When or Ever

John Constable, Stormy Sea, Brighton

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

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

Marc Chagall, La Guerre

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

Odilon Redon, The Muse on Pegasus

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

Franz Marc, “Large Landscape”

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.

The Language of Dreams

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.

February–With Spring in the Air

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.

Ask

John William Waterhouse, The Sorceress

Know if lives in nature’s song—
thick on spring’s rustle

between every breath that comes
verdant and sublime, there was
an almost,
never rooted,
a moon-rose, eggshell fragile—

but ask, ask, ask, she says–
for dreams,
a dance on a long bee-path,
soft blooms of dusk,
a shadow-fiddle
like a lullaby as night’s blanket rests.

Watch, as frost-lichens bloom,
and then color, stone to berry-warm

reflections in ancient rivers–
a murmur, a laugh,
the embrace of sky,

rippling secrets, there and gone.

The Oracle really wanted me to ask today. Every set I looked at gave me that word. Then these lines came, and the poem fell into place.

Lodestar

Odilon Redon, Flower-Clouds

In blue-shadowed light
no men wake this tree, here haunted
with ghost-eyed decay, the ice holds all prisoners

as we wait for the dazzle, fever-fire
and green give eternity, and magic sails
from stars

a vast universe of flower-fish,
a velvet-voiced sea,
if becomes now, as yesterday becomes tomorrow

and after. . .ancient incandescent light,
time’s smoky smile, a laugh that echoes

through black holes
to fly on gulls’ wings
to float on robin song,
an embrace, a lodestar.

I’m watching the snow fall, but the Oracle gave me flower-fish and fever-fire (amongst other words), and I thought of this painting. She understands time and space, and she knows everything is connected. We’re singular and part of something larger. Meanwhile, the snow will melt, the daffodils will bloom, the daisies will giggle as bees brush their petals, and sunflowers will smile, even as leaves begin to turn red, again.

When Shadows Scream

Peder Severin Krøyer [Public domain] “Summer Evening at Skagen beach, the artist and his wife”

If beneath the blue and honeyed light,
we dream of love, and watch
milk-lather waves in tumbling play,

then we can recall those dreams
when shadows scream
and mind-aches sway

our thoughts—
there’s evil about
and cold winds blow, my love,

but there! They sweep the sky
of storms, and blanketed against the air,
we wait for sun-dazzled caramel rays

to cast aside the haunted winter-breath
and with summer-warmth overlay.

The Oracle kept giving me “shadow,” today, and it made me think of the Lady of Shallott,
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.”
And aren’t we all?

“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.” John William Waterhouse