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.
Dream in shadowed whispers
of could–
there the rose petals are shot with honey
and a blue sea plays a symphony on the rocks.
The moon sings to you
of if and time
and a thousand sleeps–
the music of death and life over again
My message from The Oracle today.
and a girl said
through a shadow,
a mist of raw blood,
drunk friends,
his sweaty smell
fingers at breasts. . .
No!
Stop!
She is thousands.
The storm still ripping,
showing what we are
and what could be.
The moon whispers,
asks us to soar.
Morning Moon
say we dream—
watch the light
spray like water,
sweet music of
wind, rock, and forest.
Sit with me there
in our away and after,
seeing ifs
Two poems from the Oracle. She is following the news.
“There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time. Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional moments and most of the time we are ageless.”
–Milan Kundera
Art and music travel through our genes, stopping at some destinations longer than at others, like the train our older daughter takes from Washington, D.C. after visiting archives at the Smithsonian. She takes hundreds of photos of sketch books, correspondence, diaries, and newspaper clippings of our artist ancestor, Abraham Hankins. She shows me newspaper articles—how his mapmaking skills saved his life in France during WWI because he was left behind to draw maps when the rest of his unit was sent into battle and killed. He also trained as a singer, until gassed during the war, and apparently, he wrote some poetry, too. But my daughter becomes even more fascinated by his French wife Estelle, called Esther by my family. After Abe’s death, Estelle makes it her mission to get her late husband’s work into major museums. There is still much to learn, and most of the people who lived then are gone. It is my mom’s ninety-sixth birthday.
skipping stones hit pond
concentric circles ripple
spring turns to summer
Abraham P. Hankins,
Pocket Full of Dreams,
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, Bequest of Mrs. Abraham Peter Hankins
We celebrate my mom’s birthday in sunshine with shades
munch on snacks, laughter cascades
as we discuss pets and art and politics
with eyes rolling—intermixed–
as my niece describes her “other family,” with their alternate truth—
if only we could blame it on the folly of youth—
but salacious tales about the Clinton’s gleaned from right-wing memes,
treasure troves of garbage carried by the false fact streams
they insist it’s true,
what does one do?
We move on to sandwiches and cake
blow out the candles, make
each moment count, and we laugh, dance, and sing—
it’s in our genes, so let’s bring
it on in celebration of familial love
rock the ghosts from rafters above
and around, perhaps they watch from some place–
that shadow there, across your face.
The weekend is full with movies, puppies, and wine
we dance, laugh, eat, drink—feeling fine
My mom tells us that Abe asked her mother to sing with him at a family gathering. She says her mother had a beautiful voice, but that my uncle, my mom’s baby brother, cried when their mother sang, so she stopped singing. I had forgotten, she says, but now I remember some of those songs she taught me. Songs of the shtetl that crossed the ocean. We, the grandchildren never learned the songs. I like to think though that no song is ever lost. Each note rises. Birds carry some, and others float high into the sky filling the clouds. I think that is why I hear music in the rain, and why rainbows sing, and the moon hums. We are filled with star music, and it returns again and again to us. Music flits like spindrift from the waves of time.
Stars sail ink-black seas,
cat against me softly snores,
dreams dance to moon song
The hot weather breaks for a bit. I open a window and hear the crickets chirping, searching for love in the darkness. Do they sense the future? Do they know that the nights will soon grow longer and colder? Autumn with its lengthening shadows always makes me feel wistful and a touch melancholy.
Darkness seems to be growing like a massive thundercloud shadowing the earth, and the shadow creatures are climbing from their murky lairs. Yet after every storm, I search for a rainbow. The light is always there, but we don’t always see it. The crickets chirp, even if we’re not listening. The poet pens a verse, even if no one reads it.
opaque skies glower
Harvest moon, hidden, still hums–
vixen cocks her head
I saw this story about a rainbow.
This Haibun is for dVerse, where Victoria asked to use cricket (in Japanese Koorogi) as a prompt.
I’m also linking this to Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for sad and write.
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.
