it’s dark and raining and I can’t see the night sky shining

she said it
and then she repeated it

we already knew
but we had forgotten

and then she sang it
in the voice of sunfire

she sang it blue
through the clarity of sky

she grew it greenwise
inside the trees

and with the wind she
sudden opened hidden wings

shining golden between
floods of cleansing and sorrow

shining silver under
the full stillness of the moon

shining through the dark
with a universe of welcoming

and every word she said
was filled with grace

and every sound that lifted
her voice was mercy

and every feather
was transformation

glittering like stars on
the outline of her embrace

When I saw the dVerse prompt this morning, I could see the hand of the Oracle.  I had just written the above poem the night before.  Although I usually use the magnetic tiles to consult with her, these very vatic words, which certainly did not come from the planning of my conscious mind, had all the elements of her voice.

The image provided not only seemed to mirror my words, but reminded me of some of my art from the archive, rorschach paintings that also come out of the unplanned intersection of paint and surprise.

I wasn’t sure how I would approach posting these words, but here was the opening.  Thanks Jade!

borderlands

borderlands 1s

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

A nonet for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above, and Colleen’s #tanka Tuesday, with synonyms for blessed and hex, provided by Anita Dawes.

borderlands 2s

I did two  rorschach paintings which turned out slightly different.

wings 2s

But somehow I always end up with wings.

wings 1s

 

wild iris

spirits wander collage

bending air, a bridge–
rampant hues filling the gap
between heaven and earth

iris ink and pencil comp

For Frank Tassone’s #haikai challenge #145, wild iris.  I had promised Jade I would look for some of my old iris drawings, but I also found this rainbow spirit that somehow resembles an iris–Iris is the Greek rainbow goddess, messenger and link between mortal and deity.

iris colored pencil comp

The drawings are from one of my many abandoned projects, taking a journal from 1989, and doing something similar (at that time in 2015) and comparing them.  1989 is on the left, 2015 is on the right.  If I could buy a bouquet, I would try it again right now, as both  were done from live flowers.  Maybe next year.

Ancestor (Dance of the Happy Shades)

ancestor comp

He seems friendly
enough, this presence
of the past, shifting
languorously as if
drugged by sun
light shining in his eyes
after a thundering rain

In truth his voice
is seldom called
upon—an apparition
furniturial, fixed
impermanently in
corners and along
walls

ancestor close up 1s

His dance contains
unpredictable
undertones—the hours
move around him
as his buddha smile
glimmers knowingly
in the dark

ancestor close up 2s

Phil Gomm’s Prompt #3 at The Kick About is Dance of the Happy Shades.  My Rorschach ancestor mirrors himself and transforms in both vertical and horizontal directions.  It was fun to add a little nonsensical creation to my days.

blessing

blessing s

We gather together. We close our eyes, unlearning the darkness.

We are listening to what happens. When we don’t interfere, when we let go, unbe, untry.  When we release our expectations.

We hold everything as if it weighed nothing, as if it could fit into anything at all.

What we are.  Not what we think.  Not what we want.  Not what we fear.

The stillness of grace,
carried by stars on the wings
of birds.  We listen.

For a trio of prompts–Frank asked for thoughts about Thanksgiving in his #haikai challenge this week, and for thoughts about gratitude in his haibun prompt for dVerse.  Colleen  in her #TankaTuesday prompt also referred to the theme of Thanksgiving.

blessing close up s

Thanksgiving at my grandparents’ was loud and chaotic–numerous adults and sometimes 11 children vying for attention.

But we never ate any meal at their house without first becoming quiet and giving thanks.  It’s a ritual that perhaps deserves a revival.

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.

ghosted

I am s

constellating through trees
I am
lying down and looking up
at my innervisions

shouting with the wind
I am
carried by currents
that refuse to cohere

barefoot unhatted
I am
wrapping my head
around the sky

nothing sticks to me
I am
as shadowless as
the inside of night

For the dVerse prompt from Sarah, creating character through what they sense (with a nod to the seasonal celebrations)

quiescence

quiescence s

absence in the voice
a silence that holds what isn’t said

need hovers with wings
ready to fly into fear

blood too has its stillnesses
the knife that cuts out the heart

the breath holding forever
the part that was written for someone else

quiescence close up s

De at dVerse has given us the word voice for our quadrille this week.  My poem is not a ghazal, but in the spirit of one.

I’ve used this painting before, but I thought it fit the words.