Lavender Reveries…

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Lavender reveries
concomitant with swift movements
around, then through, then around again,
never to return to their places of emergence,
but to keep striving and transcending,
until they become as one,
and the ego is vanquished.
And a remnant graces her quivering visage,
wholly and concertedly renewed
by a tender lattice of divine thought,
in which the movements slow,
and the colors dissipate in the space of a blink,
and all that is left is a Barmecidal trance
of a thousand ages,
where the fruitful have come to keep vigil
and pray until the Sun turns gray.

Art: “Crozant Landscape (Grey Weather)”
Armand Guillaumin

Anatomy of a Tear

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Formless and inconstant paths,
weighted roots with no foundation;
whence does it arise but from a
disjointed countenance with no proportion,
or a leaf from a broken branch?

Dust in the fields,
sunless clouds in aimless procession,
breathless winds and incorporeal birds
that have forgotten their wings;
the water’s edge no longer beckons.

The once gentle and complaisant calf limps away in fear
along a scabrous meadow that has turned in unto itself,
where the borders now fold into jagged embankments on all sides,
where the drought-weakened oak palliates no more
and the hope of a thousand tomorrows goes to rest

Face down, arms tucked in, like a child stroked gently by the lapping shore.
Fate has made its final trek across the mound
and now comes to compel my love,
to usurp my longings and make sprightly
each of my steps to a sweet place beneath

A darkened moon where the leaves are heard no more,
where the touch has faded and this thoughtless mass
has swallowed the desiderium of yesteryear’s solace.
A singular drop seeks nothingness but does not find.
It vacillates between atonement and quietude

As have all the drops before it,
as have the senescent imaginings of an unattainable peace
that broods just below a smiling face.
I will not see it fall to the earth below;
The eyes have chosen the undifferentiated sky, and the sky, the unseen.

Art: “Bosque De Abdules”
Gustav Klimt

Enter the mist…

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Enter the mist,
Absorb your portion
and extract your errant freedom from it.

Soon there will be deities encircled about you
starved for awareness,
and moved to recognizance.

Approach them where the light vanishes between their wistful eyes
and render them the remnants of sated wilder beasts
that only pray to deciduous reflections.

The clusters will gather and coalesce,
and perhaps sing for a moment.
Deny them not their due space to bloom,

to sway to and fro to the rhythms buried neath the
fathomages of ceaseless change.
Delighted by the gleeful murmurs of lost cherubs.

Art: “Tranquil Pond”
Gustav Klimt

Resting Solitude…

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Resting solitude,
beware the quivering hand of Night’s mercenary
and the muted helical wisps
of sweet despair that well-nigh consume
the flesh of innocence.

Lurid reflections recovered throughout
the travails of unrelenting circular journeys
foretell stories of transcendence and of sorrow,
and of leaves waxing restful on the pond’s silent breast.
Protean skies sit god-like on their thrones,

Heads bowed, but shifting anxiously.
The roots of these edifices will grow, they say,
and in due time, beatified to soaring ecstasy,
where children will lead in song,
and tread the dusky streets as Kings and Queens.

Art: “The Flatiron”
Edward J. Steichen

Requiem After a Dream

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It all commenced witha journey to the edge of shadows
cast forth by a trace of light that smiled and imparted to me
truths that seemed to persist throughout eons;
Between one eon and the next a steady look speaks
directly into my Being, causing it to stir
with naïve inquiries into the state and manner of its origin.

And the Sun began to recline
possibly to fill in the gaps of lost space,
arresting every silken prayer in its wake.
An incandescent strand of her hair binds
it all together. I grab a portion and
waltz across worlds misshapen at the poles

And elongated at the center.
Her symphony arises breezily from the hazy blue
moldings that encase the equatorial seas
coursing throughout this protracted belly
of affections and passions unalloyed and unmasked.
A demigoddess once envied her tears

And attempted to destroy them,
but was distracted by the exigencies of every mangled thought
that swelled within, aching for emancipation,
begging the heart to recall every shrill note sung by
this restless hoard of deeply-perturbed, jaundiced crows
soon to drown mercilessly in her elegant streams.

Every angle has patiently waited outside of time, looking in,
awaiting her return. From whence will she come?
How long will they sing her praises before they glare into her windows,
erupting the seas of my solace anew?
Behold! Her silhouette glistens at the darkest hour.
She won’t weep this time; but will nourish me with the

Honeyed nectar of her voice,
which glows once ingested, then dissolves into a million questions
all asked and answered, interlocked and melded together
with slippery edges that taper off every eventide.
And every morning the journey begins again,
tracing a long, serpentine path into the shadow’s edge,

Addled by the piecemeal memory of her kisses,
Filled to surfeit with the lustful ambrosia of her
secrets disclosed under the hushed bend of this crescent glow
that shimmers no more. The rain has made it dull;
A memory dangles and fades into a patchwork of speckled flowers,
slightly recumbent, pointed in the direction where her footsteps would have been.

Art: “Untitled”
Richard Diebenkorn

Trace my steps knowingly…

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Trace my steps knowingly
with your whispered incantations.
See me to the crest
and look down on the terrace
they have carved out for us.

What of tenderness remains
in the subdued glory of lowly pastures
whose only wish was to fortify
the outstretched arms of chance
and the ploughman’s lament?

Redemption lies just beneath the surface
of impassioned passes to and fro,
of weathered hopes and copious returns.
Fruit beckons becoming as old iniquities are put to rest.
A procession of future mornings looks back over its shoulder
and shivers in wistful delight.

Art: “Enclosed field with Ploughman”
Vincent van Gogh

A Spindle Emerges…

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A spindle emerges
And worlds retreat into unknowing
On all sides.
The vortex has been reborn
And it figures into the life of spaces
Turgid with the fallen heroes of reminiscence
And motion inflamed.

And around it goes,
Taking time with it and dissolving it
Into hollow particles that move along
Slightly curved corridors
One by one, after a fashion.
And blackened thoughts
Begin to coalesce.

The corridors straighten out
And empty into vacuums of potential being
Sealed by a single, winding thread of excess darkness
Occasionally punctuated by iridescent
Moments of awareness.
Clarity happens best when edges are
Seared and smoothed out,

Connected by the wings of galactic angels
And cosmic vagabonds that sprint in every direction.
Tonight they will all break free
And be seen no more.
The vortex will be shattered and consumed,
Spaces will bend until collapse,
But memories will resume, fully-realized, on all sides.

Art: “Constellation: The Migratory Bird”
Joan Miró

In Time (2010)

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We shall reflect upon the meaning of our disgrace,
Grasping truth unencumbered by blinded eyes.
Fugitive moments eagerly await the call of memory’s trace,
To stand before the day duly countenanced by obscurity’s demise.
We’ll hasten to discard every cloak and vain disguise,
And submit to all that the interest of honesty requires.
We’ll journey through forbidden caves of deceit and compromise,
Abducting strange thoughts, denuding secluded desires.
Fate guards the door of timeless secrecy to which our crime aspires,
Every path to resistance impeded by overgrown weeds of shame,
Ravished by the guilt that remains long after the fact expires,
We kneel wearily at the feet of judgment, ignominious passions with no name.
We are what virtue has disavowed.
We are what freedom has disallowed.

Art: “Les amoureux aux clair de lune”
Marc Chagall

This Place

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There is life here.

And there are seeds aflutter with
Gleeful songs and abstracted praises.
And a blind bacchante coruscates with abandon,
Dancing amid a night’s earnest welcome;
And children enthralled by oblivion,
Bought and sold by insular moments.

Here is a toast to a passing frame,
Of many a breath drawn, and taken away,
Of an eye for nicety at times,
And at times given to bland, tawdry components
Hastily-refined (for my conscience).

To a past extolled
This new perspective
Determines unforeseen positions,
Clarity of vision,
Decrepit memories of
Mistakes buried into misplaced oaths.

I seek the fugitive in all permanence,
Then I cloak it in aureate trappings
Of meandering satin.
This fervor bears witness
And is steeped in tonight’s rage.
But I love her
Albeit with bruised and disconsolate
Prayers yet to be uttered.

Art: “Les Beaux Jours”
Claude Carvin

From this vantage…

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From this vantage
We have quelled our devils,
Torn our veils,
And dozed off in the effulgence of Being.

For a time our hopes were recycled,
Our superstitions dashed,
Our reach for life extended into
Flashes of distilled desperation

For a gentle upsurge that drifts and transforms,
That subsides and appears again
Ever-more slight, ever-more humble,
Dallying effortlessly with rambling thoughts along the embankment.

Art: “Argenteuil Seen from the Small Arm of the Seine”
Claude Monet