Wild the owl that hoots at night,
wild the fawn that gambols from my sight,
wild the wind that blows from other lands,
and wild the waves that lap the sand,
wild the lightning in the sky—
and wild the thunder echoes. . . asking why?
A rhyming quadrille for dVerse, where Kim has asked us to use the word, “wild.”
Moon Path, Freighter in Distance by Lionel Walden, oil on canvas
The sky held a secret,
and also, the land–
they told it to the birds,
who scattered it on the sand,
the waves swept it seaward,
and dolphins carried it away,
but they sang about it in their songs
until the sun heard them one day.
He sang it to his sister moon
(while on his lyre a-strumming)
and you might learn the secret, too . . .
just listen to the moon’s fierce humming.
I’m having one of those days, and so, I decided I needed whimsy. This is for my secrets prompt on dVerse.
“The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.”
–William Shakespeare, The Tempest
“We all move on the fringes of eternity and are sometimes granted vistas through fabric of illusion.”
–Ansel Adams, Ansel Adams: An Autobiography
Once a star devoured a universe
long haunted by dark clouds
then breathed to wake a new one
~with laughing kisses~
we awoke
though we hadn’t known we slept
or how close we’d been to the edge
~of time, an illusion~
that we cherished then
but now the blue horses prance
and caramel breezes drift from the sea
~carrying past and future~
through the window of time
and beyond. Remembering
what we forget, carrying our dreams.
***
Twenty-nine dead in thirteen hours
the headlines say, we
offer thoughts and prayers, and flowers
of blood bloom on streets and malls.
How tragic, we say
and go about our day
and the death bell tolls
again, and again
and we wonder when
it all will end.
When will we wake
and find a way to send
away the men who profit from hate–
who stoke the fear—
and say what people want to hear,
the lies that trip from poisoned tongues
and damage life, and old and young–
the fringe chorus becomes the loudest sung.
A macrocosm of death surrounds me,
but sheltered in my smaller world
I want to see, to flee, to be
What? I’m not sure,
though there is some allure
to buried heads when all around
is death and dying.
And we laughing, sighing, and crying
as my mother weakens
speaking clearly, or not–
each day different, caught
adrift, she smiles, sleeps
but keeps
on going. Through shallowing deeps
of ocean-mind
that flows in and out,
sweeping the beach to turn about
and leave treasures on the sand.
But fleeing this land
we visit friends,
who offer helping hands
and open hearts
to listen, as we talk
and we eat, then walk
on a summer night,
there’s music and friendship–
sometimes things are right,
sometimes there is light
in the darkness–
the stars twinkle diamond-bright
against the sapphire sea,
and the sun rises, and I see
promise in a day.
We go on our way
to the fringe
and back, we see a play–
OK, perhaps we see six–
(One even had magic tricks)
in this blueberry town,
we walk up and down
the streets, find food to eat,
and clap from our seats
for actors and singers
and our smiles linger
from some.
We avoid the tempest
from our seats inside,
on stories sail and ride.
But it’s fringe,
some need a tinge
more polish, perhaps.
We’ll see what happens
next year–
if, when, we’re here–
as time laps,
racing to the edge
of eternity, with no pledge
of what will be,
there on the fringe
of eternity.
On Saturday and Sunday we went to the New Jersey Fringe Festival in Hammonton, NJ, “The Blueberry Capital of the World.”
In the dew-dappled dawn, promises fly,
rising up in murmurations, flowing
into space, tracing patterns in the sky
turning into misty clouds, then throwing
shadows back onto dreams. But then knowing
that the moon rises as the sun sets still
and the earth yet revolves–and will–and will
beyond our mortal lives. So, starlight gleams,
we watch it speckle bright the night—until
it seems, our dreams grow luminous streams.
I haven’t been around much lately at dVerse, and I’m sorry for being so behind in reading. I have a lot going on right now. This is my first attempt at a dizain, this month’s poetry form at dVerse.
“Painted portraits have a life of their own that comes deep in the soul of the painter.”
–Vincent van Gogh, 1885
Angels dance across the sky
kissing the grass with morning dew–
there, a door opens,
there, a door closes
ephemeral as a ghost.
Do you hear the belly laugh
emerging from the silence?
It is wild and warm,
life.
***
Impressions of a week,
moments stored, like snapshots
a truth we seek, we speak
of how my mom is weak
our lives tied-up in knots,
and the world is often bleak,
but we take a long walk
by fountains and statues,
we talk
Swann Memorial Fountain, Logan Square, Philadelphia
“Social Justice” Philadelphia Museum of Art, Association for Public Art
of family, admire brushstrokes and dots
in bathers, poplars, and fields–
impressions formed from all these spots.
I want to be in this scene
I say, and wonder what it’d be like—
I dream. . .
but we walk past the sycamore trees,
an urban oasis, cool in the summer heat
from the welcome breeze
Rodin Museum, Philadelphia
in the garden, a rabbit darts
and bees flit, while birds sing
perhaps all patrons of the arts?
The Impressionists would enjoy
the gardens here, I think.
As we walk, I see a little boy
his shirt, says “Just Do It,”
and he looks eager to—
my impressions flit . . .
It’s a beautiful July day.
We drink wine, eat cheese,
wanting a moment to stay
here, in a bit of peace,
sitting, dreaming, a sidewalk café
(though the texts don’t cease)
Tria, Washington West, Philadelphia
we drink wine and beer,
eat luscious cheese,
and find some cheer that we’re here.
Then a day with our daughter
(more wine and cheer)
she tells me how her father taught her
and her husband how to fix things.
and we talk of friends and dreams,
and how funny it is, the way life brings
us to these moments, and all the feelings—
love and tears, dogs, house, spouse—
the roller-coaster ride that sends us reeling
and hallucinating. Yet we stop,
read a book, sit here
in a pleasant, tranquil spot. . .
Impressions, fleeting
they come together
completing
somehow, my life.
Impressions–look, see
forget the moments of strife—
there, the lucent moon sails high
her ship glowing
across the sapphire sky.
. . .and there are cats.
Content With My Delusions, Jacqueline Hurlbert,
Only I could see him,
my dark friend, slim
with rabbit ears
and glowing eyes—
so kind, so wise.
He comforted me
I spoke to him alone–see
no one else believed in him,
but friends we were and are–
and from me he never strayed far.
I gave him a gift, a striped shirt,
and he said, sorry, don’t be hurt–
but I’ve got to go away for now.
somehow, remember us, don’t fuss–
this is only a phase, it’s ever thus.
(Count the days. Discuss.)
Today is my ninetieth birthday,
and I think I feel his glowing gaze
from somewhere in the night.
He’s come for me, my old dark friend—
Hello, good-bye, this is my end.
(We begin again.)
Today on dVerse, Linda has asked us to write poems based on the work of artist Jackie Hurlbert. Her Web site can be found here.
“But it is only in epic tragedies that gloom is unrelieved. In real life tragedy and comedy are so intermingled that when one is most wretched ridiculous things happen to make one laugh in spite of oneself.”
–Georgette Heyer, Civil Contract
“Here in the moving shadows
I catch my breath and sing–
My heart is fresh and fearless
And over-brimmed with spring.”
–from Sara Teasdale, “May Night”
Here the ghost eyes eternity
looking through a window
from the after
flying through fires of if
laughing at when
they embraced,
in heartbeats
measured time
****
My heart is over-brimmed
as my mother’s eyes fill
and weak are her limbs.
Days move from freezing rain
to summer heat
and I reel from pain
of seeing her so.
But nature and comedy
make me smile and laugh
and provide a remedy
both constant and temporary–
because life is full of
tragedy and joy, the extraordinary
and ordinary
of illness, broken cars, and trains delayed
–and the first strawberries
of the season
the scent alone
a reason
to celebrate life
and being here
friends, family, husband, wife—
we go through shadows
seek light,
and who knows
what will be, and if anything will be right
(the world sighs)
but there, the light
comes through the trees
and we drink coffee
savor moments, these
small joys, please–
the walks and shadow shows
pizza, wine, dogs—these
simple pleasures bring
to our hearts even in winter
feelings of spring
(briefly in my mother’s eyes)
and comedy and tragedy both fly
dancing to the tune
of the moon’s lullaby.
Thank you for all the good wishes for my mom. She has improved some from her stroke, and we were able to take her outside yesterday for a little while. We saw our son-in-law perform a stand-up routine at Helium Comedy Club in Philadelphia, and we saw Manual Cinema’s Ada/Ava at the Kimmel Center in Philadelphia. This is the second time we’ve seen one of their shows. They’re hard to describe–but combine shadow puppets, actors, and live music to create something unique. If you get a chance, see them perform. There’s a video on this Kimmel Center link.
Caspar David Friedrich, “Drifting Clouds,”[Public Domain], Wikipedia Commons
and watched the clouds flying
like time
on feathered wings,
I flew along,
eager for what it’d bring,
asking why–
finding when
happens then
again, and time the thing
like clouds
that drifts up, away, sighing.
Taking a work break! This is a quadrille for De’s prompt on dVerse using the word “up,” and for my dVerse prompt on theories.
And some music, Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now”–from her Clouds album.
Once we thought
a golden chariot brought
the sun to move around the earth,
once we saw only what could be seen—
except the spirits in-between
here and there, birthed
in our imaginations,
as we created causation
to explain our earth.
Once, did dragons breath fire
until they were forced to retire?
Any theory can be brought forth
for haters and deniers,
but crisscross the wires,
spread kindness and mirth.
My theory this—
not to be dismissed
through rotations of the earth–
believe in facts, the real,
but sense earth’s magic, the ideal.
This poem is for my theory prompt on dVerse. Join us in poetic theorizing!
“What do we call visible light? We call it color. But the electromagnetic spectrum runs to zero in one direction and infinity in the other, so really, children, mathematically, all of light is invisible.”
–Anthony Doer, All the Light We Cannot See
Philadelphia Mural Arts
Redshifting and blue,
all the colors, hues
we cannot see, and beyond
our comprehension, or will–
yet, don’t they exist still?
And the man, there on his rags,
sleeping on his clothes in bags–
if we walk by him unseeing
does it mean he’s not a being
worthy of a view, a thought
of what once was? Even if
only a trace of has been–wisps
that linger here–the invisible who
are all the colors, all the hues
and so,
as sunset slow shifts to indigo
and all the in-between,
there, find all the light that’s there
find it, unseen and seen.
This is for my prompt at dVerse, where we’re exploring the invisible. I was inspired by the quotation I used and also by the mural that I just happened to see on Sunday, after I had written and scheduled the prompt. Isn’t it weird how that works?
