I stand facing the ocean
tides of wing and air–
time fades into mystery,
emptied of illusions
tides of wing and air
held in light–
emptied of illusions
I swim in dream languages
held in light
horizon merges into skylandsea–
I swim in dream languages,
wordless songs that awaken stories
horizon merges into skylandsea
consumed by rivers of stars–
wordless songs that awaken stories
mirrored in ethereal blue
consumed by rivers of stars
time fades into mystery–
mirrored in ethereal blue
I stand facing the ocean
For earthweal, sacred (sea)scapes. How many poems have I written about the sea? As many as I have about birds and stars and moons. This unrhymed pantoum contains lines from many of them. The artwork is from my many previous ocean-themed posts as well.
Crow calls to me from above–
“Crowman are you stalking me?”
There he is—on that roof.
Call to attention–
the question
harsh, always interrupting
the pause between the lines.
“Do you want me to look up?”
He extends the invitation again and again.
“I’m telling stories,” shape-shifting in the interlude–
“remaking the recent past.”
how to release and how to begin–
but that part’s invisible,
stark with intention.
“…or do you hear it?” unseen voices echo across the gap,
“and are you laughing at me?”
an interior bathed in blue–
“OK—I’m leaving that world—” memories circle round and round–
“I’m here now, present.” thoughts hang in the air–
“I’m unfolding those regrets.”
Crow flies over my shadow.
“Are you happy now?” the clash of silence, unbound
Crow has been following me around for about 15 years now. I notice birds all the time, but I don’t always know what they are saying to me. I have a tendency to space out, especially when walking. Crow’s message has always been clear: get outside yourself, pay attention.
A message that’s more important than ever. For Earthweal, messages from the wild, hosted by Sherry, a revision of one of my many poems about Crow.
Wherein lies the origin of mystery?
Does any story have an ending
and can any name the place
where all stories begin?
All stories are branches
of The One Story, a circle
retreating and returning
reversing and rewinding
retracing and redirecting
repeating and renewing.
Each sentence orbits and spirals
inside and out again.
Where is the place between
before and after? Is there
even a way to find
the location of no before?
I spiraled off a bit myself from the dVerse prompt from Merril, revolution. Blame it on the heat.
visions of windsong–
waves play currents of magic
painting textured light
Inspired by the photos of Phil Gomm, I tried to recreate one of his beautiful fields. I will need to explore this further, and of course, as always, I think it needs some stitching. (I’ll add that in my spare time…)
For Trank Tassone’s #haikai challenge #148 summer meadow.
It’s so unbearably hot here, it’s hard to find much motivation. Con Ed keeps calling to warn me the power might go off due to everyone overloading the grid by using their air conditioners. (I have open windows and 3 fans.) They are promising us a break on Friday.
time
distills
into the
slow motion of
half-forgotten hours–
astral sunsets emerge
inside the dense dazzled air–
waiting to join the fading light
that veils the edge between earth and sky
Where do we bury the words
we didn’t say, our silent
protests—do they die
with our bodies, encased
in the skull, still afraid to move
the hand, the jaw bone?
Regret is relentless–
thoughts become blurred,
bordering madness and crossing
into the places where nothing
connects, nothing fits,
everything rests only in disease.
We try to hard to reverse
time, spinning wheels
in a landscape of quicksand–
in a landscape of chasms
that open like cut veins
spilling every trace of life.
The sky has already fallen,
abandoned even by
the phantoms of what was left
undone—this place is beyond
haunting–subtract everything
you thought you knew.
