Could it be blue?

Could it be blue

the answer to the question this time

or a blow crushing the head

the tearing of hair

like rags of mist rising from the lake?

 

We tongue words

who when what

but life is no less purple-red

the sky still glows brazen bold and

you you you

beneath it still gaze at your feet

making shadows that scream at the light.

 

I I I

peer through distant rain to the sea where blue blows

longing to soar on sail-wings over diamond-spray

and curling wave water.

I

toss you a rose

urging asking willing

you to raise your face to the sun

to smell the wind full of salt and flowers.

 

Take my hand and we will go there

into the blue

together.

And the deep dark follows us

And the deep dark follows us into the earth

along the path to the mountains’ roots,

 

no warm wandering in the sun,

blossom to berry, dawn to dusk,

 

a river of light.

 

Watch the fruit fall from the horns of the moon

and the stones bloom with the colours of happiness.

 

Will they seed-spring, tendril-twine,

or will all wither on the vine and

water run dry, bird, bee fall silent

and leave the rain-quiet glade?

 

The air still breathes gentle in the grass beneath the shade of

forest trees, singing the songs of why and which, you and I,

 

making poetry from frost flowers

and the rustle of rose petals

falling though a summer night.

Broken are the good

A visit to the Oracle which probably fits the GloPoWriMo theme of dreams too. The painting (naturally) is by Odilon Redon again.

Broken are the good

though they were flawless as marble

they sail now among the slow stars. I

s s s

see their yellow-prowed ships

in the meadow among the flowers.

Is life only because death?

Between dawn and dusk

what does the waking rhythm say

words music or the digging of dark holes?

Is is is

this their time then the leaving

with trails of memories in their wake

a phosphorescent stream?

I touch the pale echo of their passing

ing ing

caught in buttercup petals

and I hear in the golden bee-touched bowls

the fierce song of the universe.

Until we wake

I ask

can I drink this blue breeze

that slips through the window

with the perfume of morning

as as as

cool as an ocean of stars and as secret?

Can I fish for comets in the night,

in the glassy green stream

that flows from the cradle of the universe?

You you you

listen and smile your soft, sad smile,

This

is is is

the picture of peace,

you say,

the magic of words and music.

We may set red sails together,

paint the sky with salt poetry,

speak with the voice

s s s

of time, and until we wake,

we will fly with white gulls

and the scudding clouds.

A cry in the night

 

A cry in the night,

dark of the moon,

the sky is sleeping,

and we are in this purple bed barque together

at at at

sea beneath the rain.

 

Listen to its music,

smell the blue beauty of coming day.

Still, even shadows hide only peace,

darkness and owl-cry, mystery.

 

We whisper

s s s

What did you dream?

Is it still running behind your eyes?

 

I remember no raw sloe-scratching bitterness,

only your breath tongued by the wind,

urging my wings through the light,

s s s

soaring with red rose petals

into the pink-flushed waters of morning.

In the window of the morning.

The Oracle sent yet another poem about a tragic female figure. I found this Waterhouse painting to fit the subject, and there is a window, onto another morning.

A child explores a broken cup in the grass.

Had it held poison once, does she remember

the woman weeping in despair

and and and

desire?

Her ghost haunts the shards,

life spilling an ocean of wild pictures,

a a

an embrace then death.

 

She raises the cup to her lips,

her dreams stirring uneasily,

lets the liquid memory pour

in perfumed peace, a slow stream.

 

Would time have made a difference?

 

The girl shakes her head with a soft smile,

Best to make an end

and sleep in the arms of the trees.

 

From the night, the woman sighs, agrees,

Let the day grow dark,

so so so

this glass may shine

like a star in the grass

for a child to find

in the window of another morning.

Light and shadows

I had a feeling the Oracle had another uplifting message for today. Mine was not what I was expecting.

She swims in madness;

round her feet roses play

bitter-thorned, blood red.

 

You you you

want the wind that sings on the skin

s s s s

and watch in the sun

while she sleeps in darkness.

 

A death blow, you said

in these petals that fall with the moon

to scatter on the sea

and you play music, for your ears not hers,

let her lie in her goddess gown.

 

She turns her face, hair floating, framed

I am

I am the woman in the sky, she says,

through time and tides,

and my tongue whispers light

to banish your shadows.

Begone.