Nous sommes tombés du haut,
on dit, brillants,
éclat perdu dans les ténèbres osseuses
nous perdons le fil
filant comme des étoiles.
Il était une fois dans un rêve,
enjambé de chevaux bleus,
des petits fleurs blancs poussaient
dans les empreintes de doux sabots¬
et l’odeur de miel. Mais
tout change, file,
dans des flaques d’eau et de sang
la vie sous les bottes,
qui battent la terre jusqu’à la boue—
il n’y aura pas de tempête, pas de cris,
seul les gémissements
d’une étoile qui s’étouffe.
We fell from the summits they say,
dazzling, brilliance lost
in the bone-strewn darkness.
We are losing the thread,
labyrinth unravelling like unstrung stars.
Once upon a time, in a dream,
small white flowers grew
in gentle hoofprints
and the perfume of honey. But
all changes. What runs
in pools of water and blood
is life beneath the boots that beat
the mild earth to mud.
There will be no storm, no screams,
only the whimpering
of a single strangled star.
after the heat and the thickening cloud the night rain pounded dry earth’s skin taut as a drum and we closed the shutters to keep it out. Later when silence returned and the heat, I got out of bed to open the shutters, let in the cool air, and gasped at the unexpected sight of such a crowd of stars
behind grey billows
flimsy intangible screen
stretches space the stars
So stark the dark of this year’s ending
burned black and silent when birds should sing
but here and there are bright lights burning
friendships soft as feathered wing
and through the night the lights are shining
stars and owl song flutter bright
to frosty dawn the world is turning
perhaps some peace this year will bring.
I look from the window at the afternoon sky, clear blue brushed with gold in the west, drawn by a flock of red kites, sailing past on their sinister business, and when I turn back to the penumbra of this interior, blink, the seven stars of the Plough shine back at me, punched, glittering points, on my retinas, a gift of this bright sky that conceals the night.
though the day weaves a blue blanket
to hood the earth
stretch from rim to dusky rim.
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
but take the broken blue
from these old stars
and make the magic happen;
fly into the fire and sing.
No dance is more silver-smooth
more serpentine and sinuous
a sensuous sarabande,
nothing shimmers with more
seraphic soaring motion
than the silent sacred sardana
of the passionate stars.
For the Daily Inkling’s flower power theme.
The force that drives the flower
is the power of the sun,
the thrusting molten rock in fusion
of deep earth fires.
Two furnaces strive,
two anvils, forging titans,
filling the universe with burgeoning stars
and billions of eyes to watch their ascension.
The culmination of this struggle,
burning gases, rocks
and the scintillation of stars—
a shaggy-maned dandelion.
A poem for dverse inspired by this photo taken by the Hubble telescope.
Photo Credit: ESA/Hubble; NASA, ESA and the Hubble Heritage (STScI/AURA)-ESA/Hubble Collaboration
There are stars beyond the stars we see,
And boundless are the paths they dance,
Through forests full of winking eyes,
Reflecting sunsets on the moon.
There are stars beneath the stars that shine,
Reflections of an inner sun,
Where firebirds rise from the ash,
In your deep eyes that search for mine.
Could I reach up with outstretched hand,
And pluck a brilliant from the crown,
A diamond strung from topmost branch
Of the world tree’s canopy,
I’d set it in your hair, to light
The darkness in the coming night.
A ballad poem because I wanted to.
Stars strain at their moorings,
Ships that pass in the night,
On vast oceans of darkness,
And a path of pale moonlight.
Above the sleeping meadows,
And the stilly mirror lake,
The tide has washed the swans ashore,
and nothing’s left awake.
Stars that ride at anchor
In the harbour of the sky,
Wait for dewy morning
And the snow white swans to fly.
The morning star has faded,
And the swans flown from the lake,
The ocean that took you away
Rolls on though my heart break.
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
the colour of oceans—
blue breath lingering
like ice in the grass.
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.
like the roses,
sweet and dark.
I long to see
the moonlight bloom,
in this summer grass—
last tendrils of winter.