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.
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.”
