And so, we rested, away from the snow, inside that hut by the fire’s glow, but stories cannot be chewed with teeth though they help assuage our terror and grief.
Where is Momma, I whimper, and wipe my eyes, She’s looking for us, but my sister cries though she hides her face, I see a tear and realize she must also fear—
What do we do? Where do we go? Back to the cold, leave our tracks in the snow? It’s dark, Little One, let us sleep, there’s a blizzard out there, the snow’s too deep,
for us to go or soldiers to come. We’ll melt some ice and savor the crumbs– wish and pretend we have a feast! We’ll hear no shots from west or east.
And so, we wished, and then we dozed, fire banked, door bolted, the windows closed– but when we woke, there was more fresh bread, a pitcher of milk, and another rose of red. . .
a golden feather glimmered on the floor.
I was looking at old posts this afternoon, and I discovered I had shared parts 1 and 2 of this poem with dVerse, so I decided to write a part 3 for Open Link Night. Scared children are on my mind, and I suppose I wish for them a happily ever after.
“All has become quiet in Moscow.” –Count L N Tolstoy, The Cossacks, Sampson Low, Morton, Searle & Rivington, 1878
The air is heavy with silence, the quiet is a roar of denial– there is no war
there are no reports of fallen soldiers and grieving mothers, only the special operation to protect and save—
do not say otherwise, wiser to say nothing at all. The air is heavy with silence. That silence is heavy with fear.
For dVerse, where Linda has asked us to write a poem inspired by one of the opening sentences she has supplied. Foreign journalists in Moscow have been forced to leave. Within Russia news is restricted. No talk of war or invasion is allowed. The Russian invasion of Ukraine is called a “special operation.”
Say how spring soars pink-winged after the storm, and moonlight whispers dreams of if we could or never did, we urged the sky, believed the lies
of roses. The forest screams under clouds of rust,
and we must boil water again there are no more gardens or birds– here the red-breasted man flies and then is still
beneath the blue, endless as time recalling the diamond sparkle above is long dead, yet seen and heard, like the fiddle’s aching notes, a reminder of sorrow and beauty, when spring sang in pastel notes of joy and raised green tendrils to embrace the world.
My poem from the magnetic poetry Oracle. Yesterday we had a beautiful spring day. Now it’s raining, and we’re expecting some snow and strong wind gusts. Right now a mockingbird is singing outside my window. And the war in Ukraine continues.🌻 There are many organizations trying to get assistance to Ukraine. Please help, if you can. Here is one list. Here is a link to a book of poetry put together by Annick Yerem available for a donation.
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 again.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. As always, she knows what’s going on.
The weather has been so changeable—freezing cold winds, then warmer days. The crocuses are sprouting. It’s been difficult though to think of anything except the Russian invasion of Ukraine. I’ve been having lots of dreams about mothers and daughters, some anxious, some funny, some filled with love and tenderness.
We watched the new movie Parallel Mothers (rental from Amazon—it may be coming to Netflix at some point). It is director Pedro Almodóvar’s most recent film, starring Penelope Cruz, who frequently stars in his films. It’s about two single mothers, one near 40, the other much younger, who meet in a hospital while they’re both in labor. They bond and later meet again. Cruz’s character is seeking help from a forensic anthropologist to uncover the mass grave where her great-grandfather and other men in her town were killed by fascist soldiers early in Franco’s rule. As well as mothers (a frequent Almodóvar theme), It seems to me that one theme of the movie is secrets, and how too many are willing to ignore and sweep the ugliness and tragedies away. It seems very pertinent right now.
We also watched a horror show on Netflix, Archive 81, that we both liked very much. It’s about a film restorer who is hired to take care of some old films that a grad student made about residents in a NYC apartment building. He uncovers—hmmm—more secrets! It’s very well done, and it definitely kept our interest! Tonight, we’re going to catch up on Mrs. Maizel—a Monday Maizel. I made knishes!
There’s a time for wind and storms that blow and beat and will not stop
for ships at sea and stars above—or me—
but spring whispers to get the garden dressed,
cast off the dun, and wreath the ground in yellow green
as honeyed shine make petals pop and robins hop to sing
in answer to the murmur from beneath.
Now, even as the black-clouds scream, the fiddle sounds from rooftop wings
the argent light of midnight moon to hum in sync until pink-petaled bright
the dawn comes slight–yet still we ask if peace will wake
and the wind answers, almost always, in the after.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. The poem was not inspired by the song Turn, Turn, Turn, but it went through my head after I wrote it and was reading it over. Of course, the Oracle knows everything.
Grey Winter growls, Spring dreams of green when flowers grow, and love birds preen. Soon rabbits wake, the vixen prowls then runs and hides, afraid she’s seen the fearful beast, who’d foul with howls spring dreams of green–grey Winter growls.
Now what comes next, before green spring when sparrows fly, and robins sing? Do wolves bare fangs? Do bears get vexed by hopes or dreams, by what spring brings, and seek with blood, destroy, annex before green spring? Now what comes next?
Before spring comes, the bullets fly. The people grieve, the winds just sigh as they drift by soldiers and drums. Power? Money? Who knows why the bloodlust soars. The moon just hums– the bullets fly, before spring comes.
For dVerse, a made-up form called the Sparrowlet. You can read about it here. The name of the form made me think of spring, and I wrote the first stanza yesterday. Then when I heard the news today, I wrote the last stanza. So then, I wrote the middle stanza to connect them. We are living in a very scary time, and so much disinformation is being spread constantly.