The Dreams, or What You See

Odilon Redon, Orpheus

Ask the moon what her whispers mean—
dreamtime longing, the after-ache of shadows

that slide or slink, glide, or make us think
of what was–the ghosts of yearning

seek the light. I watch, and if I can’t recall
each pink-petaled spring or purple rain,

I see them all—the symphony that glows and lingers,
or hides in rustling wind-whipped sighs

and suspiration of the sea. Here I hear,
and time fast-stops, while the fiddler plays

the song of life, death, and all that is,
and what is not

but was or maybe what will be.
Listen hard and long . . . now do you see?

The Oracle kept giving me a few words over and over again, like moon, light, after, ache, whispers, etc. and I could imagine her getting exasperated and saying use these already!

A Vision

She asks if
you can see it–the cool blue of time–
sprays of rose-pink, leaf-green,
cerulean, indigo, and diamond-sprinkled light–
a storm-dance of life to
the secret songs of stars and
the harmony of moon-music—listen–
now, the whisper of blood-dreams,
and the language of wind and sky,
dark voices of decay join bright beams–
an exhale–
the brilliant breath of the universe,
an icy cloud of fever-flowers soars
into the after,
leaving a trail, ferocious, wild, aching—
almost there, dazzled,
you ask if
this is a beginning or an ending? But
she is gone.

The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me a oracle poem. She gave me “ask if” every time I tried it.

Omphalos: NaPoWriMo, Day 6

Enveloped in mist, she was there, or she wasn’t.

Time stopped—perhaps—it’s hard to say

now

what was past, present, or future—

or what happened at all.

 

It might have been a dream,

that figure,

pearly gown and midnight cloak–

or a ghost,

her auburn hair glowing,

blowing in the wind,

born there, nascent,

or ancient, always there?

She stood atop the stone.

Did she breathe–

inhaling, exhaling,

expanding time?

 

Why did she appear?

What was her message, if indeed there was one?

She was silent,

her words buried in antiquity,

or not yet spoken—

only flowers circling the stone

where none had bloomed before.

 

Day 6—playing with line lengths.

 

 

 

Fire Storms and Honeyed Winds: Magnetic Poetry

I used the same set of words for these two poems. I think the Oracle is upset with the world, as evidenced by her first warning poem. She relented a bit for the second. She also has a unique way of spelling. 😉

1.

What were we watching

as armed thousands screamed,

storming in black-rust seas—

away from beauty?

And after,

ask why

life is not shining,

recall all you wanted

 

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2.

Time-light sings above

together delirious suns play.

You sleep in purple mist,

but smell the summer garden

and honeyed wind.
Here am I–

let your blood beat hot

with mine

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