Federico Beltran Masses, “Under the Stars,” Wikipedia Commons
Time, haunting
in liquid rhythm
it explores
and devours,
though hearts open, listen to
stars sing cool fire–
voices like
caramel-colored
desire,
brilliant and
warm—the universe laughing,
looking to from when
The Oracle gave me this double shadorma today.
Morning Walk
Almost born away—
I fly by champagne clouds,
waking poetry
of morning’s moist perfumed breeze.
Angel voices celebrate the universe,
time slows. . .lingers
for one smile
Delaware Rive, Red Bank Battlefield, September
I visited the Oracle yesterday, but I didn’t have a chance to post this. She was in rare form though. I feel like she was ready to give me many more.
“It may be the luckiest and purest thing of all to see time sharpen to a single point. To feel the world rise up and shake you hard, insisting that you rise up, too somehow. Some way.”
–Paula McClain, Love and Ruin
“We can never go back to before”
Lynn Ahrens and Steve Flaherty, “Back to Before,” Ragtime
Once we had two maple trees in front of our house. They provided shade for our house and shelter for wildlife. But they were diseased and had to be cut down. The birds and squirrels have moved on. We will plant daffodils around the stumps, and life will continue, though we can never go back to before.
green leaves turn golden,
sun sings grey skies blue again,
flowers smile hello
Once people saw tyranny and began to rebel with acts of resistance against their government and king. Time sharpened to a single point for some then. They felt the need to rise up. They launched a revolution that was bloody and horrible, as all wars are, that divided families and friends.
sweethearts say goodbye
leaves sigh and fall from the trees–
red blood on white snow
Old Pine Street Church Graveyard, Philadelphia
But it was also a revolution of words and actions that created a new nation, the first written constitutions, and gave some hope for freedom and equality to all—though that did not come about till after another war and new laws. We harken back to before, but we can never go back.
And why would we want to?
demagogue appeals
blames “The Other” for problems–
false hopes and false words
Wishing on the wood of the last Liberty Tree. Museum of the American Revolution, Philadelphia
Azure skies send us
outdoors to eat–a plus
seated where we gaze
at history and listen
to the foreign phrase
of people who pass by
and wonder why
they’re here, but know
they come and go–
in this city of hope and despair
filled with travelers
and immigrants,
rising like the nation and the sun
on the famous chair.
We watch a movie,
the wife behind the great man,
though she’s really greater than
he is,
she says she is “a kingmaker,”
but more than that—
this is
a nuanced performance
that show the complexity
of relationships—
which is
the basis of government, too,
and I think of the before
when we had a king
and bid him adieu
and now the one
who longs to be king
daily sings
(so unbirdlike he tweets
never soft and never sweet)
Will we let the kingmakers
let it happen?
Well, as the foot-tapping
musical notes, “history has its
eyes on you.”
It is complex,
and perhaps what we need
is a nuanced performance.
Though the choice seems simple—
do what you need to do.
Do not believe the lies.
Do not support the liars.
Let’s not go back to before
when I did not have a voice,
when women did not have a choice,
when people I love could not love,
when people I admire could not vote—
keep this sinking ship afloat.
I feel time sharpening and shadows gather.
But ask the star
how it dazzles and
kisses air with joy—
We are prisoners of time,
embrace its rhythm
and smile.
Once there were two maple trees, but now they are gone. . .
yet life goes on.
We visited the Museum of the American Revolution. Saw the movie, The Wife. Trailer here.
Here is Marin Mazzie, who died last week, singing, “Back to Before.”
NGC 6744 Hubble, NASA, ESA, and the LEGUS Team
If we did not wake to lingered mornings
and flowers dancing to celebrate
a day opening,
voices with colored breath laughing
to heal the sad rhythm of haunted nights,
we would listen for stars’ fevered breath–
remember time sailing
The Oracle was full of words and wonder today.
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?
Shifting
Shifting–
green leaves turn brown
and frangible, concede,
never rebelling, rustling
underfoot
bees’ buzz
ceases, replaced
by raucous geese in flight
calling themselves home, and we too
abide
This double cinquain is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for change and defy.
This is a Crapsey Cinquain with syllables 2,4,6,8,2.
Four years ago, our older daughter married. I look at photos of that day—her and her wife, my husband and I, our guests—all of us bound by affection for these two women. On their anniversary day, I have lunch with dear friends. They were at the wedding, too. As our children have grown, we’ve now attended many weddings together. We eat, sharing stories and talking in the way old friends who are comfortable with one another do. We were all young when we met, beginning married life, beginning careers. From the restaurant window, I see the Delaware River flowing as it has for centuries, but not without change. It, too, has seen joy and sorrow come and go, and still it flows on.
New buds burst open,
butterflies savor sweetness–
spider weaves her web
This Haibun is for Colleen’s Tuesday Tanka Challenge. Colleen asked us to use synonyms for love and time. I’ve tried to create the overall feeling of each word here.
Poetry joy is open—
come dance!
Voices color a universe
with words breathing perfume
and bleeding.
Celebrate and linger–
remembering when, yet, and
always after. . .
in blue clouds of time
The Oracle gave me this bit of joy today. I think it means I should write poetry today and not bother with anything else. 🙂
I think of my dad today and how he admired Tony Hillerman’s novels, mysteries involving the Navajo Tribal Police. Once he wrote Mr. Hillerman a letter and received a gracious reply. It’s been twenty years now since my father died. He’d be ninety-nine today—perhaps he’d have new favorite books and authors. He was a man filled with passion—for food, women, art, history–and for his children and grandchildren. He thought we were the best and brightest, no question. Though he expected all to wait upon him–courtiers of the court of Lee–yet—he was generous with love, presents, and hundreds of restaurant meals. He was always proud of me and assigned my first book to his history classes. (Sorry). I wish my dad was still here to read my words. I love you, Dad. I miss you.
yellow-green stems grow
vivid blooms in summer’s heat—
then red-gold leaves fall
This is for open link night at dVerse, where Lillian is hosting. I’ve given a nod to National Book Lovers Day in my Haibun.
Spring breeze bewitches,
twitches–
fills you with an itch
to stretch and grow,
to flow
with rivers
you quiver,
undulating in delight.
Fall breeze calls–
unhitch–
enthralling you,
you switch
your sights–
to fly with geese
in victory’s V,
fleeing
through gloaming’s violet light.
This is for dVerse, now celebrating its seventh anniversary. Happy Anniversary! Grace has asked us to write a quadrille (a poem of 44 words) using the word itch.
