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.
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.
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.
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.