I’ve Heard the Echoes


I’ve heard the echoes,
chased the shadows,
danced with the reveries
of phantom caresses.

Retreat with me
to a safe space
‘neath the snow-laden burrows
behind the curtain of remembrances

where we will carve out
the annals
of innocence and mirth,
and ascend the smoky hills by night’s end.

Art: “The Road in front of Saint-Siméon Farm in Winter”
Claude Monet


Piece by Piece…


Piece by piece
Our journey realigned itself
In concert with
Sprightly reassurances
From across a budding millpond,

Enjoining us to sing
When there is no breath,
To kiss with lips gilded by
The dew of daysprings past,
To love beyond the last heartbeat.

Moment by moment
Our paths would sound
The hollow depths of beginnings
Reborn with the scent of meadow’s musk

And take rest together
Where the pebbles begin to glisten
One face-down, the other face-up,
Without a blink,
Until the firmament beckons the stone
And the stone smiles in return.

Art: “The Tuileries”
Claude Monet


Down at the Alameda


Down at the alameda
We shook hands, 

Told stories,
Then laughed some more,
Until we forgot.


It was the place
Where life happened unconditionally,
Where leaves found their rhythm
In errant breezes
And paused to collect
A tear or two;

Where I once found a shell
With ridges decayed
Punctured with a tinge of lust
That tickled the jaws
Of feral plum seeds
Stripped of their memories
And spewed forth
From the mouths of happy beasts.

Art: “The Garden of Essai, Algiers”
Pierre-Auguste Renoir


Three Hourglasses…


Three hourglasses
Stand side by side
Each filled with coarse black sand.

Peering silently
Into distances without aim 
Or countenance,
They have accepted
That fury is dead,
That the gilded raven
Still cries for remission
From remnants of shivering liturgies
Robbed of their skin.

Reflection has eaten itself raw
Into a vast burrow
With bores on every side
Slithering caterpillar-like into
A destiny of hollow regrets
And tawdry labyrinthine eulogies.

A crack emerges and spreads
Like a self-directed pestilence
Amid a population of
Scattering anti-heroes
And descending demi-gods.

Dust forms along the base of
Dreams that have long dissipated
Into an infinity of somber particulars.
Future accompanies a hapless paradise
Into a darkened chamber
Filled with breathless beady-eyed imps
Panting out old southern hymns
From their soot-drenched songbooks.

What the coming rain fails to redeem
We will want to keep embalmed
In this container
However imperfect;
However damaged,
Until the shell is ready to be
And the demons let out,
One, by one, by one.

Art: “Landscape Around Chatou”
André Derain

The arms of safekeeping…

The arms of safekeeping...

The arms of safekeeping
Strengthened with each casting
Of the twilight bell.
Gracious and swift
Do they mark each row
Where increments of time
Retract and spread
In imperfect unison,
Like disengaged molecules
Along errant waves.

When the moment becomes you,
Travel lightly along the
Sand-soaked precipice,
And smell the dreams as they
Strive to appear
Without warrant,
But with fullness
Of meaning found buried
Beneath the withered castles
You have created for me.

Art: “Twilight, Winter, Douarnenez”
Maxime Maufra

I am a Child…

I am a Child...

I am a child
Of hands apart.
I sway to scattered muses
Tethered to reluctant arms.
I scamper down rubato paths
Lined with fine green mist
And twisted blades
Of fiberless grass.
I have a meeting
With the elders of open worlds
And free-roaming beginnings.
I will reunite with friends
And sing them my joys.
What lies beyond this towering hillside
I may never know,
Or want to know.

Art: “Spring, Plum Blossoms, Pontoise”
Camille Pissaro

Sultana of the Sun…

Sultana of the Sun...

Sultana of the Sun,
Light your candles.
Hold them against your earthly casting
Until it awakens and begins to melt.

Watch it as it seeps into current,
Separating, coalescing, separating anew.
What is the color of a waxen womb
That sculpts and molds
Its own exodus toward atonement?

Feel your awareness blossom into
A procession of softened flesh
Coruscating with the abandoned sway
Of particles infused with
Harmonies perpetually-reborn.

Move with them through darkened moons
And pristine, sunswept capes.
Nurture them as the dust that
Scurries along each moistened strand
Of your sea-silken hair,
Seeking refuge upon the tender peaks of
Saturated breasts.

Mind the brittle bones of rhythms immemorial.
Find your ghosts and careen with them.
Render supplication with coffrets bearing
Lubricious gazes and oblique steps
Toward dimensionless borders.

Unearth the wings you once buried in shame.
Scream until your voice coincides
With the transcendent cry of the original drifting womb.
Meet me where the current ends
And we’ll enter it together,
And bathe in its igneous expulsion.

If you are tired you can rest here
Upon this tuft of sand.
And tomorrow you can fly
Back through the tunnels your graceful reveries have fashioned,
Back into the arms of a lotus you once knew,
Planted while you were asleep
By a spry and expectant Dawn.

Art: “Day of the God (Mahana No Atua)”
Paul Gaugin