Moon murmurs an air,
glimmering in the gloaming,
shining through the shade
inside, we sit together,
wine, cats, the glow of a lamp
For Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday. I think writing a tanka is difficult, but one about the moon seems appropriate, since there will be a full moon on Friday night.
“Earthrise” Taken by Apollo 8 crewmember Bill Anders on December 24, 1968
A sea
but no water,
a desert place,
a silvered space–
could it ever feel tranquil?
In solitude, we kick
no dust
no cloud forming
no sunrise warming
but the blue planet
dawning
over a curved horizon–
surprising, stirring,
yet insignificant—
except to us.
Lillian has asked us to write a quadrille (a poem of 44 words) using the word tranquility or some form of the word for dVerse. I love the word, though I haven’t felt too much tranquility lately. Yesterday afternoon, the Oracle whispered “Sea of Tranquility” to me.
We sail the night sea in our silvered ark. We’re refugees with lives programmed by machines that tell us when it’s day or night. On the observation deck, I can see the distant light of faraway stars, beckoning but elusive, like dream fragments remembered as you wake. Somewhere out there is our destiny–yet I’m haunted by the memory of sunshine streaming through the trees and the sound of birdsong on a summer day. Sometimes I hear the crash of waves in the constant humming of machinery, and I can almost taste the salt of ocean breezes.
Last night I dreamt I was the moon. I looked down and cried for Earth, gone forever.
At dVerse, we’re trying something new: a flash fiction piece of 144 words or less based on a line taken from a poem. We’re calling it prosery. Sarah has offered us this wonderful line, “Last night I dreamt I was the moon” from Alice Oswald’s “Full Moon.”
Thomas Chambers, “Storm-Tossed Frigate”
She sings a storm,
crushing the ship,
the sweet delirious blue
of sea moaning a raw lathered beat.
And then the moon’s smooth beauty
dresses the sky with light. . .
and if licks these rocks
(lazy-tongued) through purple mist
I visited the Oracle yesterday, but I didn’t have a chance to post. If you’re keeping track–I did a few word shuffles, but “if” showed up right at the beginning.
The morning moon hummed fiercely today in the heat. I will be staying inside and taking work breaks to read Issue 2 of Black Bough Poetry, “Lux Aeterna” –Eternal Light. It is filled with tributes to Apollo 11–breathtaking poems and wonderful artwork. Please do take a look.
I am thrilled to have two poems in this issue, “Moon Landing” and “Dark Matter.” Thank you to editor Matthew M C Smith (no relation, though my husband has some Welsh ancestry. . .) for selecting my poems and for editorial suggestions on “Dark Matter.”
These are the grown puppies mentioned in “Moon Landing”–a bit blurred, like a memory.
In honeyed light
time whispers if. . .
Is it about
cool forest beauty
and purple mist,
the music of water and wind?
Or is it
the language of sky-shine and
watching through the storms?
Aching moon recalls it all,
yet sings.
Somehow “if” and “moon” insisted on making an appearance. On July 20, 1969, astronauts from Apollo 11 walked on the moon. There has been a lot of attention given to the fiftieth anniversary of this event. Perhaps the Oracle is remembering, too.
“Legacy, what is a legacy?
It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see”
From Lin-Manuel Miranda, “The World Was Wide Enough,” Hamilton
All ghosts linger–
they sail on secret rhythms,
brilliant in the joy
they celebrate
floating beyond
the melancholy twilight,
blushing in time’s embrace,
they laugh the poetry of morning
and cry midnight’s anguished tears.
***
Legend says—
at Yorktown, the British played
“The World Turned Upside Down”
But now
let’s sound the truth–
(facts unknown back in our youth)
of the airports there
and the rockets’ red glare
over forts that didn’t yet exist
People believe, they twist
facts to follow ignorance
a delightful dance
enhanced
by putting down others
smothering new thought
we say, we ought
to do this or that
and debate
ideas reborn, the hate
lingers, like ghosts
unfurl the blue, white, and red
we eat, well fed
find comfort and ease
with old friends,
no worries to please
they accept me
as I dance, don’t flee,
smile to see another side
of me (I sometimes hide)
well maybe it’s the drink
(very pink)
but doubtful, I think
since I danced around my kitchen
making ratatouille, listening
We’ll tell the story of tonight. . .
or we’ll forget
no regrets
in memories fragmented
by time segmented
the ghosts linger
like dreams
my mom tells, unreal,
but she feels
somehow, they appeal
false stories
in strange categories
one day weak
the next lucid, painting
no straining, no waning
her truth, her art
from her heart
that her eyes can’t see
she’s free in creating,
though it’s frustrating
for her and us
the ghosts linger, discuss
in whispers
we sisters fret
regrets,
but let’s
just do this
on another day, we’re fine
homemade pizza and wine
Stranger Things
the Upside Down brings
relief, as believable
not inconceivable
in this crazy world,
where conspiracies unfurled
believed as fact
impossible to retract
swirling in tornado winds
we wait to see what sunshine brings
a new day
a new way
yet the ghosts linger in
morning laughter
midnight’s tears
all the ever afters
of joy and fears
future on past climbs–
we see the light
of stars long dead,
still traveling through time
in sparkling trains go, come
and still, a legacy
(enduring beyond)
the moon, she hums.
Another strange week with presidential lunacy amidst his narcissistic parade, storms alternating with sunshine–and some quality time spent in the basement during a tornado warning! My mom is perfectly fine one minute, and totally not the next. We watch the new season of Stranger Things (still a couple episodes to go) on Netflix, but sometimes feel like we’re already living in the Upside Down.
No mere shining rock to beat so–
she sings
of life, lust,
the language of spring-mad
and if
waxing there
through blue rain- shadowed mist—
When I cry why?
Moon says, “I am music.
Sleep sweetly
as I play
light-spray of storm and sky.”
Poem from my Saturday morning visit to the Oracle.
“My heart is a shadow,
a light and a guide.
Closed or open…
I get to decide.”
From Corinna Luyker, My Heart
“The people you love become ghosts inside of you, and like this you keep them alive.”
–Robert Montgomery See a photo of his text installation here.
Yet who whispers
in the summer-sweet night,
where the smell of storms lurk?
There beneath the diamond sky
shadows dance
to the music of life
and death
pants just beyond the light
in the wind-spray of time.
***
I walk by the river park
baby geese and vultures
side-by-side, stark
reminders of life and death
cycles like after harsh
winter, spring’s soft breath
caresses mind and soul
and somehow—
we want it all,
all the magic of water and air
the delight of light—
time to spare
to savor the young
remember the laughter
and all the songs sung
and the ones unsung
if we could go back—
trip words from tongue,
forgiveness, remembrance
lost gestures and moments
rearranged in order, some semblance
of what could be
if or when
or what will it be, see
how life circles, the mom me
and she the one needing help
and she doesn’t see
well at all,
her vision diminished
unsteady, the mighty fall.
Once my daughter said to me
“remember when I hiccupped
inside your belly and you laughed?” See—
how do you explain these things?
Circles of life and death
and all it brings.
We try to stop time for a bit
eat pizza, drink wine
time to talk—and just sit
(doing nothing)
We watch a movie of ghosts and art,
a vulnerable woman
she opens her soul, her heart
is shadow-filled, she grieves
sees ghosts,
though she’s not sure she believes
but to create
one has to be open–
the muse, a mysterious state
of being,
perhaps there are spirits
or some other way of seeing
(of being)
There is a place in my heart
where my father lives
and all my ancestors, too, a part
of my what? My essence, my soul,
the me-ness of me
the all-ness of all?
My mother grows old,
but somewhere in time
she is young, in a fold,
a pleat, a wrinkled web
where time-space
flows and ebbs,
and perhaps ghosts call,
walk in shadowed paths
through my heart, they rise and fall–
hear them sigh
as up to the stars
they carry you, me—we fly.
Morning Moon Does Her High Wire Aerial Routine
We watched the movie, Personal Shopper on Netflix. Kristen Stewart is a personal shopper/medium grieving her dead twin brother–there are ghosts and references to the artist Hilma af Klint. I liked it. Watch it with someone because you will want to discuss it. I may have to watch it again. . .
And here is a bonus, if you haven’t heard this version of Paul McCartney’s “Blackbird” translated and sung in Mik Maq. I thought of this last night when I was thinking of birds and ghosts (and not quite dead languages).
She hums a tune of dreams and sighs
set in the wind, and full of whys,
of what could be, if only, when
we saw, we knew the truths of skies
the beauty there, the now, the then,
the things that come and come again–
the oceans’ roar, the lovers’ cries
that rise and fall, the song of wren
that sings of spring and summer blooms
as laughter flies from them to rooms
inside, entwined with windswept song–
those lullabies on silvered plumes
Another Rubaiyat for dVerse, where Lillian is hosting Open Link Night. The first line came to me, so I just continued the meter and form.
