It wasn’t heaven above surrounding me like stars
on a distant shore—I wasn’t a memory like stars
I had not become a child swimming in the sun, a sleepy
summer afternoon of endless play, swinging free like stars
Hovering in the form of an invisible crown,
it was not a hurricane holding its eye to me like stars
I was not a journey through the tunneled darkness
following the trail of all things hidden ghostly like stars
Becoming what I yet wasn’t, I crossed everywhere–
in a nameless endless shedding of all identity—like stars
A poem of wandering for Ammol at DVerse, in the current featured poetic form, ghazal. I find the form to be somewhat awkward, but I’m beginning to think maybe that’s the point of it. It mirrors the thought process. Or maybe I just need more practice at writing them.
Who better than the Oracle to consult about today’s NaPoWriMo prompt –life in this mysterious world?
Why are our hearts
dancing the blue dark
fooled by the lost voices
haunting the holes
in the night sky?
We should be sailing
on the rhythm of star oceans
openings surrounded by
the secrets of magic clouds
the sun barely seen–
grey on grey glowing—we rise,
our feet look for gravity–
unattached, we need mending,
we need anchorage–
a quiet cove, tree walls and
a ceiling of stars–
unshadowed, we are remade–
molecules falling apart
This is for Sue Vincent’s photo challenge this week, above. I promised Nina I would try to post something.
Death is a complex space, like the spirits it contains. May their journeys always be filled with the infinite light of stars.
Wishing everyone the happiest of holidays. I’ll be back for real in January.
Cast and reflected,
pulled by stars in evensong–
Sounds fall unlettered, unversed,
in silence gilding the sky.
For Colleen’s #Tanka Tuesday with synonyms for magic and green.
I’ve been embroidering this watercolor mandala for weeks, and even now I’m not sure I’m finished. I like both the front and the back.
Forever between today and tomorrow, suspended in presence. Infinite darkness mingling with perpetual light, like shadows photographing a mirror.
At first the beginning is closer than the end. Suddenly the finish has left the start far behind.
What is the measure of now? Who can hold the moving hand, the cell dividing again and again? Where does the universe locate the particle that waves as it disappears and reappears on its random path?
Who can draw the map that connects never with always?
The remainder of
dusk meeting dawn. What mortal
can enter the stars?
‘We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world’s empires, bow down to you,
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.’
—W.B. Yeats ‘The Valley of the Black Pig’
Once again I’ve consulted the Magnetic Oracle about one of Jane Dougherty’s Yeats quotes–this one from Day Nineteen. The Oracle zoned right in on the stars and the flaming door. Of course that’s always compatible with my artistic pursuits as well…
In the shadorma form for Shadorma November.
Stars breathe frost
ancient as soul stones–
deep cold fire,
roots that wander wild, leaving
paths seeded with light
What to do between the silent secrets of stars?
Open the question at the crossroads of memory and your dreams.
Chase clouds of deep light.
Learn how to become a traveler in the unexplainable.
(in any order…)
For Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Microfiction prompt, above.