What light!
No window in the sky,
no frame where clouds wander wide,
and in the dying gold,
the orioles in the poplars’
highest summits drink the last,
syrup sweet and thick,
and give it back in flute-song
to those without such gifts,
who listen in grateful awe.
Tag: sky
Pilots just wanna have fun
We rarely see a vapour trail here, very occasionally one on the lower western horizon. But from time to time we do get military jets as there’s a big base 100kms south of us. This morning the sun was back, and the sky to the south was covered in loopy ribbons that can only be jet trails.
They start in the east
make a great knot due south
and veer off south west in squiggles like snail trails.
Looks suspiciously like the military having fun at the tax payers’ expense…
Stormless
no storm
instead a cloud ballet
operatic brush strokes
pirouetting Turneresque
tossing flames amid the cotton tufts
rain forgotten.
Simply the sky
there is sky all day
though clouds come and go
sun-chasing
rain-washed
and we walk with downcast eyes
there is sky behind the dark lines of dusk
when the sun drops out of sight
and the light in the puddles is quenched
reflecting the ocean
of unreflecting cloud
there is sky all night
though the blue has gone
star-pricked or dark cloud-dappled
and we sleep
dreaming of rainbows and butterflies
there is sky at waking
as moonlight fades
silver into pale gold
suffusing grey with pink then blue
overarching mother
Pastel
Sky
deep dark and purple black
night songs in owl velvet
ghost riding
the midnight blue wind—
dawn-broken
daffodil gold light
washing moon-pale banks of morning
powder blue and pastel
as Corot’s palette.
When purple
For the OctPoWriMo prompt ‘purple’.
When purple
after blue
and red
fading deep
night
and shadows merge
a deer
and the tableau lives
a moment suspended
dusk dawn daynight
distillation of hues
to make flesh
red leaves
fall and drift.
Blue star-fire
The Oracle gave me two poems today. Though I used two different word sets, the words and images are similar. I get the message.
It brings wild colour to the morning
this bird-joy and laughter,
blue fire to the waking sky.
As some see stars in the dark
not ghosts, so our unclouded words
open the dance of the vastness of eternity
in a breath of night magic.
Ask and you will receive
or not,
but take the broken blue
from these old stars
and make the magic happen;
fly into the fire and sing.
Moons
I found these words jotted down at the beginning of a story file. No idea what they were doing there, but they read like a poem.
moon-mystery
myth
river of night swelling
with starfish unnetted
silver world-flood
Photo ©Paul Militaru
Sea, turquoise and fuchsia
Sea,
wine-dark,
rolls on drunken waves
from sky to sky
and calls down boiling storm clouds
to drown my tears
in rivers of rain.
*
Voices in the fog,
ghosts of you and me.
I can almost remember
what we used to say,
but not how it felt.
*
It was the last time that we spoke,
and the words bounced back and forth
never taking hold.
I wish I could take those words
and twist them into the shape
of a bird or a rose
and give them to you again.
*
Take a song and sing it soft
to calm a stormy sea,
spread your crow black wings and let
the wind blow you safe back to me.
*
Beyond the humdrum
and the dismal damp
of November light,
sinking into obscurity,
the turquoise and fuchsia
and the flame red
of summer evenings
still sing to conjure up the moon,
and we will walk there
hand in hand beneath the stars.
Frost-coloured roses
As today is Saturday, (not yesterday ahem) I decided to pay a return visit to the oracle. I like what she had to say.
The cool-fingered moon
has no time
for those who sleep
in the shadow of death.
Storm sings mad music
that soars, screaming
into the black sky,
like love lost at sea.
Stars sail home,
night sky flying,
their sad, secret poetry
perfumes the dark
with clouds,
the colour of oceans—
blue breath lingering
like ice in the grass.
One moment,
a regard,
a voice in the night—
language of the heart.
Dream a river of music,
sing songs of the sun,
fly me to you
on wings bright
as the evening star.
Dusk falls
like the roses,
sweet and dark.
I long to see
the moonlight bloom,
frost colour
in this summer grass—
last tendrils of winter.
Jane Dougherty Writes 