Tree voices

Just wondering if the Oracle was watching and if she pays much attention to this time of year.

 

This brilliant dark throbs in time

to the rhythm of the stars,

and night lingers in your eyes

as we wake

to the vast wilderness of morning,

lying hushed and listening

to green things growing,

with tree voices,

the colour of peace.

 

 

Trek through space

I was curious to know what makes the Oracle often give the same message to both Merril and myself. I asked her, using a word set I never use (the Geek set). She answered. I think she’s telling me to stick to what I ought to be doing and let her bother about the rest.

 

I asked her,

“How come we share

the complete code,

this stream of information?”

“Trek through space,” she said,

“Find the source of starlight and write.

Make your world live.”

Dark sleep and rose petals

Seasons and mood are definitely changing.

 

The dark surrounds,

no star beats to wake time.

Do I have a hole in my heart,

or do I see the magic in things,

the joyless morning

that flies into the wild blue

of forever?

 

 

 

Beat away the moon

that shines through my window

in a sea of bitter light,

shot with pounding rain.

Rip out the storm from my sleep,

strew rose petals

in these shadowed skies.

Second thoughts

I wouldn’t usually consult the Oracle on a whim, but the OctPoWriMo prompt suggested it, and I thought she might be offended if I ignored it. I used the ‘Love’ word set this time. I usually stick to the ‘Original’ and ‘Poet’ sets.

 

You promised me love,

the sun and the stars,

if we joined our souls

to the same sweet song,

to touch two dreams

with light and night,

soaring music of the heart.

But the river runs ever on,

and I wonder, is this a nest

 

of vipers?

 

 

 

 

A red rose blows

The Oracle soothed rattled nerves this morning. The heavy artillery is into its fourth day and our pheasants are still roaring out their ‘Here we are!” calls. I dread the pappy up the road hearing them.

The first flocks of geese and storks are heading south. At night. A bunch of storks right overhead had us leaning out of the window to see if we could see them against the stars, and they fell silent except for the odd cronk. They’d lost it and were whirling about like dead leaves. It was a while before they recovered themselves and carried on south.

 

Open the picture,

listen to the geese

as they fly overhead.

Look about you at the sky,

the stars are smiling with joy.

Sail away, no regrets,

make this peaceful ocean home.

 

 

Dead Day is coming

with its lightless shadows,

a thousand years and more

of ghost music played to the moon.

And still I dream that somewhere,

over the sad water,

a red rose blows in the sun.

 

 

By the hair of the moon

The first poem from the Oracle is linked to the manuscript I’ve been working on over the last couple of weeks. In the second poem, I wanted the line to read:

across the skin of the water

but the oracle wouldn’t let me. I presume she had her reasons.

 

I will linger

by the vast green ocean

for eternity, beneath a blue sky,

you said,

and never need to remember a time

when I could not hear your voice,

or see the broken stars in your eyes.

 

 

Bitter as winter light,

no diamond days remain;

those days are over,

but the hair of the moon still flies

above the skin of the water,

licked by the wind

of some other sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let the ship sail

This is mood music. I’m glad I let the Oracle continue. I didn’t think she’d pose a question without providing an answer.

 

 

I remember clouds by colour,

their slow warmth growing

with the daylight,

like laughter of ghosts,

dancing away the darkness.

Listen to the sky,

the salt stars are weeping.

 

 

 

Cool moon

on forest silence sits,

nothing stirs,

wind whispers no music

to the shadows,

rain patters, unheard by any ear.

Why this sadness, this aching,

when life’s juices are brimming over?

 

 

Let the ship sail

from these shores,

its prow to the sun.

No regrets,

those are for the sad and lonely

not the dreamers.

 

Birth magic

A birthday greeting from the Oracle. She always knows.

 

On this day

you were born,

a star sailing into the morning,

belly filled with magic

opened to life,

the night wakened,

the world was complete.

Death cry of a small thing

Sunday is the day of the hunter here. The Oracle obviously knows. I shouldn’t have tempted her.

 

Death cry of a small thing—

I lick my wounds

beneath a heavy sky

shot with rain.

Though shadows fall,

rose red and peach pink,

in my heart, they are purple,

black-petaled and stained with rust.

 

 

Green magic

The Oracle certainly knew what she was doing with this one! I’m on the final volume of my rewrite, making sure all the threads link up at the end.

 

Could I listen with less joy

to the universal song

or watch the clouds dance

in the soft salt sky?

Life is both dark voices

calling in the night

and the Green Woman’s magic

spinning morning from fiery blue stars.