In the Garden of If and When-After

512px-Beatrice-1885

Odilon Redon, Beatrice

 

Her garden lives in ifs,

it is sweet pink whispers

beating away the black.

 

Music mists a symphony of the sea,

licking rocks

to soar and spray in the wind,

 

dream shadows play

beneath a honeyed moon,

and the sky smells of summer rain.

 

So, she watches there–

not asking why–

in timeless beauty of when-after,

 

and she sings through rose petal-light,

of blood, life, love, and life.

 

I needed this bit of surrealism. The Oracle always knows. I think this could be where she lives.

Dream Sea, NaPoWriMo

512px-Redon.flower-clouds

Odilon Redon, “Flower Clouds,” [Public Domain],Wikipedia

The sky whispers a flowered song

scented with tangerines, honey,

and blue berried-visions.

 

(I feel the taste

of the shimmering mirage,

briny-cool and warm summer peach .)

 

Our mast shivers from

the vibrations, the language

of strutting peacock clouds.

 

The eyes watch

and guide us

in the golden light—

 

as we sail–

timeless and tide-whorled–

on a sea of dreams.

 

Day 21 of NaPoWriMo challenges us to “try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Open the Star: Magnetic Poetry

Open the Star

 

A child, a girl, explores,

lingering with the red star.

(Open it.)

It will fool the dark cloud

and no one need live a life

bleeding, dirty, and sad.

But this then—

you must listen to

voices throb in ocean rhythms,

secrets of time and universe make magic.

Go and wake.

Let your heart breeze

with peace.

 

 

Embed from Getty Images

 

 

A bit of surrealism? A myth from the Oracle?

Dream Light–Magnetic Poetry

Let me see dream light

whisper shadow music of red moons—

a language of aches, wind, water,

and time,

singing honey-tongued

of what was or never is

beneath a thousand whys

 

Embed from Getty Images

 

The Oracle is enigmatic today, as usual.

Forest Dream: Magnetic Poetry

From the forest

languid language soars.

You watch the rain beating

on rocks,

say my skin smells of dreams

and water runs fast beneath my feet.

A ship screams at the lake,

“who is driving death?”

And I cry,

aching if and why.

 

Henri Rousseau, “Le Rêve,” (The Dream), [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I haven’t consulted The Oracle in a couple of weeks. She gave me this bit of surrealism. It fits my mood.