If gods of darkness devour the brilliance of the sun,
and secret sadness lingers long into always—
recall the blush-dance of the vast world waking
to the healing laughter of birdsong
carried on a kiss of blue-sky breath,
and watch the flower-fire dazzle red and pink—
a thousand dreams dreamt, a thousand dreams waiting
for you.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. She knows that my spirits were lifted by seeing signs of spring this week.
if after heart-haunted nights, I ask for light,
then so do the blue-shadowed trees, their whispers
a symphony in my head–
spring waking–a rhythmic poem winged
in exuberant crow-dance,
a promised gift,
carried on diamond-sparkled water.
I ask, I listen, I watch, I believe
stars sing, soaring through time,
reborn in bird and berry, bloomed in rose.
My poem from the Oracle. She made me work a bit, so I gave her the Redon painting. We’ve had snow, sleet, ice, and rain this week, and today the wind is gusting–but the sun is shining, and each day it rises a bit earlier and sets a bit later.
The storm blows black,
and sea screams rise,
urging the moon to cry,
and silver whispers fall
in after-aches,
time sits languidly swimming with ifs–
let it-
sing a song of dreams held fast
in violet light, shining with tiny beats,
the music of stars, sailing on ocean breath
a kiss, a heart-voice,
a window opening.
Today’s message from the magnetic poetry Oracle.
Whispers in the Wind, Part 2
Inside, in fire-glow,
away from the cold, away from snow,
we rested, in a refuge protected,
not safe, but for now undetected
by soldiers–or anyone—
no shouts, no cries, no guns,
no sounds, only the peaceful glow
of firelight, away from snow,
we ate the bread,
and settled there by embers red,
Manya told tales of a wondrous bird,
the golden peacock, and how she stirred
the winds, and carried words
unpinned from time—this magical bird
of wondrous hue, could soar through space,
bring words—or us!– to any place.
And so, we settled in the fire-glow,
away from cold, away from snow—
soon, I dreamt of peacock song, not scream,
coming from a golden gleam,
and there she was with wings so wide
that we could sit, and with her glide
into the sky throughout the night. Somehow, I know
far from soldiers and the snow,
I’ll hug Mama and climb on Papa’s knee,
we’ll be together, you and me,
we’ll watch the she-fishes, by the blue sea,
and we’ll be warm, we’ll laugh with glee
away from cold, soldiers, and snow. Free.
Another narrative poem. Part 1 of this poem (here) was inspired by the art of the ekphrastic challenge. Some readers indicated they wanted more to the story. The Golden Peacock is a symbol in Yiddish folksongs. Peacocks make a sort of screaming sound, but I imagine the Golden Peacock singing, perhaps like a nightingale, only even more beautiful.
I’m linking this to dVerse where Lillian is hosting Open Link Night, even though I’m posting this on Friday morning.
I dream of water–
tiny sea-tongues lick and spray the rocks,
and purple shadows prance;
a sparkle-dance, in blue expanse,
the gulls’ wings in white flutter.
From a red boat,
the laughter floats,
turns clouds to golden-yellow flowers.
And if the wind whispers,
what do you want?
I’d say all this–
and a thousand pink-petalled springs,
the light of peace,
and you.
My collaborative poem with the Magnetic Poetry Oracle and Odilon Redon. The Oracle seems to be in a good mood today.
And in the after-fever, haunts and haunted linger–
but with a beat, the dream ends,
and above my bed, the moon still sings
of time and love, and endless things—
of winter aches and purple storms,
of thousands dead, and the forlorn
recalling spring, mourn the light–
today there will be no rose-pink dawn amidst the shadow-spray,
only grey.
Yet cloud-fingers point, as if to say
behold the way the diamond-sparkle plays
on the ripples there–those other days.
Your heart cries why, your head knows when
the honeyed glow comes,
you’ll see the beauty once again.
My message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. When I looked outside early this morning, I thought, there’s no rosy dawn today. It’s cold and windy, and the sky was full of dark clouds. The Oracle always knows.
She asks the moon when will the storm come–
then sees the sea’s tongue
wind round rocks, licking foam into a lather,
and hears a moan,
the cry of time, the language of misty death
and dreams reborn, whispering
if–
and after the shadows,
a thousand tiny diamonds shine
a spray of light against midnight blue.
She watches the flicker of lustrous wings,
listens for their song.
Today’s message from the Oracle. For those keeping track, the poem came first, but I feel like the Oracle wanted another Redon painting, and I found this one. She probably had it in mind.
After the longest night–
float a barque
on moonbeam seas, sail
past stars, glean
ghost-light of
yesterday, interlace dreams
with glimmered visions–
prophetic
muse! Sing aloud the
birth of sun
from shadow-
world–light candles, flicker-flames
to recall your hopes
barque-breezing,
caught in spindrift. Soar
moon-bound, star
searching, un-
barred, braided with sparkling dreams
to glide heart-sworn home.
Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, so this is a December-flavored shadorma sequence of light and hope for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday challenge using synonyms for Kerfe Roig’s words, mingle and drift. I’m also linking this to dVerse Open Link Night, where Björn is hosting a live event.
Why whisper
life is all about blood
and fiddlers, the beat
of sea symphony rising here or there—
I can recall,
my storm-ached chants— let me
(kiss your lips)
and if–
in some misty when, death has no crushing arm, listen
(for me)–
watch us together, as the moon drips diamonds,
lighting the after-time shadows,
and love sings, summer-pink through our dreams.
Today’s message from the Oracle. She gave me nearly every word.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
William Shakespeare, The Tempest.
We soar past sleep,
stop to eat
the stars—swallow as they glide,
we abide
outside and within–
of such stuff, our dreams begin
to flutter-float, winging high
to fly upon some glittery boat
then with a quivery sigh,
they drift away, whispering goodbye.
A quadrille for dVerse. Lisa is hosting and asks us to use the word, “abide.”
