Not dreaming

The original word set shouted, ask! at me as it has often lately. So I peeped at the poet set instead. Ask! Twice more. I decided not to fight it.

Ask (you did twice)
will this cold wind blow the cloud away?
Or are the gods laughing at this ephemeral
peace thin as cloud and smoke
that holds up prisoners with hope?

The canopy of the sky is carved
marble baroque and magnificent as Bernini’s,
and beneath we dream
of star-glitter, colour of worlds
and the rhythm of sacred sounds,

but will we wake when the trees whisper,
it is time, or is this all there is,
sleep and the devouring illusion of fools’ fire,
a morning of fleeting memories
full of ghosts?

The arcanes we once lived by
find no grip in this blue; perhaps
some sister-self found comfort there once,
but I am wrapped in the wild and murmuring
magic part of the we I make with you.

No need to ask

No need to ask the meaning of
the whispers blowing on the lake,
black as stormy days, and nights
of restless tongues.

They cry death,
and even in our dreams,
the red ship casts its shadow
on the waves.

All about, above, beneath,
and through the spaces in-between,
the light that leaks is grey
as sea spray, cold as bitter rain.

We watch the pictures form in blood
and weeping, and pretend we walk
light-footed, cloaked in blue
soft as summer seas.

Yet in the cool and damp of forest leaves,
I hear the purple voice of mother-mist,
singing the sweet sun, not lost,
but sleeping with the fallen rose.

Last light morning

Beautiful misty morning and a Samhain message from the Oracle. Don’t even mention zombies, broomsticks or ghosts with chainsaws to me, please.

Sing life in the morning on waking,
the sleep dream lingering,
draped in dawn-dapples and the mist of imaginings.

Sing, with bird chatter
keeping the rhythm,
the chug-chug-chugging of insect and seed-search,

and at the end, when night falls,
sing the death song,
sail out the last ship onto dark seas,

swell rolling, oiled satin,
let the last sound
be one of sweet sorrow.

Purple music

A visit to the Oracle to clear the fug of painkillers (or to wallow in it). Good old Odilon has the perfect dream picture to accompany her message.

I dream of gardens
where the scent of honey hangs
thick beneath the trees

and shadows walk quiet in the purple light,
understanding tattooed in song
beneath their skin.

I walk the paths
we walked together once
when the world was kind.

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.

Heartbeat

Another barbaric murder in the name of obscurantism and religion. How do we combat the darkness inside the head?

We are one beat away,
on the forest path that skirts the cliff,
from sea of leaves
and sea of cold and rocky waves.
We are the sail
that brushes the edge of the storm,
in the wind veering to reefs or harbour.

We are all one beat away from the void,
the untying of the threads
that bind us to all living things,
and yet there are hands in the wind,
and along the cliff path they loiter,
those who would decide in our name
which way we fall.

Not sadness

An arc of song
like a rainbow
over the lake

a sea symphony
rolls into the wind
sun soars

and even the death of day
gathering shadows
like thistledown and blackberries

summons moonlight
and the milky spill
of Boann’s stars.

Things that are thicker than water

There is blood in friendship,
it irrigates gardens,
distills in the colours of sunsets,
pours like nectar from the honeysuckle
or rain from storm clouds.

Whispered voices blow in blue winds,
shaking the roses, and petals fall
with the clang of bronze,
but the sea still laps the shore
in the sweet salt breath of the tides,

and the moon’s hand
strokes the waves,
gentle as a mother,
kissing her child’s hair.

Just the end of something

It is not bitterness
that runs through the deepening sky,
wind and water braided,
shot with the palette of infinity;
the black is not death
or ulterior motive
and behind, always
the night ocean swells

~diamond-strung~

petals fall
torn by end of summer wind,
white, red, pink
piled beneath shadows,
and the moon that soars
in the bird’s egg blue of the sky
will always hatch
another winged spring.

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.