The Oracle gave me this poem. Then I read about the rioting in front of the White House.
Beneath a death chant is the light
a rock worn smooth by storm
shining black beauty in a dream
of sweet scented petals.
In sleep I want you with an ache
as deep as forest shadows
fiery as the music of the sun
running red with the sweat of who and what we are.
Bare words are bitter
blood is in the rose that lies beneath the skin and
you you you are
the water rushing in urgent torrents.
I am am am
the blue of the mother ship
sailing through the rain before the wind
that blows away all sorrow.
Listen to the foam whisper of the waves
watch for me in the soaring gulls
I am coming
rising with the tide.
For Colleen’s photo prompt.
The image is from Pixabay, by Michael Seibt
heart of the world
beats to the sound of pipes
and the endless laughter of running
in the green heart of the world the
silence of music reigns
no human ear
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Kong Jun via Unsplash
In the café the local radio talked about nothing else, the tiger shark, possibly, and the preparations to ‘deal with it’.
“No going in the sea for you two today,” they said, the parents, settling down under the beach umbrella where mother took out her book and father promptly went to sleep.
None of which stopped the twins going down to the water, just to look, and paddling into the shallows where nothing big could possibly be lurking.
To celebrate Europe, I’ve put together a few of my favourite songs. Sorry Portugal, Denmark and the old Eastern block, my culture isn’t broad enough to know much about your music.
I have a soft spot for Charles Trenet. My mother knew all his songs. The nuns at her school taught them…
The music of my London student days.
Andrea Boccelli because I love this song.
Belgium is Brel.
Three in one (I know Norway isn’t strictly Europe). A Spaniard singing a song in German written by a Norwegian.
How to pick just one?
This makes me weep buckets. I know. Shame it’s not the whole song. I love Anthony Kearns.
A bonus to make up for it…
I wrote a ring of words just now
and folded it away
because it feared the light and the night
and all the blue and misty things
that beset words out alone.
Words must be strong and straight
tall as oak trees broad as oceans
and they must have a heart that beats
to the rhythm of the dying day
the rising sun
and the dancing of hares
in the moonlight.
Paul Dear hosted the dverse prompt on Tuesday, and the result was this, a song without a tune. Paul, whose talent knows no bounds, heard a tune in the words and transformed my poem song into a real song. This is it. The rough version. Maybe he’ll post another version when Tony Visconti’s finished with it 🙂 Thanks Paul, I’m very flattered.
[Play the song](https://clyp.it/yrxai2jo)
Since we’re in ottava rima mode for dverse, here’s another one for the Real Toads prompt, based on this quote:
“’Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!” – Dracula
When sunset’s fire fades to deepest dark,
Midnight’s children scatter through the sky,
A mantle woven from the primal spark,
For this, each day, the sun’s fate is to die.
Music of the stars, song of the lark,
Work their magic, dreams spread wings and fly.
I walk the paths of day and skim the night,
On swallow’s wings into the birth of light.
Today’s magnet poems came one from each of the Poet, Nature and Original word sets.
Cry in the wind,
black tears for lost love.
Moon in shadow sleeps,
her music stilled—
not a thousand years enough
to smooth away the ache.
Earth is berry-bright
in a harmony of greens—
the dark cycle’s over.
Listen to the fullness grow,
at dusk fall,
when light rain murmurs
its sweet, gentle song.
Ask me never
We two share
your joy is mine.
There wasn’t a Three Line Tales prompt this week, or if there was, I didn’t see it, so here’s a three line tale based on the painting for my own Sunday Strange microfiction challenge.
When the Little God discovered that his Tree of Life had been vandalised, its branches broken and its first flowers stolen, he screamed for the likely culprits, his Six Miserable Sisters, who appeared with the evidence of their crime in their hands.
“Mother told you not to mess with things,” said the eldest sister, “and if you don’t want your backside tanning you’ll leave Creation to your elders in future.”
Pouting, as only a Little God can, he waited until his sisters had gone and peed, a long, golden, Little God pee onto the stricken tree, and smirked, a nasty Little God smirk when the golden stream worked its magic, and new, putrid blossoms began to take form on the stricken limbs.
Last try for today.
I dream a sea symphony
of water pounding,
watch the diamond spray
mist the sky
with purple shadows.
Sun and storm,
spring rain or shine,
the language of the moon.