Who wants to watch the time? The sun whispers, her hot-petaled head sweating light. Together we soar into the beyond. And if I ask about purple storms and darkness, she only sings of golden rays, and if I ask about after, she murmurs of the dawn in rose-colored poetry, trailing a feathered sigh. She is an ancient wanderer. I follow her through shadows not remembering before, only this timeless circling.
The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me most of the words right away today. She may have been watching the eclipse this week.
She asks if the Moon sleeps to dream of diamond after-light sparkling through the storm-swept cosmos?
And if she could stop Time, would she? To hold with aching heart Sun-beauty, to taste the sweetness of summer in rose-petaled glow, and watch purple seas pound the rocks as shadows whisper, this is for the living.
But she sees it all, the blood rust and blood lust, honeyed radiance, and rain falling like laughter. She hears the laughter, she hears the tears– her face remains impassive, but she hums, sometimes gently sometimes fiercely— a thousand nights, a million, they are all the same and each one different.
Today’s poem is a collaboration with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.
She asks if you can see it–the cool blue of time– sprays of rose-pink, leaf-green, cerulean, indigo, and diamond-sprinkled light– a storm-dance of life to the secret songs of stars and the harmony of moon-music—listen– now, the whisper of blood-dreams, and the language of wind and sky, dark voices of decay join bright beams– an exhale– the brilliant breath of the universe, an icy cloud of fever-flowers soars into the after, leaving a trail, ferocious, wild, aching— almost there, dazzled, you ask if this is a beginning or an ending? But she is gone.
The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me a oracle poem. She gave me “ask if” every time I tried it.
Shadows wind through the spring green, recalling winter, they carry the scent of blood and despair driven by lies, the play of elaborate schemes, and delirious dreams and desire blown into the after time,
and I ache, wishing, wondering if I see light, honeyed rays through verdant trees, the pink-petaled spray of hope—
full of ever and always, somewhere my mother is in a garden or gazing at an azure sea,
she takes her brush, erases the storms, the grey-clouded earth, paints bright color on her canvas,
and I wake to birdsong and feathered-wishes diamond bright in the still dark sky.
The Magnetic Poetry Oracle knows everything. The political situation here in the U.S. is quite troubling; Mother’s Day is tomorrow, and it’s spring. We collaborated on this poem.