Deeper than the Mariana Trench
more rare than a conch pearl,
fine cognac glistening in baroque,
a candle lighting the dark.
You are the finest opus,
beautiful birdsong from the crest of a tree.
From my periphery
I see you,
hear you in the café.
My breathing stops to listen
for sounds in the space
that held us,
from replete casks
I seek confirmation.
A sole dove swoops into
the crown of a tree
quiescent in a forked bough.
The cardinals flew in,
a brilliant male with his drab mate,
nature’s biased humor.
Overcome by his beauty
she watches him fly away.
The lone dove lingers.
Yesterday I heard the deer hunters deep in the forest, a shot fired, a thud, the accompanying echo of victory. Their obscenities echoed back to me. Last night in a dream they came , chasing me through the thick forest their rebel yells close behind, my bare feet bled and my legs gave way and I fell. They caught up with me and when I begged for my life they drew back their bow and arrow and pierced my heart, buried me beneath skins of other dead animals.
While hiking through the woods we discovered a dead fawn, its grieving mother bedded down a few feet away. Judging by it’s decomposition it had been there for a couple of days. Thick blood formed a veil over its eyes, caked streams from a gunshot wound. We broke some branches and shooed the doe away, buried her baby under a tall pine, tossed straw over the resting place and fixed a broken bough into the earth, wound it with garlands of vines.
This morning I heard the thud of a bird striking my window. A bloody mark left on the pane formed a teardrop. There is still a dark stain on the grass where it fell. It’s grave is in the shade of hydrangea bushes.
The garden is bursting with life, the roses in full bloom, petals of peonies open wide to the sun and fruit spurs shoot forth from the apple tree. The earth is in the throes of birth and everything seems possible still I think about the sweet doe and her dead fawn. Does she still grieve? The woman down the road complains that the deer frayed her young trees and raided her garden. Is life as insignificant as the tiny sparrow?
image borrowed from google
Maybe you are already familiar with Adam Cohen’s music.
He is the son of Leonard Cohen and Suzanne Elrod. Leonard Cohen passed away November 7, 2016. Adam is the ambassador to the Cohen Family Art Exhibits featuring artwork by his father. He has multiple albums himself, this song is taken from “Like A Man” released in 2012. He co-produced Leonard Cohen’s last album “You Want It Darker” in October of 2016 . I love the music and lyrics of Leonard Cohen, it seems the son did not fall far from the tree.
We begin making things up by six or seven, minds of hummingbirds, we sip from visions and illusion. If you desire we will take you with us to the eddy of an ever prodding muse, dip our wings in her breathtaking vortex of color.
Some mornings I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown to meld with the chaotic masses, their eyes infused with survival, mouths of relentless whispers fade as they vanish with the crowd, the smell of pungent cologne and strong coffee is left, shadows and scents imprinted on the back of my eyes and clinging to my nostrils.
I bring a flower for you from the garden, eat an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory makes me rub against you in search of that emotional trigger, the wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. At night I stay awake after you go. I can’t write where we make love, not just to annoy you. When I write myself empty with meaningless devastation then I may sleep. Even I know I’m crazy because it all makes sense.
The sun has lost its domain,
waves of snow birds shroud its light.
A handful of starlings huddle on bare branches
tiny in their fixed feathers
they could fit into the
palm of a hand.
Their fragile song suspended
in frozen breath,
they sing for the reach of an outstretched hand
clinging to a red-tailed kite
above a field of sunflower faces
or wildflowers in full bloom.