The Recollection of Dreams

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

The Recollection of Dreams

In the picture,
when the music dream-splashes color
and light,
like sea waves against rocks—
we hear storms and whispers
in the red and blue,
feel heartache and love–

and if you must see the sorrow,
also recall the luscious scent of rose gardens
the taste of honey on your lips, a kiss.

My poem from the Oracle. The tile said fiddle, but the image of this Redon painting was in my head, not Chagall.



Odilon Redon, Flowers

Star-birds murmur
with ancient light-breath, and if

they drop a seed–or two—
a rustle in the quiet night
between cycles of moon-song,

it is the thing you almost-saw—but

the flowers are there at bird-dawn

magical, something like love.

There are terrible things happening in the world, but I went walking on a beautiful spring morning, and the Oracle saw that, too.

A Question of Flower Light

A Question of Flower Light

With ferocious blue-shift, the breath
of ghost flowers lights the night
with an eternity of dazzle,
the fire-magic of before time
carried in vast-voiced song
measured in infinite heartbeats, drifts. . .

and if we survive the shadows,
will we wonder why we didn’t cherish this light
that lingers like smoke, like a kiss, like a laugh remembered?

My poem from the Oracle. It took some work today, and the first attempt before my morning walk was much darker. 😏

Déjà Rêvé: NaPoWriMo2022

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

Déjà Rêvé

I dream I dreamt these dreams before,
of crows’ black tildes that punctuate a violet sky
and break the silence as they crocitate—

when time whispers always–and I almost see,
almost know
what the moon sings,

and I wonder if ghosts are the universe remembering
a laugh or a smile
in starlight-dazzle carried on eternity’s breezes.

Since I always visit the Magnetic Poetry Oracle on Saturdays, I also incorporated today’s NaPoWriMo prompt to take a word from Haggard Hawk’s tweets. I chose “crocitate,” which means to caw like a raven and déjà rêvé or “already dreamed.”

Ships of Joys and Sorrow

Odilon Redon, “Flower Clouds

Ship of Joys and Sorrow

We sail a boat beneath a sunny sky,
or drift under the moon, a strange wild song
of wind and wave, and light that asks us why
we sail—from whence–our hearts long to belong.
In lays of sorrow, then in joy, along
a pulse, a strum, gull-winged into the blue
of surf and clouds, joined by star-chirps, old song
blue-shifted, ancient-voiced, spin-drifted true–
the song of dreams, just glimpsed, but named, they sigh
in flutter flashed bright–hope, a dragonfly.

I’ve combined two dVerse prompts for this poem:

from Tuesday’s dVerse, using these three Lewis Carroll titles:
A boat beneath a sunny sky, A strange wild song, Lays of sorrow

Today’s dVerse challenge:
“a 10 line stanza poem (more stanzas permitted of this length)
10 syllables per line
rhyme scheme as per the Decuain or free verse if you’d prefer”

Eye of the Storm

Eye of the Storm

In the center, it’s still,
the roar unheard, the rage unseen,
not illusion– suspension—
cock-eyed sanctuary
within the whirling-armed beast, mercurial and wild—
storms like gods, unpredictable

as wars.
Now radiance of the Sun, Cyclops throws his

becoming Death, justice-blind, sworn to Fate.

A quadrille for dVerse. Eye is the prompt word.

When Spring Comes

Odilon Redon, The Muse on Pegasus

When spring comes

it rustles with wind-sighs
raking debris, lifting blood-red leaves,
sifting sand for life
beneath trees,
between stones,
yellow flowers bloom

following the sun, as we do, in expectation
of magic, a breath from the sky
to banish air thick with grey, to return
blue-winged, pink-tipped,
shedding golden feathers–

in that light almost-love
as it kisses the lingering ice, transforming it—
and if the steel and concrete world devours,
still the birds sing in echoes of the stars,
recalling the once bright, now fallen,

while peace, a wandering vine, twines,
unnoticed but anticipated, like a secret
waiting to be revealed in the blush of chagrined dawn
after the charcoal clouds clear,
swept by cerulean

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. As always, she knows what’s going on.


Odilon Redon, Flower-Clouds

In blue-shadowed light
no men wake this tree, here haunted
with ghost-eyed decay, the ice holds all prisoners

as we wait for the dazzle, fever-fire
and green give eternity, and magic sails
from stars

a vast universe of flower-fish,
a velvet-voiced sea,
if becomes now, as yesterday becomes tomorrow

and after. . .ancient incandescent light,
time’s smoky smile, a laugh that echoes

through black holes
to fly on gulls’ wings
to float on robin song,
an embrace, a lodestar.

I’m watching the snow fall, but the Oracle gave me flower-fish and fever-fire (amongst other words), and I thought of this painting. She understands time and space, and she knows everything is connected. We’re singular and part of something larger. Meanwhile, the snow will melt, the daffodils will bloom, the daisies will giggle as bees brush their petals, and sunflowers will smile, even as leaves begin to turn red, again.

Listen, Recall

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

In early morning hush,
the moon sings farewell,
gelid murmured notes
through white cat-paw clouds

if you listen, recall
light recalls time recalls light,
the ancient ships of night seas
ask when
ask what
you want
from the whispers and pulses
of mother music from earth and sky,

the fiddle, flute, and drums of
wind-beats and tree rustle,
the cardinal chirps and crow caws,
black on red on blue and green, every color
a promise, a warning
of what is and what was.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.

Ingrid at Experiments in Fiction is hosting a Global Assembly on Climate Change. Read more about it here.



Odilon Redon, The Muse on Pegasus

On a long wander, cold-breathed,
I think every spring’s a poet born
as from rain a rose—
yet, if we recall the red petals’ fall

in sun turns and moon cycles,
and after dusk’s berry-glow and bird-light flickers,
the deep song of ancient souls
carried on wind-fiddles–

now wait for light whispers
and the caramel breath of dawn,
a honeyed smile that lingers on treetops
and beneath, the lichen rocks
and moss blankets,

seeds rest,
knowing when to bloom.

My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. It’s cold here today.