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.
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
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.
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
caught in buttercup petals
and I hear in the golden bee-touched bowls
the fierce song of the universe.
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,
is is is
the picture of peace,
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,
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.
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.
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
Her ghost haunts the shards,
life spilling an ocean of wild pictures,
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.
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 the woman in the sky, she says,
through time and tides,
and my tongue whispers light
to banish your shadows.