The Oracle is pensive this morning.
flowers are another always
that open and
then must be remembered–
they need love to bloom
like life itself
the language of a child
is a song filled
with wishspiritdreaming–
voices of belonging and finding home
I’m going to be taking a few weeks off–if we can all avoid the latest Covid wave, visiting with family, and taking care of some things I need to do. I’ll be back sometime in August.
Who provides the soundtrack
when the film ends,
when life is a series of missteps
made in solitude?
Who sings to you
(of love, mostly of all)?
Who puts wings on words
and conjures crows?
Who opens the day with robinsong?
Who walks with you like the wind,
rustlesoft through trees?
Who tells you that you are and are
beyond what you yourself can see?
Who puts your name in a sentence
with a smile, sailing it
on the rippled paths of rivers?
Who tells you what you could be
instead of what you are not?
Who gives you each day
as a gift meant to be shared?
Who reflects your eyes into the vast
silent sky and never questions
the validity of their light?
Who holds you together
and echos your voice across the void,
vibrating through your bones
until they are centered
in its starstrewn tides?
Who hums you the moon?
Who is always waiting no matter
where you go or what you do
to welcome everything about you
home?
For earthweal, where Brendan poses the question: What is this wild language in the deep forest back of our mouths? Mine is evidently riddled with more questions.
I fold my
questions into cranes
and send them
flying on
the wind—what hands will catch them,
pull them down, greet them,
unjumble
and complete their dreams?
wide, deep, clear,
cast to sky,
they celebrate–streams of stars
danced in waves of moon
A shadorma quadrille for Merril’s prompt of celebration at dVerse. I also used the words she generated from Oracle II. Above is the almost-full moon shining through my window last night.
My message today from the Oracle.
beneath the still shadowskin
sleep recalls the ache of summer skies
shot through with black tongues
I cannot sing now
in the music of moontime–
nor do I dream
in the language of the shining sun
how I ask and why?
if whispers the bloodwind
inside this mad motherless storm
spinning winding then weaving
spiraling into endless
connections which appear
to be hanging nowhere
suspended without edge
ending always at inception
never does the fiber fray
the beginning continues
follow where it leads
through the unknown
miles of endless webs
a glittering reflection
metamorphoses
illuminating the darkness
accumulations
of ancient intricacies
dispersed without direction
resonating chords
of the cosmos naked
glory of formless flow
undefined by outlines
unshadowed unbroken
blurring the boundaries
between us and we
For earthweal, where Sherry asks us to Contemplate the web of life and see where it takes you.
For how can I be sure I shall see again the world on the first of May? Until the end I thought it was the beginning of the middle. Time happened, then all of a sudden what you once believed in could no longer be retreived. The truth was hard, never soft, never easy. But it contained a life.
May came, but you did not see it.
And so it begins, and so it ends, always with a question. And if there is no answer to give—only a silence that acts as if asking were enough—how does the wheel turn? Or is the question the pivot on a circle whose edge contains only unknowing, infinite stillness? Is that where you are?
How can I be sure? Every answer is the wrong one in a world where there is nothing left to say.
A prosery for Merril’s prompt at dVerse of these words from Sara Teasdale.
“For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May”
K. 