. I think Jane and I challenged each other to use the Love set of tiles from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. The Oracle and I once again collaborated, with more inspiration from my morning walks.

I’ve been baking with summer fruit, but I do indeed have a chocolate stash.

 

Merril’s Movie Club: We watched Radioactive (Amazon Prime, 2020), a new movie about Marie Curie. I wanted this to be wonderful, but it wasn’t. It was OK, but she was such a brilliant woman, and this, sadly, is not a movie that shines. We also watched Straight Up(Netflix), a sort of rom com where a young man who may be gay, but isn’t sure, finds his soul mate is a woman. It was enjoyable, but not great.

So we went back to darker stuff: we started watching Bordertown, a Finnish series on Netflix. So far, it’s very good. I like “Scandi-noir,” and shows that explore family life as well as the crimes.

 

 

 

 

 

The Blue of New Beginnings

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Flowers seen during my walk this morning.

 

Flowers almost embrace

the blushing clouds of morning

broken by a kiss of light,

and the blue of new beginnings

lifts the purple shadows

and soars

 

~through an open window~

 

birdsong, music of summer mornings

calls rain, recalls life

in honeyed glow—

dream whispers that linger

in pink sprays, above the trees

the wind sings if, when, now.

 

My message, another puente, from the Oracle. She likes to be a bit enigmatic, but she knew–of course–that I went out for a long walk this morning.