Random word generator

I’m getting this in early because I won’t have time later. 100 random words from Oracle II. My poem is below. The Oracles work as a team.

Waiting for the rain

I hear the crash of dark waves
and the intake of mussel breath.
Lighthouse, coastguard, the beacon on the hill,
sentinel from another time, watch the darkness.
Fear, trepidation or curiosity hold our gaze,
waiting to see what will drag itself into the world.

We challenge history, deny the truth,
draw it out like chewing gum,
wrap it around a stick and toss it in the fire.
We have always done it, rewritten the facts,
and it has always been to justify
the flawed incubus of the present.

Some word associations feel uncomfortable
like Satanic verses, yet we see them
writ large in fiery letters every day,
their net cast and drawn in, wriggling and squirming
with the dark deformed things
that should never have seen the light.

Quickening, the leap of joy
that sometimes missteps
and never leaves the crucible of potential.
Not every wish is granted, not every shoot will blossom.
The quick and the dead, all the same in the end,
it’s just a question of time.

Cloud hangs low, damp smoke billowing,
and we watch for stray lightning bolts, listen for thunder.
Most of all we listen for rain, not the gentle foam hiss
among dry leaves, but the purifying torrent.
Night falls with the first drops
amid the release of withheld breath.

Random word generator

Another 100 random words to play with. My poem follows.

Hope perhaps

The clouds are scattered long since,
promises of rain unfulfilled
no plums on the wild trees, no cherries
and apple trees brown and autumn-dry.

Something soars with the heron
through the harsh bronze light,
with steady wing beats, grey as clouds
from a heavy sea. Hope perhaps.

I dream of deep pools, cool weed-tangle,
where silver fish flick their tails
jack-knifing the gloom and filling it
with the soft glitter of moonlight.

Random word generator

100 random words for any Sunday poets feeling too hot to look any further for inspiration, followed by the poem they gave me.

This ocean is dry

I watch the curved fall of a grey feather,
wind-cradled, while pigeons murmur lullabies,
and rain whispers, a waking dream,

where feet skim snow, skin tingles
with the sting of cold flakes, ice cracks,
but the sound bends back into the now,

the crisp tread is brown and brittle,
the sucked dry stalks of dead meadows,
and I skim sand-baked earth.

The waves of this ocean are billows of heat,
the sting woodsmoke, the smell of burning,
the patter of raindrops is the crackle of flames.

We are encircled by creeping fires,
the curved balancing feather falls,
caught in the wrong wind.

Something better is coming, perhaps

Cadralor inspired by yesterday’s Mechanical Oracle word suggestions.

Something better is coming, perhaps

The letter stays unwritten,
the bell tolls in the rain,
and faces turn away, thin lips tightened,
keeping their words of kindness
for themselves.

The river has burst its banks,
the bridge unpassable.
Caught between here and high waters,
I wade into the leaf-swirl,
become a broken branch.

Summer oranges
in the sieved sunlight,
the smell of bread and coffee,
such wealth in this room
that has only ever known poverty.

The scales are level but only here,
on this cusp of time and place.
Beyond, greedy hands are building the pyre.
So much ash in the balance,
and I have nothing left to counter it all.

Night trees roll in a wave of ink,
the fierce day is over,
its heat drenched in the cool swell,
and joy in the shadows runs wild,
dark and sweet as purple wine.


Inspired by the random words of the previous post.


The destruction of Sennacherib has been told,
and the wolf falling down on the fold we know well,
and the silver tongues urging the uplifted spears
of the cohorts all gleaming in purple and gold.

Will you come to the seashore and sift through the tides,
for the booty of war that’s washed up on the rocks?
Will you lend half an ear to the guiltless who cry,
to the mothers who weep, to the mothers who die?

There is nowhere to hide from the sickness we spew,
no earth magic saves from the death we have forged,
for we worship the power of bright shiny steel,
and sacrifice women to religious zeal.

A Sea Wolf’s wish

Sometimes, the words go off on a strange tangent. Inspired by the random word selection in the previous post, there’s perhaps a poem in it.

A Sea Wolf’s wish

He makes a wish,
the lodestone showing north,
for the calming of the seas
and the calming of the storm.

The timbers of the deck are slick with water,
the sky as black as a whale’s dark throat,
and life has never seemed so sweet.

He needs no more wealth than his arms can hold,
needs only an oar to pull and a narrow ship
to take him home to the ones who are waiting.

His eye is fixed on the gap in the clouds,
the scrap of sky with a bright star showing,
and the trough of the waves is a passage grave,
the light at the end, a winter hope.

Through the fog of cloud
and the storm spray blowing,
the lodestar shines and the timbers crack,
the sound of the waves is his homestead weeping,
sinews shrieking and the snap of oars.

But the wish and the star and winter hope
find a path through the spray and the storm clouds breaking,
and he hears not weeping but bright, wild laughter,
as he follows the gulls and the guiding seals.


Poem inspired by the random words posted by Merril Smith here.
Painting The Story of Creation II by Franz Marc.


We tread with no shame
on the bones of our ancestors,
close our ears to the revolt of the earth,
the anger boiling in its entrails.

We run to the sea,
see blue and blue and blue,
our dreams slip through plastic mesh,
tasteless, invisible, deadly,

it doesn’t stop the parade
or the poverty of the water;
we have the simulacra in concrete cages,
wild-grace humiliated.

This soil, loam, clay, holds worlds and histories,
more wisdom than we will ever wield,
we who tread without shame,
wearing our ignorance with pride.

Looking backwards forwards

This cadralor was inspired by the randon words Merril posted yesterday here. If you feel inspired, please use them and send her a link to the poem.

Looking backwards forwards

The seed fell in the night
and was enfolded by the earth,
reaching down tentative roots,
stretching up to the dawn ,
its glorious tree-destiny.

I sat before the painting
that most passed by,
intrigued by something
no one else could see,
a memory of a long-ago home.

Night falls fast now,
and the river’s voice is loud,
forcing its violence
into the peaceful feathered thoughts
of summer flown.

Through the window, the sky is square,
the clouds untidy blotches
on washed-out blue,
a painting full of clichés.
I walk out to take the correct measure of things.

My mother knew more than she ever said,
for fear of appearing stupid, out of turn.
I remember her especially in the kitchen,
the love in every gesture,
in every cubed vegetable in my soup.