I dream of huge white blossoms flaming and shooting off petals into the sky, turning it dark with flowery ash. Wondrous and a bit terrifying, this puzzle of my mind.
Moon silvers the trees,
green leaves pale in midnight glow—
dreams waiting to bloom
Anonymous, Südländische Ideallandschaft bei Mondschein, [Public Domain] via Wikipedia Commons
A Haibun quadrille for dVerse. Mish has asked us to use the word “puzzle,” or some form of it, in a quadrille, a poem of 44 words.
The moon,
gorgeous gown’d
waxes at sea
on a bed of water.
Some say, she will swim,
then soar,
but I smell rain,
my feet rocked,
chanting wants,
honey music
of skin and sweat—
and you heed my moans–
the storm–
so, sleep
in the mists of time.
Félix Ziem, “The Call of the Sirens,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
A Saturday morning visit to the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. I’m not sure if I should feel empowered or forewarned.
Black storm rose coolly–
day was yet springing up light
rain and petals sprayed
the moon asleep, so she soars
dreaming above in blue mist
The rain woke me up early this morning. We’re supposed to get thunderstorms later. As always, the Oracle knows.
Muddle my mind
with syllables that sing
the zing of spring.
(Fevered believer.)
Befuddle me with blackholes and space–
see the moon’s humming face,
timeless, timebound,
her fullness, lost and found.
There the dying star
glowing from afar,
it’s unmuddled light,
clear, still bright.
Morning Moon
A quadrille for dVerse, where De Jackson (aka Whimsy Gizmo) has asked us to use the word muddle.
Moon goddess whispers a shadow
(say it).
Her language is the smooth smell of never–
she aches music,
and shines light in diamond sprays
when we sleep,
a storm,
a delirious symphony of beauty and blood–
urging,
what if. . .?
I’m off prompt for today, the penultimate NaPoWriMo day for this year. I visited the poetry Oracle instead.
No flask, no wine, no book of verse, this night
We reach for stars and moon, seek gleams of light
Hear the silver streams from the humming moon
Time and rhythms flow, in eternal rites
Upon the sand, waves pitch and break and roar
While spindrift flicks in salted breeze to shore
And you with me, now standing hand in hand
Watching the sea, waiting for dreams, and more.
Ilya Repin, “What Freedom”
I’m off prompt for today’s NaPoWriMo challenge. I took bits of yesterday’s NaPoWriMo poem and tribute line from Omar Khayyam’s famous verse for this attempt at a Rubaiyat for Frank Hubeny’s challenge on dVerse.
Once–
or more
(perhaps a dream that’s come before)
in the silver-glimmered light
the owl soared—
flash of white–
her cry echoing
(echoing)
in the night,
waking the sleeping to the tune
of the luminous, waxing, humming moon—
and so, they prance, dance–
as if in a trance
(or maybe not)
they mark their spots,
perhaps a play
to keep the evil ones at bay
like foxes against the hounds–
they stand their ground
Final stand?
Here–
hear
the sounds
the susurrus of this enchanted ground
magic swirls,
unfurls in unsuspected streams–
unless seen within a dream–
but in the rose-tipped dawn
the golden fawns gambol
on a world pristine,
alive,
breathing,
reborn newly green.
I liked today’s NaNoWriMo prompt—to “write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur.”
Chiliads of dazzling dreams
dart and dash with lightning gleams,
fly from souls in darkest night
join in dance until the light.
Circling, soaring they fly high
(you might see them in the sky)
there–around the humming moon—
they waltz. . .but are gone too soon.
Frank has asked us to write a tanaga for dVerse.
Blue moon sings,
she chants our dreams—some
elaborate—
we sleep, and
they swim, scream, rock, winding through
who you are and why. . .
when all is
smooth beauty over
languid seas,
will you cry–
wanting a diamond, not pleased
by luscious language. . .
raw whispers
of rainstorms springing
the garden,
as water
licks the petals, showing us
what is. . .if only
The Oracle gave me an interconnected shadorma chain. Is that a thing? It is now. I just saw there is supposed to be a blue moon at the end of the month, when hopefully, we will actually have spring. The Oracle knows!
I’m linking this to dVerse Open Link Night.
“For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”
–James Baldwin, Nothing Personal
“they remember that autumn worked
until the barrels were filled with wine
and let the obscure man learn,
in the ceremony of his business,
to remember the earth and his duties,
to propagate the canticle of the fruit.”
–from Pablo Neruda, “Ode to Wine” (Full poem here. )
The moon shines brightly–
full-faced, gleaming,
whispering. . . spring is coming–
she beams, she’s humming
a tune for us to drink by.
Spinach-Mashed Potato and Cheese Hamantaschen
Hamantaschen!
For time passes, the seasons fly,
with wine, on this holiday of topsy-turvy fun
the uncertainty of life, a king could kill his wife
another could save her people
the sometimes-thin line between good and evil,
the need to look for joy when we can
(age-old questions of when things began)
generations come and go,
a brilliant moon becomes clouded with snow
nothing is fixed or forever,
the light comes and goes,
and time flows
Between glowing moon and the nor’easter
we visit my mom, bring food and wine, hear stories from her
of grandparents and cousins, people from the past,
and though none of us lasts
we live on through records and tales
some though are lost, absent, adrift
but still we try to make sense, sifting
through the flotsam of time and dreams
(sometimes nothing is as it seems)
and my mother laughs as we sit and talk
not able to see much of what’s about her
but seeing in her mind, the things that were
as the light comes and goes
and time flows
(like the wine)
nothing is fixed or forever
The beaming moon is shaded by clouds
covering the stars like shrouds–
on this day, the sun stays away
as frosted gusts wail and blow
and back to winter we’re forced to go
the birds retreat, sheltering in bending trees,
and the world around us sighs in deep freeze
the house creaks and branches fall
(my husband will later haul them all)
then the clouds will part, the sun will rise
and spring winds blow over melted snow
good and bad are always mixed
because nothing is forever or fixed
We hear about wine-making–
the canticle of the fruit
the cultivation of vine, and at the root
the importance of the grapes,
how the workers traipse
tasting and picking,
Mother Nature can’t be rushed,
work to be done before grapes are crushed
though time is ticking, through the sorting and picking
we hear the story over time, sipping and tasting wine
about the couple who moves from city to farm
(he speaks well, with warmth and charm)
Scott, Co-owner of Auburn Road Vineyards
praising the winemaker, his wife,
who is instrumental in the success of this life,
science and intuition, mixed with a bit of luck,
requiring the cleaning from vats of the muck
we also learn, the importance of the bottling truck.
and so, we taste, and drink, and savor
enjoying wine and pizza (a new flavor!)
Ravello Wood-Fired Pizza, operates within the winery
knowing that nothing is fixed to remain forever the same
the moon glows and sets, the sun rises and flames
in the morning we see clouds like waves on the sea
I hear the robin sing, waiting to see what is—
and what will be.
We did a “wine tour” at Auburn Road Vineyards in Salem County, NJ. Reservations are required.
Also–I absolutely loved The Shape of Water, which one best picture last night at the Academy Awards, and last week I wrote about A Fantastic Woman, which won Best Foreign Film. I also liked that one very much.
