It was entire durations of a dream, she stood behind me, not a sound.
Then a gleam of light hit the ground, a shadow fell and her voice sang a round.
Now, the memory a more abundant chorus than I recall
with my littered words that clash and brawl – my slumber at an end.
I never saw her face, neither that of lover or a friend.
Another day may bring her near, perhaps with some quieter verse to hear as when it was just then.
As it happens, I get lost in the sky
where sunsets stroll away.
A peaking light around a corner
beyond the frontier of yesterday
I look to the last remains
even when the shadows begin
and wrapped from behind in covers
I gaze toward a fading din.
I dream of passion reds
that trail to orange, bleed to pink.
Turning around in silent awe
to indigo in a wink.
And there the fire ignites upon
this early autumn eve,
a lover of the colored sky
embraced without reprieve.
I remember the blue in her eyes,
though often they were green –
a wistfulness, when she tilted her head,
sentiment at the seams.
Her fingertips, absently tracing the rim
of a cup or a saucer, or both.
The governed expanse of the contour
revealing as is, clothed.
To lean in, whisper lure and yearning,
so bold and sacred, so preferred –
then settle back in tidal fashion
sands and beaches bared – secured.
I recall the mounting balance
that melody and rhythm bind,
a song there at the nucleus
hastened,
fresh and primed.
I have felt the blue of her ocean,
my eyes remember the scene.
And I am the breeze that comes off the water
pensive and longing my dreams.
As for me,
when Cecilia sings –
the brightened notes
awaken the spring.
Leaves are new
among the trees,
when flow’rets bud
and winter flees.
Her eyes shine,
she gestures grace
and draws me in
to her dulcet embrace.
In this prime,
her melodies swarm
and hypnotize -captivate
poesy form.
Then compelled
by aires of allure,
I write simple verses-
the memory secure.
I pinpoint the moment the leaves turn to rust
and withhold the diadem – stay if I must –
the pliable eminence that tells of the why
does the moon hang its head in the opposite sky.
The walk of her beauty, in stride upon stride,
she disappears quickly, then looms and arrives.
I cannot yield over- abandon too soon-
and there in the opposite sky hangs the moon.
Breathe out and breathe in, both at tide and at crest
in the wisps of a manner that I can attest.
Her hand upon mine and our place in midair
the moon in the opposite sky, hanging there.
And after our silence, the heart might belie
save for memories, the moon, and the opposite sky.
calling amid the
intermittent drops
that fall and soak the ground
or
seeing entangled
clouds appear
with the morning light.
not
just as a backdrop
of weather,
but a welcoming
posture
I see coming
into view
awaiting entrance,
her subtle hand
on glass.
I’m thinking about rivers
and how they flow away
-unsettled-
pressing the tall grass
and shearing
against the shoreline.
How they wash out the mud
and stir up silt
-channeling it all downstream.
Downhill rolling,
carrying the devices
of their own undoing,
they splay out
into the mud flats
stagnant
leaving behind
implements
that shape
and mold
the landscape,
accrued as the water slowly fades.
and somewhere,
a trickle of water
is dreaming of a torrent.
Show me your heavy eyes.
Between each field’s border,
the ground takes on shadows
as the sun begrudges
being dragged west
drifting in a transmuted
grey.
Let me hear you breathe a landscape
with hills barely hiding the
clapboard buildings and
lonely trees of the next homestead.
Embrace me
into your dream,
immobile among the passing scenes,
drawn into deeper sleep.
Come sweet faint, addicting slumber
keep the counting mind at bay,
let the forty sheep outnumber
all the things in matter’s way.
When a lonely darkness centers,
and a shadowed figure haunts
sole encounters in the winters
of the least desires and wants.
Darling fancy over fences,
traverse over fields of green.
Turn your face and so commences
dreams both perfect and serene.
Planting violets and white clover
on the paths you walk in sleep.
Share with me your dream world over
here, no promises to keep-
Interlaced with loving fingers
time with one to reign supreme,
as we touch, our pursuit lingers
in the warmth and glow of dreams.
She wanted that life, she thought,
After wading in the water up and down the beach
Her feet embedding in the moving sand.
The allure of the ocean beyond pulled her further out
To that pale white line at the edge
Of the blue-green horizon,
Until there was no place to stand,
only piled surf
And depths of a world she could not comprehend.
With remnants of foam,
The continuing washes of the waves
Moved her ashore in the sand
like a child’s tantrum from anger to tears,
Bits of seaweed in her hair,
and a breathless sobbing
that no mother can placate.
Taps and Ratamacues 