Aurea

fairy tale journey complete s

Durham family mourns death of 8-year-old, first child to die from COVID-19 in North Carolina

After four days at UNC Medical Center in Chapel Hill, Aurea Soto Morales passed away June 1 from complications associated with COVID-19.

I have not
seen angels rising
nor skies fall
ing—the vast
veil that portals heavens to
earth is filled with light,

seasonless,
undivided by
space or time.
I have not
become old here, nor remained
young—all is always.

I know things
I have never seen,
riding waves
that travel the
distances concealed between
never and right now.

Love holds me
with mythical wings,
soaring gold,
scattered with
jewels of azure and night–
I can touch the moon.

grace of light s

Laura, at dVerse, asks us to write about someone who has died, someone we do not know.  “By way of poetic resurrection, we see them live again.”

Aurea as a name for girls has its root in Latin, and the meaning of Aurea is “wind; golden; dawn”

The collage is another of my postcard fictions done for a Jane Dougherty prompt in 2016, which came to my mind after seeing Merril’s Monday Morning Musings photos of light.

patterns of essential flow

patterns of s

we stand watching
the waters, fully
awake and undreamed—
the rivers exploding
uncontained, the sky
vivid in its indifference
to the currents
carrying the debris,
both past and future
burying all the voices
keening in the dark–

who breathes this wild
rain, exhales these tempests,
scatters the spirits
that might comfort
our distress?  we bandage
the gaps, we open
our umbrellas as the waters
rise, as the multitudes
wait, unsheltered, drowning
in the accumulation
of what has been denied

patterns of close up s

For the earthweal challenge, environmental justice.  Bandaids and umbrellas are not enough.

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).

SpiritSong

jm 7ca blk s

Blessed be the Spirits of Becoming

Our Lady of the Silver Wheel,
waxing and waning with the moon,
reflecting back the circle of birth, life, death and rebirth.

Our Lady of Joy,
who lifts up our souls with melody
and transforms our movements into dance.

Our Lady of the Birds,
who grows wings on our wishes, hopes, and dreams.

jm 7ca close up 3s

Our Lady of Magic and Mystery,
silent and secret,
who shapes and shifts,
puzzles and predicts,
divines and deciphers,
casts and conjures,
and answers all question with a riddle.

Our Lady of the Rainbow,
who paints the infinite darkness with eternal light.

Our Lady of Wild Places,
guardian of the earth,
shepherd of the seas,
keeper of fire and wind,
shelter, shield, and sanctuary.

jm 7ca close up 2s

Our Lady of Healing and Renewal,
who embraces both body and spirit
with comfort, courage, restoration, and release.

Our Lady of the Weaving of Time,
whose threads mingle past, present and future
in a simultaneous, unfinished, ethereal tapestry.

Our Lady of the Crossroads,
who celebrates choice, change, and transformation.

jm 7ca close up 1s

To all who were are and shall be:

May our circles be open
but unbroken.

For earthweal open link weekend, all of it, a repost from NaPoWriMo 2018.

Encompassed

shells of my mind s

The shells reminded her of the ocean—maps
conjuring places that she would never go–
the sky called her to sail, align with the gaps—

Her longing was fierce, vast, bottomless, with no
boundaries—she dreamed of journeys opening
new worlds that danced in amaranthine joy, flow

Echoing the trails of the stars, floating in
time with the waxing and waning of the moon,
returning to herself, circling, homecoming—

That other life was the one she wanted—strewn
in the shadows of voices calling her back
to the secrets stored inside that spiraled room

shells of my mind close up s

Frank Hubeny at dVerse gave us a difficult task–at least I found it difficult–writing tercets similar to those that were written by Dante for the Divine Comedy.  My rhythm is definitely off and more than one of my rhymes are slanted, but I did get the 11 syllables in each line.

The art has been recycled from 2015.

precipice

precipice s

pretend to be a bird winging
into the breeze, an echo from
everywhere, the world just begun–
pretend to be the dawn singing

disappearing the mist—bringing
clarity, light—pretend to be
swimming the rhythm of the sea–
be moon tides chanting on the air
the stillness of the stone, aware
that life remains—a mystery

I promised Jane Dougherty I would try the decima form, and here’s my first attempt, for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.

precipice close up 1s

When I read Merril Smith’s Monday Morning Musings, yesterday, I was struck by the parallels between her words and mine.  When life is too heavy, we look to the sky.

precipice close up 2s

I read the news today (oh boy)

I read the news s

approaching greyscale
this blurred journey
slips
down streets
not only nameless but
soundless, dislocated

all the rhythms are abbreviated–
throbbing, stagnating
in a silent cinematic slow motion–
a composite of fragments
neither awake nor asleep–
a perpetual absence
of who
what when where
why

For dVerse, where Linda has given us the quadrille word of slip, and earthweal, where Brendan asks, “What comes next?”