So Long, Farewell

So Long, Farewell

We want water and light,
but harmony, too—

not a storm, rain, with petrichor
and glimmering diamond drops after

the sun rises berry-bright and robins and sparrow
breath a rainbow of song, but

if—when–a storm comes
like a drunken lout knocking down
everything before him,

then what? This is the murmur
I hear from the river and in the wind,

in squirrel chatter and blue jay squawks—

to the deep roots and the bees hovering
on that sweet wild path

to nowhere,
asking to sleep in frost and wake in spring–

the cycles that we almost recall.

I seldom write climate change poems, but one doesn’t argue with the Oracle. She’s certainly aware of all the wild fires, and the recent storms in Kentucky and St. Louis.

Behold what blossoms

Odilon Redon, “The Muse on Pegasus”

Behold what blossoms

Men stormed and crushed what was
beauty died in a thousand deaths.
Do you recall?
The TV elaborated in detail,
lingering, a voyeur at the window
savoring sweat and blood.

We waited for the aliens to come,
to connect, to repair our corrupted hard drive,
to find the correct interface—
a galactic effort
to find the lost password
stored in a safe, but unknown location.

The stars whispered,
and I caught the thoughts,
planted them like seeds
and when the flowers bloomed,
I placed them in vases,
to light the dark corners of the world.

The moon sang a symphony
as she soared higher and higher–
first the trees noticed
silver drifting up from swaying boughs,
then birds, and then dolphins and whales,
but we slept on.

After the dream-ships sailed into shadows,
dawn came
as if the goddess, delirious, and drunk on joy
sprayed peach champagne onto the clouds
to drip and puddle on the river’s surface,
and time flows on. Behold, what blossoms.

I really struggled to get a poem from the Oracle this morning. I finally ended-up with this cadralor.

Repeated History

Marc Chagall, Death

Repeated History

In this place,
the mothers speak a bitter, blooded language,
their whispers of why carry through forests
and over mountains to the cool blue seas
they can only picture

but imagine following clouds
in sublime harmony, as if the air breathed

at night they listen for the moon’s song
as she recalls light–

it is there
somewhere in time,
above, beneath, around, floating like
the fiddler’s tune, leading them to sanctuary
in a bright bird-dawn.

The Oracle’s Original set gave me words of doom and violence (but also the moon, fiddle, and light), while the nature set, gave me words of peaceful beauty. Both sets gave me “if.” I thought of Ukraine as I began writing, but also what is going on all over the world as authoritarian rule is growing, and how such things have happened over and over again.

Unanswered Questions

Marc Chagall, “The Fiddler,” 1912

Unanswered Questions

If hearts can feel joy,
why do theirs not wish it for all?
Tiny objects full of fear, they trust fake wizards,
sing of better times in out-of-tune voices,
and wait endlessly for their gardens to bloom.

Like a dream,
the fiddler plays and the rain stops—
is he man or god?
If the moon shines through the mist,
and the sun lights the sky at dawn, does it matter?

Imagine a bee buried in a frosted world,
would it wake to buzz through fertile fields
in some ever-after cycle of bright blue, gold, and green
to hear the grass rustle and birds sing—
what if?

The Oracle kept giving me stanzas that were separate but not different enough to be a Cadralor. I think these three stanzas work together though.

Infinite, Alternate Ifs

The Kiss – Gustav Klimt

Infinite, Alternate Ifs

What if peace came
from the storms, or fell
gently, like spring rain,
would we welcome it,
or squirrel-scamper to treetops
to watch and scold?

  1. The woman gazes in the mirror,
    all her selves are there
    stretching back, leaning forward
    in an endless line. She wonders
    what they know, what they remember.

Stun me with bytes,
we interface by chance in chaos theory,
here the migration of people, there a spark–
if streams from many sources
in our multiverse.

Now ask how the moon chants
for thousands of years,
or how the fiddler plays, echoing the stars—
it is the loneliness of souls
seeking others.

Once a boy asked, and a girl said yes–
arm in arm and heart to heart
hours passed, then days and years
a rhapsody, a waltz–and syncopated beats
aligned in a steady march together. This way, home.

I’m posting yesterday’s poem from the Oracle. It was our wedding anniversary, and the Oracle gave me this cadralor. It’s an odd love poem, but I suppose that fits us–and this week. I don’t know why WP thinks #2 should be indented.

I hope Mr. Knight will be pleased with the ifs. 😏

Unanswered Questions

Unanswered Questions

Come honeyed light,
time runs through un-tongued songs
of being, now a wind symphony,
later a pulsing hum of the moon.

You feel the cycles turn, robin summer
and peacock blue become swan white, sky and river
turn to icy mint, your skin tingles.

But who am I?
If storms rip holes in clouds,
is it so that light can follow–

beating darkness like an egg
till it swirls and froths—

and you almost see it–pink, gold, azure, green–
the balance, the harmony,
but the ancient secrets are a murmur,

heard only by trees, connecting.

My poem from the Oracle.


Odilon Redon, Orpheus


Are phasers set to stun or kill?
The world paused or extinguished.
Servers have crashed,
your light is off–
Can you count on the stars?

Listen for them
in the frantic fluff of fiddle-sky,
as a voice sings in the forest,
you want what she wants,
the symphony of the universe.

What if black ship-winds pound
through time, through sleep, through me—
then part?
What if the humming moon sails out over the sea?
This is the interface,

the path of the sublime
where the sky breathes blue soul-breaths
and the earth murmurs with soft leaf rustle
while rivers sigh as dawn blushes–
the secret of harmony not gone.

My poem from the Oracle. I thought she was going to give me another cadralor because the images were all over the place, but when I came back to this after my walk, it all came together.

I am behind of reading posts and comments–just several busy days and a test assignment due. I will catch up. 😊

A Summer Day, on Repeat (with audio)

A Summer Day, on Repeat

When we were young, yet women,
we danced—almost cool—
the universe smiled and breathed
with champagne breath, effervescent,
a symphony of light-sound.

We go about our days
oblivious to the coming storm.
though the wind moans, and
the sky becomes a blackened chimney—
then a chandelier.

Fish leaps, a sparkle and a splash,
green frog with banjo-string-pluck, jumps–
the mayfly darts away.
The pond tastes of anything
can happen, if only, make a wish.

Tech plays with sinister access,
the world wants you to be hard—
perhaps everything must crash.
You open the program,
hit re-set, complete.

Dream diamonds float amidst the rocks—
tiny ships without a compass or chart,
in the after and before,
as time spins, always
she lives in you.

The Oracle gave me an almost Cadralor. Then we went out for a walk in a nature preserve, and when we got back home, I decided to try to make it a true Cadralor. I think. I’m sharing this with dVerse Open Link Night.

And you Follow

Reflection, Odilon Redon

And you Follow

A thousand lies fester
under rocks, spreading like mold

and Death whispers
from a shadowed ship sailing midnight seas–

ask me a secret in the darkness
carried on the lonely wind,

what if this is all?

Ask me again
in the birdsoft blue of day

after the moon has scattered her pearls
across the river’s surface

as the sun now sings,
leading you. . .somewhere–

a path you follow, a choice you’ve made,
seeds to blooms, summer to winter.

My poem from the Oracle.