WE CATCH THE BALL OF LIGHT
We catch the ball of light
under the twelve stars
of some mysterious sky-symbol
and throw it to each other with
such skill that it shines in the air
leaving after-streaks of motion.
Blue was never this kind,
not even the soft blue of twilight,
not even the cool blue of dawn.
Auras of silver surround us,
guide us over the wet sands
by this phosphorescent ocean.
Whispers muffle around us—
those presences again.
Our hands are the
deliberate hands of dancers;
our bodies follow, and we
cannot be silent about our joy.
The hours have more measure
than the moments.
We know a moment of pure religion.
We are bodiless… Sexless…
in this simplicity of movement,
in the surreality of thought…
this fanciful abandon… This play.
There is something about the color
of the sea . . .
by the seaside, many dreams
are buried in the sand
the unrealities of the heart
are found and lost
the colors here are
indescribable hues of twilight
graced by sounds and sighs
that whisper endlessly
the colors merge into the night
the gracious seas protect the shores
the lingerers— the undefined,
all in the senses, tidal as the mind.
The music that haunts the most
is always blue, the kind of blue
that merges into black and gray,
that comes from every ragged hurt
there is to share and what the
inarticulate will ever try to say;
some city-street-musician plays it
every day—wailing inward like a
winter soul, long-beaten down and
long-removed from hymn or lullaby,
though, here, the lost still try to
pray—too poor for more than what
they have become, scavenging at
emptiness with hungry hands, being
everything the street blues say.
THE LITTLE NIGHT POND
After “Song” by Federico García Lorca
The crying creature
magnifies the night with its cries.
The round moon weeps into
the little pond—
there to hold all the tears
of the inconsolable one
who has lost what it has lost
and feels what it must feel,
for its little heart is broken,
and its eyes are red from
so much weeping,
and it cannot speak for its sadness—
and the round moon knows this and keeps
making little tear-circles in the pond.
OF HUMAN CRIES
Lest I let my heart be broken by
too many truths—
my spirit sullied by
lies of the soul—
bewildered by my darknesses
—how let the terrible light
be a blinding fact to my groping.
Body is proof.
It gropes and limps
through years and centuries
— forward and backward
into myths and superstitions—
native to nothing but Self
of every homeless thought
to bless the wondering
that cannot free
the mind of murkiness—
or clear the eyes from sadness
and terror in such a prison
as one can stay imprisoned in.
TOO MUCH MEANING
what kind of bird would rest in this dead tree
or do I give too much meaning
that cessation that feels so final
I see no bird to spoil my thought—
turn metaphor around
to find some quarrel with my question
to assuage my pity
for its tortured silhouette
in bold refusal to be troubled by its dormancy…
Benign to my eyes,
this quiet tree
out the back window:
through the leaves
down the trunk
to the ground
bright and preening
letting the washed light
whatever held me
the moment before, releasing.
a thin haven
not too much land
on either side
I leave myself
and open to
the one vibration-line
they cannot hear
you can hide
if danger comes
we will be
pass over us
I will not entertain
or love you
I am a
quiet resting place
of kindness only
They had ordinary names, the kind you never remember;
and their lives were ordinary, uneventful lives—not the
stuff of novels—just small stories, with little morals in
conclusion, like childhood at its dearest.
And they could be counted on for sameness. Careful was
their direction, and Moderation was their theme. Their
ambitions were domestic; their undertakings not beyond
their means. They never coveted or blamed. They barely
loved, but it was comfortable.
Life was not Feast or Famine, and in their secret hearts,
it was the same—no great betrayal or despair to try to
fathom. Their illnesses were mild and common. Nothing
chronic. They liked classical music and they liked to stare
out windows at the weather.
They killed each other with kindness, finally; and I guess
that broke the pattern of their lives: They could not believe
their grief—their great relief.
you were surprised
to go so deep
and come back gasping
air has not been kind since then
its bare, flat echoes thin
and dwindle out
your own sensations
ebb and fade
into another sea of effort
Our thanks to Joyce Odam for starting our Tuesday off right with her fine poems and photos, her flowers reminding us that spring is always just around the corner.
Our new Seed of the Week is The Eagle’s Cry. You could take this literally and write about the eagle, or you might remember that it's our national bird, and write about it from that angle. Anything is possible in poetry! Send your poems, photos and artwork about this (or any other) subject to firstname.lastname@example.org. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for more SOWs than you can shake an eagle's feather at.
—Medusa 😅😆😇😉😊 (Lord help us, now she's got emojis! Blogspot just introduced them, so fasten your seatbelts...... 😘😘😘)
(Look! I can make them really big! 😛)
and cats—and emojis) today.
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