Moon Secrets

The sea whispers ,not of a thousand deaths
but dreams it aches to recall,
time and star-shine–

covered by a cloud-blanket, it murmurs
again and again,
as fleets of diamond ships
sail across and into tomorrow.

And if I sleep,
perhaps I feel a petal-spray
of moon-breathed secrets
before dawn comes, berry-bright,
to banish them–

yet seeded within, they might yet bloom.

I was disconcerted by the change in the Magnetic Poetry Oracle’s site. There are different categories now for the tiles, and the format has also changed. Nevertheless, she came through (of course). I’ve been having vivid lucid dreams recently. It seems like they are trying to tell me important things that I can’t quite recall when I wake, but I think the ideas are there, just below the surface.

Moon Maiden

^{Evelyn De Morgan, Sleeping Earth, Waking Moon}

From forest to sea, she cries,
I need the moon-–

watch the tides–
if water or blood flows,
she is there, hiding behind clouds
waiting

with rusted tongue
to sing of dreams
that soar through time
on sparkled wings

see them above the garden?
Diamond birds,
whose glistening ghost-kisses
touch your soul, whispering secrets
that you won’t remember when you wake.

My poetry collaboration with the magnetic poetry Oracle. She’s in a dreamy mood today.

Beclouded

Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield, July. ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

Does the fiddler recall the shadows or sun?
Dreams of a sweet peach sky, or
the languid light of in-between
almost,
~and if~
you ache for sea and diamond night,
feel it in the chill wind’s tongue licking your cheek,
and the whisper of its ancient song
across a thousand miles and worlds.

My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. She obviously knows what is going on everywhere, and most of the words came from her. The photo is from my walk this morning. It is cooler today after the thunderstorms yesterday, and we might get more today.

In this June

If in the whisper of sea,
the rolling rush and breathy brush of storm-tossed waves,
kissing the shore,
you dream of moon-song,
then wake to hear the symphony of light lingering–
take my hand, in the peach-petaled sun-glow,
to walk through shadows,
there beneath the craggy cliffs
still heart-haunted, the universe rests—yet–
listen. Do you hear summer sing?
Through open windows, ghosts soar
embracing hereafter, as flowers bloom again,
as love blooms again, as the sky blooms pink and red—again
and again, and again.

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. It’s been a long, difficult year, and Covid with new variants is still here, but with vaccinations, the world–at least my part of the world–is opening up again. The Oracle always knows. We had a beautiful day yesterday, though we didn’t go to the beach this year. (There will be photos on Monday.)

Moon-Mad and Dreams

Ilya Repin, “What Freedom!” Wikipedia Commons

Moon mad, what were we to do
but urge our dreams through
timeless sprays of diamonds?
The shadowed sea whispered
as if sending a song soaring

~bird-winged, delicate, but infrangible~

like love, I say,
both storms and spring rain—
there do you smell it?
Petrichor and roses, salt and rust
carried on a fiddle beat from here to hereafter.

Our wedding anniversary is coming up, and the Oracle gave me a puente for it. The first three lines are exactly what she gave me, and then we collaborated for the rest.

Sun-Follower

Odilon Redon, “Béatrice”

Who wants to watch the time?
The sun whispers, her hot-petaled head
sweating light. Together we soar into the beyond.
And if I ask about purple storms and darkness,
she only sings of golden rays,
and if I ask about after, she murmurs of the dawn
in rose-colored poetry, trailing a feathered sigh.
She is an ancient wanderer. I follow her through shadows
not remembering
before, only this timeless circling.

The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me most of the words right away today. She may have been watching the eclipse this week.

Questioning the Moon

Odilon Redon, Beatrice

She asks if the Moon sleeps
to dream of diamond after-light sparkling
through the storm-swept cosmos?

And if she could stop Time,
would she?
To hold with aching heart
Sun-beauty, to taste the sweetness of summer
in rose-petaled glow, and watch purple seas pound the rocks
as shadows whisper, this is for the living.

But she sees it all,
the blood rust and blood lust,
honeyed radiance, and rain falling like laughter.
She hears the laughter, she hears the tears–
her face remains impassive, but she hums, sometimes gently
sometimes fiercely—
a thousand nights, a million,
they are all the same and each one different.

Today’s poem is a collaboration with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.

All the Echoed Whys

^{Vincent van Gogh, “Starry Night Over the Rhone,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons}

All delirious and bitter,
whispers in blue-shadow light—
“needs must,” she says,
the TV on, urging their mad dreams
of what if—

But after,
when the lathered red lust is over,
and death chants crushed,
who recalls us?
Through mist, I watch the moon—sleep, sing, shine.
And as the fiddler sprays a thousand diamonds into the sky
they soar, time-aching with echoed whys.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. This time, she really gave me everything (except echo). She obviously knows what’s going on in the world.

Chants and Beats

Marc Chagall, Le Violiniste Bleu (The Blue Fiddler)

Moonlight kisses the sea
an almost embrace, whispering if
but for the shadows of time in the cool blue—

through the brilliant champagne clouds
light wakes those who ache,
heart-haunted
asking for flower-breath breezes,
born in the blush of star-fire,
the rhythmic poetry of earth and sky
laughing—

I dream of honeyed words, drifting
like rose petals, the fiddler surrounding us with magic,
as the sky smiles a secret, and in the flutter of a wing,
we forget and remember and forget

the beat of before, the chant of after,
the song of forever and always.

The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me this poem today.

A Vision

She asks if
you can see it–the cool blue of time–
sprays of rose-pink, leaf-green,
cerulean, indigo, and diamond-sprinkled light–
a storm-dance of life to
the secret songs of stars and
the harmony of moon-music—listen–
now, the whisper of blood-dreams,
and the language of wind and sky,
dark voices of decay join bright beams–
an exhale–
the brilliant breath of the universe,
an icy cloud of fever-flowers soars
into the after,
leaving a trail, ferocious, wild, aching—
almost there, dazzled,
you ask if
this is a beginning or an ending? But
she is gone.

The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me a oracle poem. She gave me “ask if” every time I tried it.