after a dream like that...
breakfast denies me an explanation the grapefruit is coy, keeps its jeweled counsel the egg is a narcissist and talks only of perfect curves and the coffee is a sly bastard but outside in the early blue the dew soaking my slippers, my hair soaking mystery is inscribed in cursive black on a handful of ravaged leaves... o joy and then, like centuries of supplicants, the wind came across the lake, up from the underworld chaos scattering s e n s e
Image: Photo by Zbysiu Rodakon Unsplash. Lisa is hosting Dverse today and asks us to use the vatic voice.
“the vatic voice of a poet is one that is infused with spirit that comes from another place. That voice has been regarded by some as a sign of divine transmission and by others as a sign of madness.”
Cumae, near Naples, was the first Greek settlement in Italy and sanctuary of an ancient Greek sybil – prophet and seer, who would write answers to the questions on an oak leaf.
And speaking of really difficult things….Yuja Wang plays Ravel’s left hand piano concerto with Orchestra dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia in Rome. Ravel wrote this for the Austrian pianist Paul Wittgenstein, who lost his right arm during World War I.
Peter Frankis writes 
Wow. Another stunning and brilliant write, Peter. I feel as if this describes that it does not mean much if we hope for chaos to leave, but it only counts if we try to take active strides to stop chaos from pervading.
“and then,
like centuries of supplicants, the wind
came across the lake, up from the underworld
chaos scattering s e n s e”
It takes on the theme very well for the prompt. It really is prophetic, especially as you’ll find history, no matter how ancient, repeats itself throughout the years just in different ways. A very beautiful, insightful piece.
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I laughed at your cantankerous breakfast mates and took a cleansing breath at the turn, then turned again. Order and chaos in forever cha-cha.
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Great piece Peter. Yes, those damned eggs are arrogant as hell.
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I agree, msjadeli. I like the ‘chaos scattering s e n s e’ floating off into the forever, Peter.
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I love your description of breakfast, and how you link its inscrutable counsel to the sibyl at Cumae. Chaos scattering sense seems to be a worldwide problem at the moment. Let’s hope the sibyl sends us some more clues!
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The early blue of morning is my time of day, but I’m not sure I could cope with that kind of breakfast, Peter, especially the narcissistic egg and the sly bastard of a coffee! We could do with some of that sense in the chaose..
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Oops – chaos!
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One day I will understand. Whatever you write, I find myself riveted – perhaps it’s the mystery of that cursive black, or maybe it’s that handful of ravaged leaves…
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Thanks so much (the feeling’s mutual).
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There’s a time slip at the end of this poem, taking us from the breakfast table with its uncooperative components to the Asphodel Fields and a mob of dead souls racing out of their place, waving pleading hands. Chaos or sense? Not sure. Both probably.
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We had a wind like that today. All was quite and perfect curves early then the wind came racketing in off the ocean and the day became something entirely different. I admire the poetic way you describe it.
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We had a wind like that today. All was quite and perfect curves early then the wind came racketing in off the ocean and the day became something entirely different. I admire the poetic way you describe it.
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We had a wind like that today. All was quite and perfect curves early then the wind came racketing in off the ocean and the day became something entirely different. I admire the poetic way you describe it.
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Chaos scattering sense…what a perfect summation of these times. (K)
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I love the back and forth from dream to reality and then slipping back again with your wet slippers… some days it’s difficult to wake up
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