In that state between sleep and wake
traversing birth and mortality
there is the faintest hint of earthy candles,
macabre dreams interrupted by sighs
the soft strophe of sonnets and the odd
sensation of strung pearls falling like
tiny moons through my open palm.
At the boundaries I find you
not your spirit or rose tinged snow,
but flesh and bone and sinew.
Now I am sleeping less
roused by the wing beats of boreal Owls
circling ancient Cypress,
their knife edge talons entwining knotty branches.
When sleep intrudes fitful winds erupt
feathery curtains, vibrate my hemispheres.
A swift breeze lifts me over the
valley to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea
where a silver wolf lies down beside me.
He is the scent of golden meadows and
his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.
I want to fly but fall like
a silent prayer.
My limbs are an anchor
as I slip beneath the surface.
Opened mouthed my lungs expand,
my once struggling palms lie flat
as gentle waves of the river rock me.
Strands of weed mingle with my breath,
my only thing of value.
Everything beautiful is here,
all that was lost.
Birds chorus to the ancient stones.
A thousand warriors rest in an
estuary of flowers,
I can hear their mournful lament.
Celtic Woman…art by Woad
With anonymous faces
you watch over my cradle,
your voice as soft as the aurora,
hair the color of a Ditch Lily
brushes against my cheek
and when I look up
my own face echoes back
My first rainbows are soaked
in your tears,
I am busy with life Mother,
its been so many years.
I am filled with light,
is that so wrong?
Even in death we live on
until the last breath can
no longer recall us.
Rooted in the cold ground,
ethereal, is there a soul
beneath that cold marble?
Has time returned to the origin
before there was light?
Perpetually I come here,
through the edge of every season
beneath the purple sky
I breathe the eternity of you.
Do you ever scream out unroll the earth,
dislodge these stones?
Do you ever feel my unfathomable
grief in your mouth.
Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs, roil over ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of Mountains. I hear the voices of ancestors, perverse whispers of hate and grudges, they are witness to our deception. They know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same darkness as theirs. When we once again come face to face they will tell us how the hours passed so quickly. You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown. Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings. Save me from this carousel, my arms outstretched not knowing I am still spinning.
Between sleep and wake we
fall like stones into a silent lake
traversing birth and mortality.
Water pearls drop from unfastened palms
tiny moons slipping through fingers.
Deeper I find you in the iris of cat eyes,
not your spirit or rose tinged snow but
flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh is
an ancient strophe where we do not die
but flourish with the sprouting seeds.
When words were your only nourishment
I fed you calla lilies budding in my throat,
the shimmering wings of a thousand bees
thrumming walls of verse.
From the stacked shelves of your smoky library
I read to you Aristophanes,
of all poets we loved him best.
In the final hours
we longed for rippling wheat fields,
certain of life and death.
I feel you in the pouring rain
violent or soft as a summer breeze.
A bird in flight you disappear into
the pixels from which you came.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but I have become indifferent to pain
as cold as that seems.
Decaying gardenias fill my rooms with mortality,
decomposing petals saturated in dark secrets
kept alive by the ferocity of desire.
They rhapsodize my dreams with the zephyr
of your sigh upon my skin.
We are a wasteland, all poetic breath died with us.
Now I long for the clean scent of fall,
the smell of earth infused in deep roots.
Swaying wind chimes clinging to the arm of a live oak,
synchronized resonance of soothing sounds
for the twilight hours.
On my birthday she did not come to the table. Accustomed to the dark heavy tapestry hung at her windows. I didn’t sit with her anymore, her suffering frightened me. That day I wore a new dress, I adored it’s lacy bodice and satin sash. He had picked it out himself. Now my grown up eyes dissolve in the pain on his etched face in a photo with an empty space, dying in a dark room. When I begged you to get well, did it hurt you too?
That woman who spit me red faced into the world, fed and failed me, flung me from the hem of her skirt into the fractured world stares back at me from my mirror. I wear her hands like gloves and honor the rolling river where her ashes sank among the gravel and worship the boulders that harbor her.
A lone chrysalis twisting in the wind, my fluid bones pressed hard against its casing. casing. Swollen wings beat at the space that held me. I am searching for a moral, justification for internal contradictions and absurdities. These unheralded breasts, they defeat and yet complete me too. I know I am meant to struggle. I can’t see or hear nor would I heed signs of warning, a pubescent butterfly, excessively sanguine or melancholy I flit from flower to flower, oblivious to life’s repressive hand hovering above me.
il mondo de franco