May Queen (Revised with audio)

John William Waterhouse, Ophelia

May Queen

She sleeps in a thousand blues
of forest-shadowed whispers, waiting
for the world to wake, now in-between—

and in her dreams, she listens
for welkin carolers, the laugh of stars and birds remembering
the rhythm of days, tiny rose-tips, yet unseen—

but when, not if, they come again
dressed in honeyed gowns of golden light, lingering–
she’ll wake to take her place, enchanting May Queen–

with each pace, she’ll color space,
a trace of perfume recalling her embrace
and soft poetry where she has been, always and forever green.

I revised a poem I wrote for NaPoWriMo in 2021. Sometimes I like a bit of rhyme. 😉 I’m sharing it with dVerse Open Link Night, and I’ve added a recording.




Surprise me with connections,
patterns that echo, reflected
through space-time,
mirror images–

copper crystals like tree branches,
rivers shaped as snakes,
snowflakes like stars, the inside of a flower
where a droplet is a sea–

the letter S
half of infinity, ours twined whole.

Photo by Keith Lobo on

I’m hosting dVerse today for our short poem form of 44 words, the quadrille. The prompt word is some form of mirror.

Ode to May

Monday Morning Musings:

Ode to May

May days are bookended in songs
of robin and mockingbird
falling over us like catkins,
pollinating our souls.

In our blooming, we hear
the germination of star-sound,
taste Earth’s turning colors and blue sky,
after the rain

feel roots swallow and river breathe,
we reach toward our own star. The reaching
our constant, every why growing like dandelions,
smalls suns in a universe of green.

The grey and rainy days have made everything green, especially as we have had brilliant sunshine in between. For all who celebrated Mother’s Day yesterday, I hope it was lovely. We went to my sister’s as usual. This time the weather cooperated, and it was a perfect day to sit outside for an all-afternoon brunch. Friday afternoon, our daughter met us at a winery, and we had a pleasant time talking and sipping a Cabernet. Saturday night, we ate homemade pizza and drank a red blend.

Merril’s Movie/TV Club: I finally got to see The Quiet Girl, the first Irish-language film nominated for an Oscar. It was playing here when some of my friends in Ireland and the UK were raving about it. Then when it finally was, I missed it. So, I was pleased to be able to stream it. It’s a Merril-movie, definitely not an action film. Beautifully filmed. Cáit is a girl who seldom speaks, and the adults around her mostly talk at people, rather than to them. I’d rather not see so much, but here’s the trailer.

We finished the Netflix show, Rough Diamonds, which we both enjoyed. It was an interesting mix of life in an Antwerp’s religious Jewish community and a more action, heist type of show.

Saturday and Sunday night, fans disappointed at not getting tickets to see Taylor Swift in Philadelphia could have camped out in our neighborhood to hear the concert. We’ve never experienced that before. I can’t imagine how loud it was at the venue! I’m glad it was cool enough, so we could close our windows.

Between Bird and Bloom, Behold

Odilon Redon, Pandora

Between Bird and Bloom, Behold

these thousand epochs,
frantic beating through carapace
and feathers,

the tiny whispers of time
rolling over like a puppy
then onto something new–

rip the fabric of dreams,
recall how bees and butterflies
come because of flowers—

colors, the fallen petals
from ancient light-boughs,

like children, descendants of unknown ancestors,
a shadow-smile, a wink. Answers to unasked if.

My poem from an early morning visit to the Oracle. I went back to get the title (exact words), and the Oracle also gave me “if” and the final phrase.

The Life Library

The Life Library

She topples, tilt-a-whirl, cartwheeling,
shifting words–and worlds–
“I” becomes her story,

hundreds of volumes to fill
each time she falls

into a book,
a slip, a smudge,

a ripple, a wrinkle, paper and life in origami folds
form timeless variations, endless stories—

her life mirrored, reflected, repeated,
repeated, repeated.

For dVerse, Mish introduced us to the amazing surreal art of Erik Johansson. It was difficult to choose an image, but I finally settled on these two.

©️Erik Johansson, “The Forest Library”
©️Erik Johansson, “Up the Past”

Spring Is

Monday Morning Musings:

Spring Is

“A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year”
–Emily Dickinson, A Light Exists in Spring

Spring is light, pale and sweet, apple blossom honey
over tangy goat cheese–

it is pink wave-bursts and blue-winged brushes,
and a salad of greens—avocado, spinach, kale
topped with scallion-white—

It is sailboats in a charming picture postcard
of azure sky and cotton ball clouds–
“Wish you were here,” it says
with scenes of lazy cattle in verdant meadows.

It is fuzzy goslings imprinted to follow,
through upside-down worlds,
and swooping eagles that dive and grab,
hunters and hunted,
celebration and sorrow.

Spring is violent,
each shot a seismic rattle
a warning that slithers and slides,
over network of scars covering shifting tectonic plates—
the big one is coming.

Spring is a sneeze and a roar,
charm gamboling from beneath shadows—eyes watching

at the river,
a circle forms where a fish surfaces—or the river breathes.
One breath, then another–gathering the light, reflecting it back.

I used some of Kerfe’s random words from Oracle 2. Last week seemed very busy—just work and poetry events—but somehow exhausting. I took on some extra work, so this week will be busy, too. (So, that’s why I’m procrastinating with poetry!). One day, I did see a goose couple who may have had been yelling at an eagle who took their babies. I’m not certain. Saturday was so beautiful that we went out to a local winey for a little while just to sit outside and have a glass of wine before coming home for dinner. Sunday, we visited my mother-in-law for an early Mother’s Day. Meanwhile, every day brings another mass shooting. And the GOP seems determined to crash our economy, too.

We started watching Rough Diamonds on Netflix, “In this Belgian thriller about the diamond trade, an estranged son who left ultra-Orthodoxy returns home to save the family business (Netflix).” It’s an interesting mix of family drama and rebellion against religious traditions and thriller involving diamonds and drugs.

The Grammar of Love

The Grammar of Love

Learning lines
conjugating verbs–
yearn, yearns, yearn-
ing for life—
you are a full stop,
I want commas–love, and more.

A last-minute shadorma for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday prompt. It’s an ekphrastic challenge inspired by this painting. I don’t like the painting, especially the young man. And it isn’t helped by knowing Waldmüller was one of Hitler’s favorite artists.

Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller, The Expected

Spring Songs

Vincent Van Gogh, Irises, 1889

Songs of Spring

Cool fiddler
from rooftop perch
running sea-shiny arpeggios
into the air
to gather the dreams of roses–

those were the days, we think
from beneath the rusted awnings–

life not a lie, not exactly
still, we wait for the spring rain
to wash the world clean.

Follow the full harmonies of flowers,
quiet blues and opera, an iris and a rose,
the pop songs of pansies, the show tunes of geraniums
the sunny tones of dandelions
growing wild—

this season of when and more,
the world bright, green,

Two poems from the Oracle from two different sets. No if today, only when.

Stars and Mind

Odilon Redon, Conque Marine

Stars and Mind

Neuronal cells within our brains,
galaxies clustered on filaments,

cosmology and neurosurgery–
the mapping of space and mind,

everywhere synchronicity, resemblance
in shapes and patterns,

the golden ratio in cochlea
and in the Milky Way,
in ear-pressed shell,
we hear the sea and stars.

A quadrille for dVerse. The prompt word is map.

Come, May

Monday Morning Musings:

Come, May

“as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious.”
–from Lisel Mueller, “Immortality

No longer silent, mornings drip with song.
With blue-eyed pretense, April denies
her duplicity, dances in swirled pink song
to cartwheel upside down,

now gone the sandals, back the blankets
and the fleece.
The world is salad greens and dirty dishwater,
rinse and rinse and rinse
that bit of sherbet from the sky.

It is cat-cuddles and wine,
hot soup, bread, and cheese,
turn the heat back up, watch
the water rise.

But, come May
dawn’s fresh-washed from April showers,
with popcorn clouds coated in buttered glow
and fallen pale pink lipstick blooms give way
to smiles of brighter hues.

Now maidens dance and workers march
as birds wing from shaded boughs
to chitter-whoosh-out of sight.

Proud parents strut with baby chicks,
yet the furious river cries, and

we watch from the precipice
where the picayune and the profound meet
like stars and gas in scattered nebulae,
while below are worlds ephemeral and distinct
in puddles that flame with life and light.

Happy May Day! I used some of Kerfe’s Oracle 2 words for this.

It rained off and on for the past several days with heavy rain most of the weekend and a flood watch in effect. We visited Blue Cork Winery in Williamstown, NJ, on Thursday night, where we attended a party for members with our daughter and son-in-law. We had free tastings and food, and my husband saw a rainbow. We had our own wine and cheese tasting over the weekend as the rain lashed against the windows.

We watched The Diplomat (Netflix). Our older child and their wife recently watched The Americans, one of my all-time favorite TV series. Then I listened to an interview with Keri Russell on Fresh Air, so I was excited to see her in The Diplomat. I was not disappointed. She and Rufus Sewell are excellent, but so is the entire cast. Each episode ends in a cliff-hanger, or at least a –“wait, what?” moment—including the final episode. I certainly hope there will be a second season.

I loved seeing our current president embrace “Dark Brandon.” Today’s (actually last night’s) Letter from an American by Heather Cox Richardson gave a brief summary of the White House Press Office and conferences. I don’t know why no one is bringing up the twice-impeached-lying-insurrection-fomenting-former occupant of the White House’s age. He’s only a few years younger than Biden, but he certainly seems less fit, both physically and mentally. The former president did not attend the White House Correspondents Dinners during his term, and he refused to let his staff attend.