For Colleen’s #tanka tuesday, using a quote supplied by Merril Smith, below, as inspiration.
“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
I’ve been in a creative funk the past few days, so I consulted the Oracle for some help with my shadorma sequence. And once again, I’m recycling some old art.
what lingers
within the workings
of a life
time dancing
home by remembering the
rhythms of the stars
roots seeding
trees that grow between
deep earthlight
beholding
to the cycles stitched full through
what shines from the heart
our cells are
one with water air
flower tree
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above. Hard not to think of Monet.
One of the beauties of his water lily paintings is how they draw you in, to a space that is timeless and endless. Like we belong there.
a journey far from home
outside of existence
filled with voices
containing only silence
outside of existence
the mirror turns away
containing only silence
the echoes of opening
the mirror turns away
reflected in portals
the echoes of opening
where time remains lost
reflected in portals
held in absentia
all time remains lost
until the stars sing
held in absentia
amid the unexplained
until the stars sing
souls crossing over
amid the unexplained
filled with voices
souls crossing over
a journey returning home
Another pantoum. Ammol at dVerse asks us to consider portals.
Would you be crowned with jewels
or a garland of blooms?
a silence eternal or fleeting?
Would you seek a throne
or a resting place between?
a looking out or within?
perhaps a bed of meadow,
a ceiling of stars–
the earth beneath you—
Would you always be as you are?
or would you have your seasons,
knowing that change contains
both sweetness and sting—
that life gathers
in anticipation of emptying—
that everything constructs
the form that contains
its end?
More questions, for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.
Also linking to dVerse OLN, hosted by Mish.
What can I do to contain the presence that isn’t here? Take my fear, tie it into knots around his neck, raise the window, and let out the dark as his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream?
The door opens and absence returns. I wash everything again, dripping silence onto the bare floor where I stand unsupported. The stains won’t come out of the air. They remain, unmoving, like the clock whose numbers have blurred into thick ghostlights. Unclean, these words piled up like dirty dishes, this blackness that sucks all reflections into the other side of the mirror.
Is dead ever really dead? Is dead ever the ending of anything until all beginnings cease? Can the universe uncreate being, collapse time beyond infinity, disintegrate energy into its opposite? Become a vortex spinning itself into a before that never
existed,
unmattering–
gone, gone, gone?
For dVerse prosery, where Bjorn has given us a phrase from Maya Angelou: “his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream”.
Some thoughts from the Oracle about Sue Vincent’s photo prompt above. The photo looked familiar so I searched through my archives and found my previous response. The painting I did was quite different, but the words seem eerily applicable to my present relationship to the world–“this false night, this held breath”. Am I who I was before?
am I who I was
before
the ocean remembered me?–
only a fool’s voice
sailing blue—
I listen for the words
of cloud magic
to open this asking path
into the dancing skies of always
what remains
hidden under flowered fields
waiting for the moon
For Frank Tassone’s #Haikai Challenge.
The moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds last night.
alone
with each
breath, my heart
punctuating
the silence–
ordinary, this life
except
for what
is not there
Bjorn at dVerse asked us to consider solitude.
