If I could return to your sanctuary I would bring one last offering. Those words you loved, that you spoke a thousand times or wrote just once. I would place them near, lay those tender verses down beside you.
A trampled path winds
its way through the
reaching arms of evergreen
to a misty wild wood where my
heart lies down with yours.
White tail deer nibble goldenrod
and lift the veil of solitude.
Spring showers and wild flowers
flourish there where
April lives forever.
art © Joan Egert
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?
What the night birds
sing when dreaming
I can translate to you as though
I were another San Francesco.
They sing this: open your heart
like the blossom of a Ditch Lily
kissing the warm night
in the dark light.
Let the Pegasus of your most
daring fantasies fly high.
That’s what they sing
in this sweet night.
Comments are closed here, the original can be found at Dithyrambs and Ditties
Two glasses sit before me. One breathes brandy and a friendly pond of water rests in the other. After dimming the lights, I smoke a cigarette, close my eyes and meditate on the state of the world and why the Dalai Lama always smiles.
I stretch , caress the brandy glass and let my nostrils make first contact with the sharp scent of the spirit, roll the brandewijn in my mouth. When the burn begins pure water rinses down my disoriented tonsils. I pay mute homage to Pindar’s water is the noblest (hydor men ariston). I rest for half a stretched out minute. Allowing another shot my tongue jumps tipsily. I let the glass of water rest.
I lower my lids now, communicate with the jinn in the bottle of brandy: my sweet friend, where have you come from to dance down my tongue and make my mind swirl like a harlequin in spring? Of course there is no answer, I must take another sip, dip my tongue in the pond of fire, then I can hear you sing. ” Master, I grant you free three shots before you’ll start to feel the pain of my company”.
I take my shot, followed by a gasp. My jinn moans low and soft and snuggles up and starts to caress me and she gets wet from tears of lust. I court her with a spray of harvest colors in my voice, red, golden and brown, the yellow and the dark. I relax. “You need more, I know, and I will feed you candied pearls of life”. I like how you touch my mind and how the liquid shape of you melts into mine. I bathe the soft tissue of lips and gum in soothing water while all my thoughts disappear into light blue.
In memory – Father’s Day 2019
His mother named him Carlos, such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain. We said goodbye by a bed near a window deep with winter.
Summers heavy cloak hung over fields of Goldenrod, their long limbs reaching out to mesh with spiky leaves that sheltered bundles of marmalade florets.Their invasion of the meadow met with merciless machetes that hacked through the unwelcome invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to extend a pleasant fragrance.
The trail led to an arbor by a trickling brook. Nestled in a stand of trees a precarious trellis bowed heavy with never ending appendages that wound and wove through dense clusters of bulbous translucent nipples clinging tenaciously to their host.
The scent of peppery earth stung the nostrils and attracted white tail deer that ravaged the vines of their treasure. The old man once snaked a garden hose through the lattice to frighten them, a guise that worked only to astonish lovers lingering at fertile ground, a sacred rendezvous.
Soon the clammy dragons of summer breathed their fiery breath and the skin of the luminous fruit burst with the sweetest nectar and they were declared ripe and ready to harvest by a sacred secret known only to the old man and his son. Ruptured with a pestle and filtered, the grapes were processed and stored in Bell jars, sweet and crisp, underdeveloped, but heady and pleasant.
Rarely did my father materialize from his travels once I had been delivered for the summer yet somehow the harvesting of the grapes invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.
As far as the eye can see,
dotted with chiseled teeth that jut through the verdure
vanish over the wilted slopes fade into the horizon.
Dead twigs trapped in wrought iron arms
rustle in the forlorn zephyr trapping
wayward leaves on bronze
That designate where valor lies.
Worn flags, stiff with age,
quiver like the hearts of caged doves
Red poppies in the common droop,
overcome by the copper scent that fills the
fields of treasure that flourish here forever,
As far as the eye and beyond.