that they are

secrets white

The stars answer each other, singing over and through the wind.  Coming and going follows patterns that signal a chorus of light from within chords I cannot name.

We are not on the same journey, the stars and I.  We go in different directions, down the imperturbable street that seeks both its ending and beginning in a place that can’t be found.  We pass each other on separate orbits, reflected in the pulses of moontides.  We circle and spiral, held by different arrangements of time and space.

Holding the sea, I lift it to the sky, trying to capture and distill the chiaroscuro into a garment of rainbow clouds.  Join me, I ask silently.  Dance with me, become with me a kaleidoscope that shifts the darkness of chaos into currents that gyre together, a collective river of song.

secrets
become visible–
exchange of self

each to the other

Merril’s prosery prompt at dVerse quotes from poet Gwendolyn Brooks:  “We go in different directions down the imperturbable street.”

Merril posted some wonderful photos of light in her Monday Morning Musings today, and several of them reminded me of collages I had done for Jane Dougherty’s microfiction prompts.  This one is from 2016 (you can see the original post here).

DownBound Train

down bound train s

Sleeplessness overtook me as it always did.  I wrestled with my twilit mind as it replayed the inner landscapes waiting patiently behind the mask of the day.  Resigned, I drifted out of myself, captive to the mares of night.

No color, no sound.  Everything happens in slow motion, like an old film running through the fading light of a disintegrating projector.  Once again I descend the staircase down, down, down, looking for the elusive station, the place to redeem my ticket to the place I needed to go.  The tracks remained still, empty, silent.  No one left and no one came. On the bare platform my shoes echo like gunshots, reverberating to the pounding of my heart.

Breaking towards the opening on the other end of the platform, I begin to count my steps backwards.

Another weary night tangled into the sheets of dawn.

down bound close up s

Sara at dVerse gives us a line from poet Edward Thomas to use in our 144 word prosery: No one left and no one came on the bare platform.

Go Away Now

go away now s

Complications sour the air. It sits heavy like a rock, immense and expanding.  I am pinned to the low and the unbending, hard consonants without vowels.

This place reeks of precarious edges and uncertain lines. I am starved for words.  The familiar has become unreadable, untold.  Noises have become forms that weave themselves into a motionless net around each ungathered piece of what might pass for sanity.  I grow continuously neither better nor worse.

I do not remember what I asked of the universe, the cosmic spirits that randomly move the pieces of my life, that giveth sometimes but often only taketh away.

O yes, their ways are mysterious. Blood and Violence merging into Just The Way Things Are.

If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant, deeper, emptier, more ravening than their insatiable hunger.

Let them dine alone—I will swallow myself

go away now close up s

Victoria at dVerse has given us words from poet Jane Kenyon
If it’s darkness
we’re having, let it be extravagant.
for this week’s prosery, a 144 word composition.

I am also linking to The Myths of the Mirror November Writing Challenge–a non-human point of view.

rooted

rooted close up s

I am looking for the parts of me I have lost. Where are they?

The invisible ones, I mean. Not the bones beneath skin, the blood red pulsing, not even the magic helix—no, the stuff that I can only sense inside my thoughts—the currents that should contain all those things that have lived through me, leaving their imprints on my past, on my wishes and dreams, on the choices I have yet to make.

My emptiness continues without plan or path. I recross myself and return over and over to the places I imagine I have already been.

Something sparkles in the branches, catching my attention. I glimpse light moving, connecting one thread to another, forming patterns.  I breathe in my existence.

They have been waiting for me, kept in trust for my return—these memories were left here with the trees.

This is in response to another old photo prompt of Sue Vincent’s (above), from May.  I did the art but never wrote anything to go with it.  Merril’s prosery prompt at dVerse, to use Jo Harjo’s words, “These memories were left here with the trees” in 144 words of prose, reminded me of the photo, so I pulled out the painting again.

rooted s

 

The Stranger

the stranger s

…Stephen Michael West died in the electric chair on Thursday night. Asked if he had any final words, Mr. West said he did.  “In the beginning God created man,” he began before breaking down into sobs.  Then:  “And Jesus wept.  That’s all.”
–Margaret Renkl, from “The Hypocrisy of Execution Day”, NY Times, August 20, 2019

Everybody’s talking at me. It’s the same old song.  Do Wah Diddy.  Ob-la-di, ob-la-da.  Knockin on heaven’s door.  Iko iko.  Thy Kingdom Come.

Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody really care? Who knows where the time goes?  Every day is a winding road.  Where the streets have no name.

Don’t you know I’m only human? I was hungry, just barely alive.

Here comes Mr. Tamborine Man, playing his song for me. I hear a symphony. “You will love again the stranger who was yourself.”  “Jesus loves you more than you will know.”

Woe woe woe.

He’s just a soul whose intentions are good: “All you need is love.”

Wouldn’t it be nice.

I gotta get out of this place.

Baby you can follow me down. The burning ring of fire.

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

Fly me to the moon.

the stranger close up s

Kim at dVerse gave us a phrase from Derek Walcott, “You will love again the stranger who was yourself,” to use in our Prosery this week.  I had started something completely different using phrases from mostly 60s songs when I read Margaret Renkl’s op-ed piece in the NY Times this morning.

The art is a Rorschach painting with embroidery (in progress).

I wrote this really quickly this morning, so I’ll probably keep coming back to edit it…

Full Moon

full moon photo 1s

The sky is a mist of blue ghosts rising from the sea. The sky is a blanket of sparkling light that appears suddenly as if conjured by the fading horizon.  The sky is a layered curtain of shadow clouds that both disguise and reveal.

I sit without time, listening, watching. My body retreats from itself, my thoughts lose their words.  I am lost, dispersed, nameless.

full moon photo 2s

I become like the wind, seeking its reflection. I become like waves repeating their primal dance.  I become like sand searching for the spaces between.

I float, a grain inside my eye.

I dreamt I was the moon, a sudden seizure of oceans traveling the spirals of shells. I dreamt I was a relic from the sea, worn away into a celebration of return.  I became my ancestors, unburied and uncontained, released into the sanctuary of the cosmic coil.

full moon close up s

Sarah at dVerse has given us the prosery prompt “I dreamt I was the moon”, from Alice Oswald’s “Full Moon”.  I was lucky to be in North Carolina at the beach last week, where the moon was spectacular.  144 words and a few of my photos can’t even begin to capture the magic.

 

 

Acquainted With the Night (after Robert Frost)

acquainted with the night s

The day was grey, dying, losing its grip. Silhouettes of broken promises cut the distance into unrelated pieces.  The landscape was confined, restless, waiting on the edge of night.

She was unoccupied, absorbed in her solitude, when far away an interrupted cry broke the spell she had unconsciously cast. The stitches fell into the long gone as she tried to gather in the few remaining threads of meaning.  Crow, she said, Crow.  The iridescent blackness echoed and magnified the emptiness of her voice.  She was nothing now, surrounded by the remains of what had almost been.

Wings sounded, pouring into her mind from everywhere. What had been hidden now emerged.  What had been lifeless grew roots and branches and leaves.  The air glittered with possibility.  The intangible multiplied and divided.  The spiral awakened and uncoiled.

She was no longer alone.

acquainted with the night close up shear s

Bjorn at dVerse introduced a new form, prosery, which merges a line from a poem (in this case “when far away an interrupted cry” from a poem by Robert Frost) into flash fiction of 44-144 words.  I am not a fiction writer and I’m not sure this is actually fiction.  But I enjoyed writing it.  I was inspired by finding one of my collage crows while (still) searching for the birdlings.  They’re here somewhere.