Death or birth—choose

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
and smile.


Mapping winter

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 sit in shadows

I got this sonnet style poem from the Oracle this morning.

unmown beneath willows

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.

Blue and blue and blue

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,

spilt blood

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.



Days slip

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.


Days slip

between cup and lip

never tasted


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


but above

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

Ripe peaches

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.

Dreams of children

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.


At sunset

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,


where magic

is waking to a clear sky,

to whisper a wish for peace

and watch the sadness stream away

before the last star sleeps.

When the heart


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.


Aengus 2

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.