The message of the Oracle today was unexpected. I would say she has en election on her mind.
Bald as death in the egg
spilling dark honey into the light mist-pale
are those bitter words (not truth)
driven by ambition and greed.
You would deny the music of the moon
the singing of the stars
claim the sky rains stones
and monsters swim in the deeps.
You will watch the screen nodding sagely
lips whispering agreement at the vitriol
that eats away the fabric of the seat where you sit
and see nothing
while the grip tightens of fist
crushing bone and squeezing out the life blood
and you chant its praise in hollow voices
proud of your new faith.
Why can you not see the petals drifting
smell the scent of roses see the majesty
of the storm that rolls on the hills
swallowing the wind and spitting out pips of silver hail?
Sun woman cradles the black of night
like a mother birthing red dusk and red dawn
calling us to wake together, see the infant world
Blow the summer sky into the past
bury it beneath last year’s dead leaves
and sweep it into purple sleep before the fall.
Dark days are coming
black wind-fingers plucking tree music
scattering leaf notes like startled birds.
The storm will pass
ebb with the hiss of a wild tide
the blue beaten and bruised
and we will learn to tread the frost
follow leaf-veined parchment maps
in search of hidden treasure.
I got this sonnet style poem from the Oracle this morning.
I sit in shadows cast by half-seen dreams
That drip their honeyed light on thirsty ground.
Though storms play, twisting skeins of feathered cloud
And threading them with rain, I close my eyes,
See only summer ocean, swallow-tossed,
with waves of darting blue and lightning forked.
There are roses still that climb the house about,
And songs still sung from tree to sighing tree
In the ancient shining tongues that only
Birds know, sweet and sad, rose-red and raw
With premonitions of the whispered cold,
The bare bones shifting of a year grown old.
It will come the end, hill-stalking black and stark,
Yet in the deepening sky soars spring, the lark.
I wrote a poem this morning, something that came to me shortly after I woke, and visited the Oracle a few hours later. What she gave me was the same decor, different interpretation. This is the Oracle’s poem.
Languid nights of no moon
no wind among the peach trees
just dreams of
blue and blue and blue.
No red and purple sunsets,
across a tranquil landscape
of hilly waves,
but whispered music
from the roses,
rising in salt spray,
pearl pale, dull silver,
that hails the ship of sleep
to sail a sky
shot through with stars,
to carry us where diamonds grow.
I thought the Oracle’s message was going to be gloomy but I kept on turning the pages and I’m fine with where it ends up.
between cup and lip
a river of unborn dreams
into thirsty sand
moon glints in the eye of a fish
swimming dark seas
deep as tree shadows
silent as carp
secrets with white sails
hide in the blinding light
others curl dormant
in stinking mud
mouths full of glittering teeth
there is soft sky
through the broken cloud
the slow sad passage of the night
and the long sigh of going home
where breezes dance
through sun-fire in the grass
time drifts in feathered smoke
with all our ghosts
careless as the laughter of the stars
The Oracle’s message is melancholic (as it often is) and completely appropriate.
Beneath the crushing heat
of torpid walled nights
far from the forest languor of pooled shade
moon-petaled lakes mirror smooth
dreams whisper of rain from skies
pale blue washed sweetly
of clinging clouds of sweat
~I beat grey wings~
soar light as pigeon feathers
as morning mist on a southern sea
woman of water wading
treading distant air with phantom steps
girl quick and eager as memories
shining like the ripe peach
just out of reach.
I opened the ‘original’ word set and saw nothing at all, so tried the ‘poet’ and the Oracle flowed. She knows what’s on our mind and how to tease it out.
when the broken horizon ran red
I read a story of dead children
and their ghosts haunted
the long night.
Listening for their voices
from the time before,
the warm safe time that broke
like a summer sunset
and ran away
to flow in waves of longing among the stars,
I longed for the solace of darkness
not this dancing fire
that never consumes or dies
never laughs or heals.
Life swims a fish-blue ocean
brimming with secret words
a glass where flowers sway
on the bee-loud plain
and wild voices sing,
is waking to a clear sky,
to whisper a wish for peace
and watch the sadness stream away
before the last star sleeps.
I will ignore the black and bitter,
watch the moon,
silver light on the rain-dripping roses,
and let the hushed rain-patter
become distant footsteps,
and I will send
a thousand petalled, feathered words,
silent as sympathy,
and the way the grey dove
leans in to her mate.
These are ugly days and days of beauty,
foulness filtered through light,
beauty marred by misery,
grief rocks the world to the core,
fissuring my heart.
Watch the moon, she says,
not the red sunset, and remember,
looking into the cool ocean depths of sky,
who we once were
and perhaps still are.
The Oracle gave me this poem. Then I read about the rioting in front of the White House.
Beneath a death chant is the light
a rock worn smooth by storm
shining black beauty in a dream
of sweet scented petals.
In sleep I want you with an ache
as deep as forest shadows
fiery as the music of the sun
running red with the sweat of who and what we are.
Bare words are bitter
blood is in the rose that lies beneath the skin and
you you you are
the water rushing in urgent torrents.
I am am am
the blue of the mother ship
sailing through the rain before the wind
that blows away all sorrow.
Listen to the foam whisper of the waves
watch for me in the soaring gulls
I am coming
rising with the tide.
This one came from the Oracle.
I took a breath upon the wind today
as full of life as rock and rose
and sweet as spring water flowing.
A berry fell dark cycle closing
the long and lonely season ending
the fat trout rises.
And yet the light is cold and blue
above the wandering trees
and the breeze listens to songs I cannot hear.
Sometimes I think I could follow
a river wild and free
to the world’s end the wind’s end
but in between lies winter and the frozen strand.
Time flows on and never back like gentle waves
and never softens to summer.
Life flows on and never softens
to the gentle waves of sunlight
that ripple dippled with winged jewels.
Only by moonlight do the apples gleam
and I reach up to pluck them
above the endless silver stream.