All posts tagged: starlight and saltwater

πέλαγος

diary: 06.13.19 the day’s first rays are bronze-tipped arrows breaking the shallow strip of narrow night that’s left. and the sea is a riddle and the tides are all rhyming. the ocean’s a mirror reflecting in me a prolonged space, a watery song of some fathomless place.   Advertisements

winter bells

diary, last week of february, 2019.   catch alsophila aescularia in a mason jar. cirrocumulus clouds above you, baby’s breath in your hair. the sky is almost the same colour now as the persian speedwell that’s scattered about everywhere, and a bumblebee is hovering sleepily about bethlehem sage. it’s the first you’ve seen this year. set out a teaspoon of sugar water. an unusually mild february. everything is waking up early. * the sun is on your shoulders. you’ve jasmine petals in your pockets, and winter bells helleborus, too. watch as a blackbird plucks red berries from a holly bush, one, after another, after another. ** “there are snowdrop valleys and swiss mountain trains and by-the-wind sailors and sweet peas sprouting second leaves, there are children with clattering cans chasing bad spirits back into the ocean, the blackthorns are blossoming and they’re guarded by…” – what are you going to do? *** the sea is not a surface. you have called the gods by their names, and now they form within us.

iseult’s grief – 1

he was stood at the brink of evening, honesty eyes open wide, each their own little lunaria full moon. it would be sundown soon, he knew, and so silently he watched, as the afternoon sky, which had been streptocarpus bethan blue began to sink into a darkness that would be lit only, that night, by stippled specks of starlight, silver ink and indigo. where i was, there was ivy hanging from the ceiling and i was thinking about iseult’s grief, and love everlasting, and how tendrils and vines will tie themselves in knots. in two terracotta pots, forget me nots.

said the starlight, to the sea

so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead? what could you hope to know of me? i’m far above you. out of reach. i sing the music of the spheres, and every dawn, i disappear, oh, cosmic lyre, into the fire, that all things come from. ever higher. responds the sea, pellucidly, don’t you know? you are part of me. we rise and fall symmetrically, there’s so much, still, you’ve yet to see. your glow, reflected on my surface? the exhaled breath of universes. and that’s your path, your shining purpose, celestial child, to learn what love is.       (i will never ever finish my album if i keep insisting on adding new songs. to the sea!)

siloam.

faith celestial braid. november’s grace. palest sky all glass and lace. the enshrined tide (starlight) of an orbicular ocean which will rush, rise, and subside in perpetual devotion. a silver sylvan siren’s whispered superstition offering divine direction, a path to dew drops and cyclamen, my lost pool of Siloam.

star maps and sundials

you are the only constellation that i’ll ever understand, you are my star map, you’re my sundial, you’re the compass in my hand. the luminous points of our lives strung together, the sea breeze is carrying with it saltwater and wonder the waves pool around at our feet whispering at worlds we’ve yet to see.