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.
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.
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.)
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.
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 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.
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.