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”

NaPoWriMo-Day 2, This is the Way

This is the Way

Ghosts are the way we remember–
the salt cheese we ate
made of river fog and tears

on the beach where quahogs and oysters
opened mouths sparkling with seaweed miracles,
and we were full of longing—so much–

like the cyclops unbidden, unhidden, un-sniffed by
truffle pigs, one-eyed defeaters,
the eaters of snouts.
But we heard their songs,
pungent as cloves, flying

on owls’ wings, as
the artillery shot flowers above your head.
and made puddles at your feet,
and, you slid into their mercurial waves,
falling, falling,
now do you remember?

Today’s NaPoWriMo Prompt was to write a surrealistic poem inspired by words in the given list. We were asked to write questions about the words we chose, and then base a poems on the answers. I just used the words as a prompts for a surrealistic poem.

New Poem in Ekphrastic Review Challenge

The New Bucephalus, Edgar Ende










My poem “A Dream” is up in the Ekphrastic Review’s Challenge using the above painting, “The New Bucephalus” by Edgar Ende. My thanks to editor Lorette C. Luzajic. I’m in good company this time with friends Kerfe Roig and Kim Russell. You can read all of the poems here (mine is near the end).

In the Garden of If and When-After


Odilon Redon, Beatrice


Her garden lives in ifs,

it is sweet pink whispers

beating away the black.


Music mists a symphony of the sea,

licking rocks

to soar and spray in the wind,


dream shadows play

beneath a honeyed moon,

and the sky smells of summer rain.


So, she watches there–

not asking why–

in timeless beauty of when-after,


and she sings through rose petal-light,

of blood, life, love, and life.


I needed this bit of surrealism. The Oracle always knows. I think this could be where she lives.

Dream Sea, NaPoWriMo


Odilon Redon, “Flower Clouds,” [Public Domain],Wikipedia


The sky whispers a flowered song

scented with tangerines, honey,

and blue berried-visions.


(I feel the taste

of the shimmering mirage,

briny-cool and warm summer peach .)


Our mast shivers from

the vibrations, the language

of strutting peacock clouds.


The eyes watch

and guide us

in the golden light—


as we sail–

timeless and tide-whorled–

on a sea of dreams.


Day 21 of NaPoWriMo challenges us to “try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.”







Open the Star: Magnetic Poetry

Open the Star


A child, a girl, explores,

lingering with the red star.

(Open it.)

It will fool the dark cloud

and no one need live a life

bleeding, dirty, and sad.

But this then—

you must listen to

voices throb in ocean rhythms,

secrets of time and universe make magic.

Go and wake.

Let your heart breeze

with peace.





A bit of surrealism? A myth from the Oracle?

Dream Light–Magnetic Poetry

Let me see dream light

whisper shadow music of red moons—

a language of aches, wind, water,

and time,

singing honey-tongued

of what was or never is

beneath a thousand whys


Embed from Getty Images


The Oracle is enigmatic today, as usual.

Forest Dream: Magnetic Poetry

From the forest

languid language soars.

You watch the rain beating

on rocks,

say my skin smells of dreams

and water runs fast beneath my feet.

A ship screams at the lake,

“who is driving death?”

And I cry,

aching if and why.


Henri Rousseau, “Le Rêve,” (The Dream), [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons









I haven’t consulted The Oracle in a couple of weeks. She gave me this bit of surrealism. It fits my mood.