I tried the new ‘Happiness’ word set, and frankly, I’m not overjoyed. Three ‘happiness’, plus a ‘happy’, a ‘laugh’, two ‘laughter’, two ‘rainbow’ endless ‘sun’, ‘shine’ and ‘sunshine’ and there’s even a single tile of ‘blue sky’. There is such a thing as egging the pudding.
Happiness by the yard
The warmth of between shines beneath the dark above. Enigmatic¬— shall we try for wonder, the full sunshines of the weather report? Will she give her heart to this one or to that?
All this dancing together hand in hand, this spring of love and laughter sounds like wishing, a desire to be surprised by everything.
Life must be fun, a procession of days without rain, endless smiles, starry skies, and we always dare to eat that peach.
Bluebirds and rainbows, unicorns too, no doubt and love-flowers press us to enjoy, look away and forget.
But barefoot bliss is strewn with the jagged fragments of those dreams that never came true, the nagging hand in the back, pushing to the edge and whispering, Jump.
We lost internet Wednesday so I missed prompts. The dverse prompt was to write a chant poem. I saw it last night and wrote a response. I wasn’t feeling very good, so it reflected how I felt, I suppose. This morning I consulted the Oracle, still feeling completely washed out, and she gave me a poem that’s practically the same as the one I wrote last night. Hmm.
Drums roll in this dark sky and in this deep earth and they roll and roll in the silence of my head.
Sky is dark and dark is the drumming holes punched in the night and the light streaming through comes from a world’s lifetime away.
Dark drums roll through the hole in my head that lets the light stream like sand from my hand
and they wink in time the stars in the sky-light to the martial beat just pips in the night.
The beat (in collaboration with the Oracle)
The beat is bitter drums in my head raking coarse fingers through the garden of growing things red water pouring among the lilies.
Even the sun sweats cloud tears crushing the light into pink fragments at dusk.
Is there life in this tongue that screams through the rain spray where swallows soared
or did it wash away among the lilies and the debris of the roses?
I look out at the July rain, listen to the thunder roll, the wind in the chimney, mop the water off the floor and try to find the voice of summer. In the livid meadow, feral cat shelters beneath a hay bale, watching the kestrel stoop and take the vole from the trickling stalks. There is no end, no stopping of the wheel, even though we have no use for these muddy times. sun sinks in storm cloud and spotting rain—somewhere it rises golden