You have left your

finger prints on my soul

for you I would journey

to that place that haunts me

between midnight and dawn

where we are imperfect

in those unseen dreams

where the only sound is the

unfolding of Origami swans

a disassembling of tenderness

where I capture what

I cannot keep

Wonderful illusion painting by Karol Bak - Ego - AlterEgo

158 thoughts on “unfolding

  1. This is deeply beautiful,
    capturing what you cannot keep,
    even though it aches to stay folded between your fingers,
    to feel your breath against its paper plumage,
    teasing words from a page that’ll never hold poetry again,
    so spellbound is its heart.

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  2. I begin to see the many colorful threads of poetry weaved into a tapestry that tells a fantastic story to the senses spellbound in the telling. I imagine the tapestry whole, each thread locked into place with the utmost care and skill. Something in me does not want to know the final scene in the finished masterpiece. I want it to continue at least until Iโ€™m safely scattered among the stars. Beautifully rendered, Rene.

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          1. Hades and Persephone have enough visitors to entertain and itโ€™s going to get more crowded as their place gets more popular. Among the stars we are free to go on a self guided tour wherever we like and the attractions are endless. ๐Ÿ˜‡๐Ÿ˜‡

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          2. I wonder if our fascination with Mars and whatโ€™s underneath the surface has anything to do with opening a new venue for the down under dwellers? Iโ€™ll bet the brightest star in Orionโ€™s Belt is a lovely place, a nice stopover on the way to see The Archer, who just so happens to be pointing at the center of our galaxy. I know that has to be a hint, we should go there too.

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          3. So true. We should only go to those places that nourish the soul and leave us breathless with a wide eyed wonder, like that first time we saw a horseshoe crab in the surf at low tide or dolphins playing in calm seas at daybreak.

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          4. Yes, oh yes, I see it now. Pink beaches and that amazing ocean hole full of mystery and water creatures. Such a fine string of island like fine jewelry for Mother Gaia. I imagine the Flamingos shuffling along, their heads underwater. And those parrots calling to one another, I wonder what they have so much to talk about. I have new hammocks, ultralight with a fine mesh cover you can open to gaze out over the ocean or zip closed to rest bug free. I spared no detail in attending to a gentle slumber or longing daydream nestled in a cocoon of comfort rocked by a sea born breeze. Your flask will come in very handy on this trip. Let me check to make sure the burners for the balloon are topped off.

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          5. My flask always comes in handy. ๐Ÿ˜Šthatโ€™s a beautiful scene you paint. This balloon as far to go, Iโ€™m gal youโ€™re an excellent aviator, we donโ€™t want to set down in Kawa Bunga!

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          6. Waaa haaa haaa! Kawa Bunga dudette, surfs up ๐Ÿคฃ๐Ÿ„โ€โ™‚๏ธ๐Ÿ„๐Ÿผโ€โ™€๏ธ. As long as my smartphone battery is good, we can go anywhere we want with such glorious navigation acumen that Magellan will forever exist in a fugue of jealousy. We got this. ๐Ÿ˜‰ (charging battery as we speak)

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          7. Sigh ๐Ÿ˜Œ, Iโ€™m certainly working hard to get to that line of embarkation. I have decided itโ€™s time to enjoy life because I worked like rented mule most of my life so someday I could be free. Itโ€™s time. I think Iโ€™ll check to see if Amazon has hot air balloons.

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          8. What say we embark for Bora Bora linger there for awhile by the turquoise water and pink sands then onward to Tahiti , the natives are friendly ๐ŸŒด . Iโ€™m keeping a fish net ready to go just as soon as the balloon is ship shape. ๐Ÿ˜Ž๐Ÿ˜Ž

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          9. I love the idea of Bora Bora as an appetizer for Tahiti. Those clear turquoise waters reveal the oceans life below. Dolphins follow us as we drift just above the waves to catch a little spray to cool our wicker basket and enjoy the songs of the Dolphins with the waves sounding the beat. That should have us in the right mood for the spontaneity and happy celebration of the Tahitian people. That net will come in handy. I think seafood is on the menu. Iโ€™ll back some good wine, just in case.

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          10. By day we explore sandy beaches, rocky inlets, just lie back and observe the ever-changing Tahitian sky, dive the waters for fish to dine on as we explore our map and dream of moving on, careful not to become to attached to the natives or the wild herbs they forage for us, mandrake and morning glories and wild mushroom that stir fevered dreams.
            Our time here is limited and we must drift on to the undiscovered.
            Bring wine in case they run out of wild mushrooms.

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          11. Such a day as this is the ritual of pleasure that prepares one for the evening festivities. By the ocean with sunset blazing itโ€™s warm colors across a grassy field, we watch a show of fevered song and dance. We sip a tea made from the dream spices as the cooks a short distance away mind the preparation of our catch of the day marinated in coconut cream and lime picked from nature moments before. The people call it Tamaaru. The soft notes of their explanation fades behind the strum of ukuleles and a stunning woman sings us the traditional Tahiti Noi so full of vibrant energy bursting from her as her eyes and flowing undulations beckon us to our feet. But it is only the beginning as the tea lures us deeper into the salty sea of Polynesian culture. Men in elaborate headdress and long tailed loin cloth, their bare thighs bulging with strength and banded in dense Tahitian tattoos, dance the dance of ancient warriors their eyes dark and fierce. The fire reflects in your dilated hazel eyes transfixed in a vision only you can see. I glance your way to judge your awakening in the dream. Yes, you are there and no doubt, I am too. Now, the women dance to a frantic drumbeat, their hips a blur of motion under a narrow band of white cloth. Their long iridescent black hair is alive in a flow of motion keeping time with the turn of heads and the sweep of shoulders. We join in, welcomed with heart open smiles and beckoning gestures. We are consumed in the rhythms of the ocean and the swaying of bodies. Ah, the lamps of fragrant oils are lit and we slide softly down from our high feeling liberated from some clinging schism left over from western civilization and life spent in the endless circle of work in order to live in order to work. The feast has begun and it does not end until all the food is gone and the last drops of drink finally run dry. Now we are escorted back to our hammocks strung among the coconut palms and the dreams continue. I dream that I can no longer tell time. Clocks are no longer useful as we begin to live a life tied to the awakening to natureโ€™s way and the people who understand the language of sea, sun, and moon.

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          12. Near dawn the drum beat has stopped and there is a quite stillness but for the gentle rush of waves over the shore. The dancers have vanished as though they were never there but the scent of smoke and dried leaves lingers. In my periphery I see you speaking softly to a saronged woman , tall and dark her glossy black hair flows down her bare back to her waist. Occasionally your hand brushes hers and she whispers softly words that carry on the fragrant breeze.
            In my hallucinogen induced state I close my eyes and all goes dark as I drift away into deep and dreamless sleep.

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          13. The stars are more clear than Iโ€™ve ever seen. The moon illuminates the grassy field in a hypnotic blue light. I walk slowly through shadows of sleeping palms returning from my compelling bathroom break. I see you asleep in your hammock next to mine, your face glows with angelic peace under the moon. I zip your netting closed with the utmost care to avoid waking you and glance up at luminescent seafoam riding each wave to shore. I wonder how it could be that all these years of your companionship, the many rituals of time and place in Paris, the trips to London and back, you have never turned away from these new escapes across the world. Have we lost Paris and traded it for the innocence found on isolated beaches among people known for their Joie de Vivre found in simple lives, with music, dance, and feast. Weโ€™ll plan our departure tomorrow and then be off again and for a moment I wonder if we should not stay just a little longer and let the angst and dark moments of the past slip away under cerulean skies and gentle seas. I hear you draw a quick breath as if surprised at my faltering mind. I hear you whisper, itโ€™s settled. Weโ€™ll sail toward Orion on a following breeze. In this moment my dear Renate, my sad cafรฉ, reclaims my heart and soul and I settle in my hammock and the moonlight fades to black.

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          14. I hear David breathing softly in time with the incoming waves and open my eyes to the sun rising over the Pacific Blue horizon in shades of amber and melon that drip into the sea until it rises a bright yellow between heaven and the sea line. I slept soundly but still recall dreaming of the Sad Cafe, but I must put that behind me for now. Slipping off my sarong I step out into the warm waters and dive into the deep. The pristine waters are alive with shore-fish, Angels in yellow and black, vivid parrot fish, and anemones who seem not to mind my company and I let them surround me as I meditate briefly under the sun.
            Slipping back into the sarong, I watch David sleep, his face peaceful, free of the burden of life as it was and will be again, but now it is just us and the rest of the world is shut out. He awakens and joins me, we pour cups of strong coffee that brews on a small fire that still glows from the previous night. We sit beneath the Coconut palms where he has arranged his hammock and talk quietly. We want to move on, adventure is calling us, yet we already feel such nostalgia for the beautiful natives of this lush Island. Taking my hand he leads me to our landing. “Look, it is reading to go”. We gather our belongings and before boarding as if to imprint it on our minds we take one last look
            around us, the calm blue lagoon, the white sand beach, swaying coconut trees. The black pearl paradise that is Polynesia.

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          15. We are aloft again. I watch as you silently go about your preparations for the long trip with the diligence of an ancient mariner whose life is a mastery of wind and sail. You stop to read the horizon and we both see the wisps of clouds evaporating under the power of a white hot sun. You turn to me and your face is a blessing of bright eyes wide with the wonder of what you see. It will be a great day for sailing, you say with a shy smile that warms me from the inside-out, and I tug on the chain that fires the burner as if to answer you with obedience to your wisdom. On cue, our patchwork balloon, the color of the sun on the horizon at the beginning and end of each day, lurches up like a stallion into the trade winds that will carry us to the Marquesas Islands. Beneath us a white Heron drifts on unseen currents. We touch hands as we take in the magnificent view of the sleek bird angling across emerald waves that lumber like great beasts on their way to distant shores to woo young lovers. Our balloon leans against the winds as we climb to 14,000 feet where it is cold and the air is thin. We fix our oil cloth canopy in a geometric grid of rope and knots over our wicker basket to let the sun glow through like the warm streetlights of Paris and keep the chill air at bay. Now, seated as if on a picnic, we snuggle under our blanket and make small talk in whispers even tho there is no one disturbed by our laughter that occasionally escapes. Where to next? You ask with sleepy eyes and contentment. This week weโ€™ll soon cross over the Marquesas Islands and in a few days the Galapรกgos Islands. From there we will sail northerly to Costa Rico, your Simeon friends await your visit to their paradise. I suppose then we must decide if we want to stop in Jamaica, Cuba, or the Bahamas. Letโ€™s stop everywhere if only for a few hours, you tell me with a yearning in your voice emphasized by the squeeze you give my arm. I wouldnโ€™t have it any other way, I reply. With a tug on the lanyard that fires our balloon as the exclamation mark in my declaration, our sailboat of cloth and wicker, of linen rope, our ship that obeys the wind and answers dreams, leans harder with the wind and we gallop across the South Pacific to uninhabited dots of land perched atop paleo volcanoes. Our love is wind and water, fire and sky, song and dance. Our lives have become a skipping stone that hops from shore to shore and we know without saying that freedom is a wicker floor above an ageless, deep blue ocean.

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          16. The days pass one into the other either, gently drifting on soft breezes or hurtling through gusts of wind that David must Maneuver. He has become a skillful aviator , if not I fear we would perish in storms but he has learned to let the trade winds have their way with us and it seems to know which jet stream will take us to our destination. Most of our days are soft and meandering spent gazing in wonder at the beauty stretched out above and below us. Dolphin and Gray whale follow as we streak above their ocean home as captivated with the giant vivid object cruising above as we are with them.
            David is tan and muscular now, I can barely imagine him in suit and tie. His hands are calloused from physically guiding, rising and lowering, adjusting to the unpredictable wind currents. At times fighting high winds and storms that would cast us off course.
            Nights when we are resting on the floor of the basket that safely holds us I want to press my lips to them but instead massage them with essential oils and in turn I drop my sarong and feel his hands gently rubbing any tension from my shoulders. It is at those moments when I feel such deep camaraderie and am struck by the utter and complete trust we share.
            Days pass and the sea is replaced by mountains covered with lush green forests. David has lowered the balloon close enough to the tree tops that we hear the chatter of simians chasing one another along the branches and parrots and macaw, bright flickers of color among the tree crowns squawking at having been disrupted. We have dropped low into the rain forest . Giant prey birds circle with curiosity, the whoosh of giant wings close enough to send me from the baskets edge to the deep gondola for safety.
            Lowering the volume David sets our trusty carriage down in a clearance on the forest floor and we settle with a thud. Charting our destination he determines that we have reached the rainforests of Costa Rica. We hug and celebrate by opening the bottle of Polynesia pear wine , a gift from our island friends. Having tied the balloon securely to the ancient gumbo limbos that encircle us David lifts me from the basket and swings me around joyfully, holding me briefly as I get my sea legs.

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  3. Of course, dear Holly, you cannot keep what you capture.
    You love waves and butterflies…. swans and words.
    I feel the waves and butterflies …. swans and words want to be captured by you.
    Then you can free them in your poetry.
    They want you to free them.

    Liked by 3 people

  4. This is quite haunting and yet, beautiful. It pairs well with the ‘swan’ arm image. Which came first, I wonder? The poem or the picture? Or were they born of each other and in a simultaneous, creative explosion!

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          1. TO HOLLYโ€“APOLOGIES!
            Leave a reply
            Heโ€™s just going to let it ride,

            while feeling humbled insideโ€ฆ

            What can he say

            to save the day?

            Just go on with eyes open wide!

            โ€“

            Jonathan Caswell (dON’T HURT ME…)

            Liked by 1 person

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