Mysteries
If I liked life less,
there would be no need
for seeing presto bee wing beats on pink blooms
or dawn’s robin breast emerging from clouds
of song
say what you want, but this is what I know—
time puppy-tumbles and snake-slithers,
it is sloth-slow and swallow-swift—
and there is the wind, full of whispers
and fiddle virtuosity,
a call and anchor
to sun and shadow, each tongue of light
holding its inverse–pink to violet, darkening,
gleaming gold again.
My poem from the Oracle.
A Pause in the Frantic Beat
You think of sky ships, travelers of
dust and gas traversing galaxies, settling
around our young star, like subjects of a queen,
and why water? Physics and chemistry, molecules
combining to form more—but
the sea, rain, sweat on your brow
variations on an endless theme, the peculiar
music of our world, a song in blue and green,
and you part of it—the dust, the water—connected
to before, existing after.
You think of how long a minute can seem,
how short an hour, another day.
This poem from the Oracle came right away, and it’s the first I’ve written in a few days. I did not expect this philosophical musing on a cosmic theme, but she always knows. My little Ricky cat is hanging on. The anti-nausea and pain meds are helping him to feel a lot better. I know it’s temporary, but it’s good to see him eating almost normally and acting more like himself.
Always Why, Wanting Never
Crushed—frantic
at this time of going–
he is less substance,
but more light.
How do I not moan,
the sky wounded, ripped with purple gashes
crying.
We sit touching,
together,
waiting for shadows.
This blue is bitter,
this April cruel.
My Ricky cat is not doing well. The Oracle always knows.
The Trojan Women
They watch the wind,
these women, recalling the sweet pink scent
of spring, and summer’s honeyed peach days
gone with the ships, the beach rusted with blood,
dried red petals scattered on the sand.
A mother’s moan is a raw purple cry,
parting black clouds in the sky where once the moon
was a welcome sight. Sun, moon, storms at sea–
the gods do not listen. They only show us who we are.
My poem from the Oracle. It think it fits the NaPoWriMo history prompt, too–well, perhaps not a single, historical event, but women and wars throughout history.
Light Music
The storm, the sea,
the symphony of sound,
the crash and roar, the fiddle-flight
of water-sprites unbound by
earth or gravity—
or so, it seems—
the whispered still
of bright bird-words, nature’s blurbs,
the feathered fronds of time,
a hushed sun in galloping run–
so still
unless you hear the
song of light in cloud-drift heights—
chromatic themes in
soughing streams—stars agleam—
moonglade shimmer
in open seams, caught–
a time-muddled dream.
My message from the Oracle. Also playing with rhyme for the NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 13.
Listening to the Light
How do we explore eternity
the stars ask, embrace
the after-beauty of blue-fired tongues
in sky-song–
in dreams, recall the moon’s lives
hear the beats between, before
bow to strings, wind timbre, sea cadence–
the silence at the center
of the storm, an ache of waiting
for the breath of dawn and bird choir,
the waking, the awakening.
My poem from the Oracle. It was a bit of a struggle this morning.
The Call of Blue, Reprise of Green
Long ago we tried to juggle
Easter and Passover
for the children,
it was all about chocolate
and jellybeans, bunny-hidden treats
and a new toothbrush
included in the basket because
I only see resurrection
in flowers and their eyes
that change color
like a thousand what ifs
over time. Transitions in the
seasons and the days, or sudden
as the kettle bell drum and cymbal crash
of a summer storm—Zeus throwing lightning bolts,
angels of death, one god, many—
it’s nature I worship.
Next month, we’ll recall blood and boils,
I’ll eat unleavened bread
for days that will seem longer,
remember my ancestors, the persecution and the joys,
but it’s the transient colors of spring
I’ll notice. The yellow green that quickly comes
and goes. The dance of dazzling yellow daffodils
that fades,
to rise again next spring.
My poem from the Oracle. The first phrase she gave me was “all about chocolate.” Most years it seems that Easter and Passover coincide. This year, they’re a month apart. Monday is the start of April–and poetry month.
Moon Shadows and Time
I am arm and arm
with time, when it flows
in hot-honey days, or sings
shot through with light, silver streams
and water-sprayed sky–
I have dreamt of many rooms,
mothers, sisters, daughters,
blood bright as rubies,
the touch of tiny fingers,
the ache of what was, what might be—
now here is crushed-peach dawn,
and purple poured over milky clouds,
later rose will scent my wine, but now
there are whispers, wind-fiddles play
the sound of blue, of Earth, and after,
like a language, like love—but more,
a recalling of sleeping ships at sea,
a warning of storms, a hint of safe harbors,
a cool ghost-embrace with a touch of fire,
the joy of the two after the glass is broken
full sailing through flower clouds.
My poem from the Oracle. She was full of alliteration and wild phrases today, so I just went with it. Odilon Redon gave me the final line. No crushed pink dawn here today—we have heavy rain.
Spring Song
Driven by the need to shine,
to shimmer-sing, the moon,
a ship out in the night
with breathy whispers sighs–
fish-eyes linger,
window shades pause in mid-flutter
and the air murmurs if
gowned in light,
girl to goddess in
the dazzle-dance,
the laugh of life–
sister, daughter, mother, wife
connected as earth and sea,
seeds threaded on a string
spring reborn in pink-petaled
glory, yellow flower bright.
A quick poem from the Oracle. I had a dream about birth and connections that seems to fit the season. We seem to be having early spring in my part of the world.
Mystical Conversation
Come child, ask–
you wonder if stars are prisoners
of the sky, if they hold secrets
in their hearts?
Let me tell you
how fever-filled fools fly
caught by their ferocious beauty
only to fall—
the universe indifferent–
and yet, gaze at the seashell nebulae
that sparkles for seals, steers dung beetles
in their rolling journey, guides buntings in
northern flight—
ancient ghost light
whispering silver through an indigo sea,
our sun, a blazing golden anchor.
The magnetic poetry Oracle inspired the poem, and Odilon Redon gave me the title. I didn’t know the painting, so clearly they were working together.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 