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
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
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
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, 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.
Say how spring soars pink-winged
after the storm,
and moonlight whispers dreams
of if
we could or never did,
we urged the sky, believed the lies
of roses. The forest screams
under clouds of rust,
and we must boil water
again
there are no more gardens or birds–
here the red-breasted man flies
and then is still
beneath the blue, endless as time
recalling the diamond sparkle above
is long dead, yet seen and heard,
like the fiddle’s aching notes, a reminder
of sorrow and beauty,
when spring sang in pastel notes of joy
and raised green tendrils to embrace the world.
My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. Yesterday we had a beautiful spring day. Now it’s raining, and we’re expecting some snow and strong wind gusts. Right now a mockingbird is singing outside my window. And the war in Ukraine continues.🌻 There are many organizations trying to get assistance to Ukraine. Please help, if you can. Here is one list. Here is a link to a book of poetry put together by Annick Yerem available for a donation.
When spring comes
it rustles with wind-sighs
raking debris, lifting blood-red leaves,
sifting sand for life
beneath trees,
between stones,
yellow flowers bloom
following the sun, as we do, in expectation
of magic, a breath from the sky
to banish air thick with grey, to return
blue-winged, pink-tipped,
shedding golden feathers–
in that light almost-love
as it kisses the lingering ice, transforming it—
and if the steel and concrete world devours,
still the birds sing in echoes of the stars,
recalling the once bright, now fallen,
while peace, a wandering vine, twines,
unnoticed but anticipated, like a secret
waiting to be revealed in the blush of chagrined dawn
after the charcoal clouds clear,
swept by cerulean
again.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. As always, she knows what’s going on.
A Time for Everything
There’s a time for wind and storms
that blow and beat and will not stop
for ships at sea
and stars above—or me—
but spring whispers
to get the garden dressed,
cast off the dun, and wreath
the ground in yellow green
as honeyed shine make petals pop
and robins hop to sing
in answer to the murmur from beneath.
Now, even as the black-clouds scream,
the fiddle sounds from rooftop wings
the argent light of midnight moon
to hum in sync until pink-petaled bright
the dawn comes slight–yet still
we ask if peace will wake
and the wind answers,
almost always, in the after.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. The poem was not inspired by the song Turn, Turn, Turn, but it went through my head after I wrote it and was reading it over. Of course, the Oracle knows everything.
In the space between
the dark leaf-fall of night
and frosted dawn,
an ancient bird flies
a path between flower-clouds
and thick-breathed river,
whose milk-chocolate beach listens
to the fiddle-wind whispers
of the coming storm.
Here, we wait
for honeyed shots of light
and perfumed peace,
and if we can recall
how seasons cycle
blood red sinking into cool blue
diamond prisms and shadows play–
then we know the language of dreams —
where an ancient bird flies
beneath twinkling glow
skimming the surface
between yesterday and tomorrow.
The Oracle made me work for this one. Perhaps she senses how everything seems unsettled.
The after-sky dreams red
a thousand times,
sings fiddle-sweet as bitter black is cast away
again
light me with color-song–
a thousand blues together,
the river murmurs
over and over
and honey-tongued earth breathes green.
And if ghosts come
with their fevered night secrets,
they vanish in caramel clouds
and champagne breezes laugh
to scatter pink-petaled magic
like smiles in morning light.
Last night it got very windy, but this morning is warm for February–about 50F when I got up. But, we’re supposed to have rain turning to snow after midnight tonight. Sigh. The Oracle knows all this, of course. The world is very strange right now, but even crazy truckers and conspiracy spreaders can’t stop spring from coming eventually.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
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