Between Beats

Between Beats

Time’s ship sails—
a gorgeous lie

of shifting light and horizons,
but you might ask the wind how it blows

or why? Does the moon stop the storm
when it appears? Behold

the circling of seconds, the remembering
of before becomes after,

in the fast cry of spring—
if could be

the music that soars
above

us. Life-murmuring
in the dark beneath.

My early-morning poem from the Oracle. I used the “new” tiles, which are now located below the original tiles. I guess I haven’t use them for a while. The words seemed somewhat different, and she gave me some interesting phrases, but as usual, this is a collaboration between us. I’m stating that because I saw a post that seemed to equate using words generated online with AI generated-poems. I take some of the words and phrases and write my own poem–the same as using any other word prompt! And even if I took every word from the tiles, I’d still be arranging them into my own poem.

From the Shadows

Odilon Redon, Béatrice, c. 1905

I.

What was and is

When what we were
was dreams

black all around, no shadows
till the wind blew blue, purple, and pink

in storm sprays, pin pricks of
elaborate dazzle, like love—

scarlet dawns, cocoa clouds, and diamond stars–

but love like lies lathers,
leaving traces of different,
lingering perfumes.

Some would heal with poison,
others with smiles,

but see how the sun devours
the clouds? Timeless stories retold.

II.
Woman With Will

if I live less like one asleep,
stop, hear sea’s music that
we together sing

then that which we are,
and that which we were,
is part of after and always–
moon mist and flowers.

The Oracle kept giving me phrases, including the title of the second poem, so I decided there were two poems here. Perhaps they go together or a part of something larger.

At the Year’s End

Odilon Redon, The Boat

At the year’s end

spray smooth the sky–
erase the stormy purple-black,
prepare a palette of silvered moonbeams,

add cobweb white to pewter streaks,
lighten it

so that some see through it
and others
see only shadows and reflections
cast by time.

I am what I am,
finding poetry in the river’s wandering answers
to questions not yet asked,
and hearing the descant of if and always
in each dawn’s song.

Watch now as honey pours golden
through the gloom, and

listen, my love–Earth’s blue breaths
rise and fall, rise and fall.

The Oracle’s final message of the year. Happy New Year, All!

Sunrise, Christmas Eve Morning

Sunrise, Christmas Eve Morning

This is a secret season—
the squirrels sense it, souls stirred
by leaf-rustle and bare-branched sighs,

the clouds are pewter cups
spinning without saucers
till they rest on a blue expanse,

as if waiting
for the party to begin,

and so, there is light,
ancient and always
there, our own bright star, rising

a reveille
the frosted ground echoes
with a thousand small, sparkling stars.

The Oracle gave me this message quickly today. She knows it’s a busy day and season (and I will catch up with reading when I can.) The sun is just up, but not doing too much here, as it is 7 F, as I’m writing this. Wishing all of you a happy holiday season–and some sparkles–whatever you celebrate and wherever.

Smiles of a Winter Dawn

Moon setting in sunrise glow over the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield.

Smiles of a December Dawn

The winter sky is red-suited,
Santa on a flaming chariot,

in almost-light, river spirits dance
and deer leap with a flash of silent white–

if I say leave, the dream goes,
a soul secret–

it is all about perspective,
vast spaces defined in a frame,

within my head, a universe,
and that universe a speck–

see how the moon is merely a smile
beckoning the geese onward?

My message from the Oracle. The photo is from last January, but it was good to see the sun rise today after days of rain and clouds. And I am often aware that my dreams are dreams.

Seeing

Odilon Redon, Flower Clouds

Seeing

If—say—
the air was chocolate scented,
almost delicious, like eating a cloud,

and red-rose petals in murmurations
swept across the sky in winged formations
like questions waiting for answers,

would we wake to the dazzle-light,
the blush-breezes–or never notice

how time in wave-tumbles
fails to reveal its secrets,
even while voicing our dreams.

And if we recalled those dreams
when tiny, raw, and egg-fragile,

would they sail like stars,
twinkling ships in the night?

It’s a busy day, I finally had a chance to put this up–my collaboration with the Oracle. I had a difficult time getting any resolution. She just kept giving me if.

Waking

Odilon Redon, Ophelia Among the Flowers

Waking

The garden was her sanctuary,
but nights were lonely,
and winters wild with longing
of seeds holding secrets tight
beneath frosted stone.

She asked if the magic
had slipped from her life,
she asked if she had let it,
unnoticed the warm embrace
of sun on rock surface,

the dazzle-light on river and
poetry flowing to eternity.
Less black, she says,
paints caramel, green, blue,
onto her heart’s haunted canvas,

adds clouds that dance and play
with the ghosts, sending them
out of range, a blur on the horizon.

It’s Saturday! My poem from the Oracle.

Heart-Lingering

Starlight Sower by Hai Knafo

Heart-Lingering

In the light of the waxing moon,
a fiddler plays

a song of aching beauty
his notes fall like stars, drenching everything
in their afterglow, an evanescent flash,

each phrase asking if, each refrain a soaring why
in counterpoint to moon rhythm

each a part of the symphony,
of always–

of star-blossoms blooming time and again
like love.

It’s been a crazy week and a crazy weekend with some computer issues. Hopefully everything is resolved. This is my message from the Oracle that I started early yesterday morning. I’m sorry I’m so behind in commenting!

Contemplation

The Girl by the Sea Hanno Karlhuber, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Contemplation

In autumn
music swirls violet in the gloaming,
the sound of leaf-rustle and shadowed things,
a fretting moon, rising between bare boughs
watching, lonely,
waiting for the sky-blossom of stars
to murmur
we are here

and I wonder if
on other planets, other worlds
tiny beings, like us dream

or could love our blue and green,
the stained-glass glow of light through trees,
the pull of tides, or feel
the slowing spinning of days and
the rush of years,
the joy in seeing the first daffodil.

My poem from the Oracle. She also got me confused with Jane and gave me “eat sausage with,” which I ignored.