Why blue?

I asked the Oracle, why so much blue? This is what she replied.



Joy is in colour,

the red of mornings,

the slow glint of silver fish scales in the stream,

ice dazzle, and the cool steel glitter of stars,

in the milky coffee of storm clouds

tinged with flame at sunset,


~but blue is day and night~


at the earth’s heart,

veining watercourses and dead marble,

filling the sky, pooling in cupped flowers;

it is the wild voices of the birds,

the colour of oceans, and, when we sleep,

of sailboats full of dreams.

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.




As Merril suggested, I tried out the ‘love’ set of magnets. Not a fan. The Archbishop of Canterbury would probably like it. After serious pruning I got this though. The youngest is finally making it home in about an hour, so I think the Oracle was speaking through the faith, God and angels stuff. As is often the case, Odilon Redon painted a beautiful illustration for me.


Am I mother

the strong star

or the dew dropping

coaxing small lives?


The night blossoms with questions


carried on owl wings

soft as silence.



Above below and through the dream,

the song of the moon,

wild cry of the owl calling her mate,

hoofbeats on dry earth,

the tidal hiss of wind in the leaves.


Death grows next to life,

in the rose-honey garden,

in the shadows beneath the hedge,

in symphonic sea pictures,

the sleep of a thousand years of deep earth.


Yet the blue always soars above the grey,

white-winged and endless,

storm spends itself on summer hills,

sweetly meadowed

in a whis s s s per of running water,


and you, I, we, together

sing the dark away

from forest floor,

the ship from the black rocks,

watching spring swell in the soft rain,


nights of running hares in the moon-mad light,

the wash of sky water across the field,

and peace falling slow as ripening plums

and the fledging of chicks

in their swaying treetop nests.

The question is the answer

I paid attention to the emphasis the Oracle placed on certain words, the repetitions and came up with a surprising result, the flag-waving insistence in the middle, that this was important, nota bene, and the last page of words that contained some of the same words as the first.



I look for the right question

in sky-shine or in the dark,

beneath wave-lapped rocks.


Intangible, it blows away,

silent as the moon,

unhatched, unformed, while

fingers sift through fallen petals.


I listen for it

in the scream of the storm,

watching the high water

tongued by the wind…



it it it

is is is

in in in


the touch of mist on your cheek,

the whisper of a dream,

the cry of a night bird,

singing sweet summer—


how is light, how words,

how music and the sun,

how we, how beauty,

how rain making shadows,


and through the cold spray

of time, the years

of asking

the question and the answer,


both are there

in sky-shine,

in the deep cool beneath sea rocks

and love.

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

Diamond days

The Oracle sent me anniversary wishes. Not the diamond one yet, but our wedding anniversary nonetheless. Happy us 🙂


This diamond day glitters with new sun

exploding in dew drops

to the chanting of the birds

dreams dreamed by moonlight

love in the rain

and songs in the shadows

swell like storms of joy


you whisper

come with me the ship is waiting


sailing through nights and days

(like Mad Max)

fast and blue with light and life

yet no rocks loom to rip and tear

only the majestic sun

that plays on moving water

with silver tongue.

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.