The Oracle’s message today called for the birdlings.
between night
and the hour that fills
the spirit
with wingsong,
be as if joined together–
skydancing the light
midvein
fiber
in the midst
My message this morning from the Oracle. I woke once again to clouds, but the sun is shining now.
spring winters
deep beneath the riverpath–
a dark season
thicker than dusk
did you fall moonwandering
into the long night?
or were you too bird-rooted
and windwild to see? that
earth also breathes light–
full of treesong, growing in-between
The art is from NaPoWriMo 2018, when all my accompanying artwork was inspired by painter Joan Mitchell. I haven’t thought that far ahead this year; this April, I’ll just be visiting the archives for art I think.
Star Children
stardust embodied–
matter merely a vessel
for luminous spirit–
did you find what was lost?
the spiraling center
returned to elemental form–
in life but not of it–
stardust embodied
opening into dreamtime,
orbiting the moon,
spinning to the farthest away–
matter merely a vessel
empty spaces crossing
infinite galaxies–
wings sailing oceans
of luminous spirit
a welcoming heart, a gentle touch,
warm arms to enclose you
in peaceful sleep–
did you find what was lost?
I did these embroidered watercolors and accompanying poem for the Kick-About prompt that asked us to look at the Père Lachaise Cemetery. My response was inspired by the Jewish Children’s Memorial, below.
Today is International Holocaust Remembrance Day.
In memory of all our lost children, all those without homes. The numbers grow larger every day.
windward
the bridge to night,
hushed and wakeful,
asks me questions–
the words cast spells,
hushed and wakeful,
delicate and cobwebbed, into
ice—a sudden snow
asks me questions,
but I remain cloistered–
self-contained, undreamed—
the words cast spells–
maps sailing silent
unknown boundless seas
I started to construct a quadrille for dVerse, using the word ice given to us by Mish, and words from the Random Generator which Merril posted on Sunday. When I saw Colleen’s Ekphrastic prompt, above, it gave me a focus for what I had begun. I used the trimeric form.
Unraveled
A current of remembering simmers beneath the surface, on the edges, seeking awareness. Everything I do is stitched with its color. But I see only its reflection, outlined on the other side of the mirror. My core, my being, is threaded, waiting, but my mind is lost.
Holes fill my reasoning. My synapses are confused, the connections severed. As the navigable landscape grows ever smaller, all my maps lose their meaning. Transformations multiply, and life becomes unrecognizable.
The world now exudes a silent numbness, a freezing intensified by the coldness of wintered minds. We refuse to enter into a relationship with what is real lest we become reshaped by its mystery, its extremes, into awakening, opening. We cling to our tiny virtual selves, unable to see beyond its confines.
Where is history located? I search the fraying patterns for a place to begin mending.
The phrase from W.S. Merwin provided by Lisa for this week’s dVerse prosery, Everything I do is stitched with its color, fit well into the earthweal prompt, where Brendan asked us to respond to an interview with poet Jorie Graham about how her writing has come to be intertwined with environmental concerns. He also provided a poem from Merwin as inspiration.
frozen
bombs are cold
explosions of bitterness
sucking the warmth
out of what remains
of possibility
bombs are greedy
machines, meant only
to destroy, burn
any seeds, annihilate
life
bombs are hungry
voracious conduits
for our worst impulses
eating our souls
from the inside out
A quadrille for dVerse, where Lisa has given us the word warm. In 2014 I did a series called “What Is It Good For?” on memadtwo. There were, as always, many conflicts in the news. Hearing this song from Buddy and Julie Miller this morning, it reminded me of the art from those posts.
It also made me think again of how cold this winter will be for the Ukrainians and so many others the world over. How short our attention span. How little we have learned.
What IS it good for–the guns, the bombs, the dying? We know the answer.
Trees Ring You With Watchful Silence
Hands pause—you whistle between. White bridge slips through your fingers.
Who can number the space of days? To cross them, you must open.
The gate shapes all beginnings, all answers, to equal zero.
Lisa, at Tao Talk, supplied Colleen’s #TankaTuesday image, above. I wanted to try a sijo, which is the Wombwell Rainbow’s form this week. I think I’ve done one before, but it was a long time ago. I like the way it encourages the writer to think about different aspects of the same thought.
I’ve used some embroidered circles I did for a Kick-About prompt as illustration–the Eames Powers of Ten film, a barrage of images, made me think of zero, Lisa’s photo reminded me also of crossing the circles of space and time.
This week’s Oracle 2 words from Jane gave me a starting point–whistle. Which made me think of whistling in the wind. The human condition. Nevertheless, we continue.
You can read the story of the photo at Tao Talk here.
breathing
I woke up this morning thinking of Sue Vincent. The words the Oracle gave me reflect that. She must have been in my dream, although all I remember is the ending which had snow and bright yellow dogs.
The art I was drawn to when looking through the archives for something to illustrate the words was also done for Sue’s prompts.
almost like light
this dusky song
a gentle color
of secret sound
murmured by roots and rain
how to follow
through beneath beside
ask the ancient path
to walk with you
letting go
why wait for now to pass?
always living in to be—
tomorrow is not where we are, ever
each minute, hour, a chance
encounter we can’t foresee
full of spans impossible to measure
where am I? here and now
and no place else—out or in,
over or under, it doesn’t matter
each fragment itself whole–
each moment contained within
the present completeness of forever
I haven’t written a kerf poem in awhile. The W3 prompt this week, a response to Burden of Time by A. J. Wilson, also has the restrictions of 12 lines or less, and the use of the word fragment. The kerf, a 12-line poem, was just right. You can read A. J. Wilson’s poem here.
Illustrations are two variations on the seed of life motif.
K. 