Black-blown sky to blue– the music-seer asks if dreams are the ships we sail at night on purple-shadowed seas, and what are the songs the rocks sing?
He has known storms, and rain like honey, sweet with the scent of roses,
he has death-wandered, emerged to witness a sparkle-symphony above, now he whispers love-ballads and lullabies, star-breathed tunes of time-dazzlers, the rhythms of what is and what might be.
My poem from the Oracle, who, of course, knows the myths of many cultures. Readers sometimes wonder if the image or poem came first. In this case, it was a combination. The Oracle gave me words and phrases, black-blown and blue, if dreams, storms, honey, etc. I used “fiddler” in the my first draft, but as I was writing, the poem seemed to be about Orpheus, so I changed it to music-seer.
If I need you, will you come, with love-put light to drive away the smell of man-sweat and boy-blood?
Here, the storms whip and the shadows moan black beneath the blue, but I ask for—not so much— roses under a peach sun, the lifeline of sea, its sparkle, and the whisper of wind in my hair, telling me you are coming home.
My poem from the Oracle. I thought at first she wanted me to write about Penelope, but she wanted the message to include women everywhere throughout time.
These memories, gowned in blue, where the sun tosses her honeyed locks and smiles? All a dream of moon-mist and fiddles?
No, you gave me chocolates wrapped in love. I gave you words that bloom like roses, scenting a summer night. Lingering
like the final notes of a symphony, carried in both head and heart, if we let them. Still water and shining sea. All the light shadowing time— and we sail on.
The Oracle made me work for this one! Today is my husband’s birthday. I couldn’t write a poem that was sad or angry, as some of her words suggested, but she also kept giving me chocolate and rose and smell. . .
Am I mad to think I could stop time, as crushed rose petals linger honey-sweet in the night,
if I breathe the scent, I remember—not mad— I hear the whispers, a dream-ache from the stars,
the after-light of tomorrow, the past glimpsed today,
we together, us with summer still within, a song of peach and lemon, the drumbeat of waves— not yet and always, ebb and flow.
My message from the Oracle. I suppose I am thinking of the passage of time. The Oracle always knows—today is my older child’s birthday. Our younger child’s birthday was earlier in the week. My husband’s birthday is coming up. A lot of birthdays over the years.
There is an ancient tree in a secret garden, white blossoms like pearls adorn her arms as she reaches to touch sun and moon.
Here bangs and booms become bird-trills, each day beats with a new rhythm green tendrils climb in harmony and the air is scented with promise.
Ask if I am here, and I may answer, this is a place of dreams caught between bee-breaths and the falling of a rose petal, the last echo of violin, a tremolo in the night. The place where time is both a wing-flap and endless flight.
The Oracle made me work for this one. I used tiles from two sets, merged, revised, revised again. . .But I guess she approves—because I found the Redon painting above to go with my poem.