She Arrived Bearing Leaflets

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She arrived bearing leaflets
gathered hastily from a tree
that once made its home
along the bluff that bowed
in the direction of All Saint’s Creek,

Where the flightless seraphs would
traverse from time to time
to retrace the melody
that escaped somewhere between
celestial monuments immemorial

And the hallowed confluence of
electric mists and vernal shadows
that marked the beginning
and the end of a journey’s refrain,
just beyond the bend.

One leaf was given to a man of great wisdom
who preferred the wistful caress
of remote breezes emanating from
solitude sweetened with age
and fortified with crystalline shells of Faith.

Another was given to the golden-haired urchin
who painted the meadows with colors
birthed out of fond remembrances of
tender passages from lullabies
that dared to trace their lineage back to Blue.

Several more were given to
the animals that dutifully roamed
the forgotten stretch of the forest
in which visions of sunrise trickled down
like nervous rain on its journey beneath the surface.

The last leaf was given to me
as I wondered into the chestnut stream
that flowed from her eyes.
I held it to my heart and promised her
that I would awaken each morning hereafter

Bearing lavender periwinkles for her silken hair
extending in every direction, culminating into
tightly-woven star steps leading back
to the beginning of the Creek
where there were dreams of flight, patient and graceful.

I promised her that when the leaf crumbles,
my heart will divide the pieces among
every meandering soul in search of her lament,
and legions of despondent youth
will arise and build spatial arias from her maiden cry.

And the galaxies will awaken, changing form
with each resolution, presaging the moment
when each star will descend upon the horizon
and illuminate the spot where the leaflets once
graced her outstretched hand.

I sit and mark the journey
of lost stars that find their way down the bluff
and into my bosom, where I inscribe her smile on them,
and turn them into wings that glow in the dark
for the angels who plant trees at night.

 

Art by Matt Wisniewski

Before

It would be two years before
I would see you drifting there again
Arms ravaged and spread apart
Knowing and resisting

The hymn of the lotus
Who coursed our path
So many times before–
Wailing, suffering,

So that redemption may
Find and overtake us.
Consolation rounds the way
And becomes what we aspired to be

Back when your trembling hand
Took repose in my altar,
And the phantasmagoria of
Unlicensed touches

Dutifully escaped us.
Become still, my love,
And submerge your guilt
Into my aching abyss.

Decry not the glory of
Tattered saints in line to drink
From the abundant rivers
Of our forgotten travails.

Mold them into centers of incandescence
With wings glistened by
The silken nectar of our lust
And musings felt but unseen.

The Way Your Eyes Twitch…

The way your eyes twitch

In the candlelight
Does not lie.
A million wonders
And I find you here among
A shadow that prays
For penitence,
A million more ways to sunset.

Kiss me at once,
Mold my being with your
Questionless lips.
Deny not the ghosts of
Preludes past entrance between us.
Let them bloom violently
Until the passion subsides
With the morning seaside
Upon its return home.

War boasts not only for the wicked,
But for the plainsong of the lustful and the restless
Who fight for the tattered shawl that
Love left tied to the rock below,
The one we once thought was immovable
But that now appears to drift a little.

 

Faithfully…

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Faithfully,
The impression of your hand in mine
Lingers in a pool of usurped moments
As I cast my shadow down the hill
Where I coveted your face
With searching lips
For the first and last time.
The centuries will hear my beseech
And expand as tunnels inundated with the
Dust of the beloved and the fallen.
The ferns will outgrow their bodies
And begin to sashay nimbly above the
Moon-glazed swards that birthed them.

Gratuitously,
The tortoise will remember to smile again,
And his legs will gain strength
As his journey decompresses
And his resting place arises in a gale of
Furious, breathy arias
Abiding their impending freedom.
Should the seas open up for your arrival
And your star begins to weep,
Do not wait for me,
For timeless I have become.
We have loved as the tiller’s dream
Loved the hillside,
As the edifice now loves its song.

Uncharacteristically,
You might find me buried deep in the trough
With mirrors on all sides.
Do not seek my likeness,
For I am all of them
And probably none of them.
Fear nothing as you close your eyes
And slowly restrain your breath.
Do not awaken until infinity has
Called you to behold two smiling trees in the fore.
Open your eyes,
Go lie among them,
Eyes facing the sea,
And breathe again,
Just a little at a time.

Art: “The Church at Varengeville, against the Sunset”
Claude Monet

Briefly…

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Briefly
Things take shape
Then disappear.
When the eye blinks,
The reverie is dead
And new light becomes
The angel in you.
For a time,
Then you are whisked away
By gratuitous moments
Undefined and barely in view.
When I think of crying,
Something awakens
And you are there,
Listening, breathing,
A simple melody
Exhorting me to rest
Before you arrive again
And I extend my hands
To greet you
Wordless.

Art: “The Three Candles”
Marc Chagall

How might I sound the depths…

How might I sound the depths...

How might I sound the depths
Of this unbridled verdure

That bursts forth unforeseen
From the silken grass
Along the edges of your watered eyes
Glimmering helplessly
Across a thousand lost Springs?

How might your light be multiplied
Among darkened ranges

Lush with uncertain hands
That glide conspicuously
Along the base of my neck,

Coming to rest upon my lips,
Where your name seeps in gently
Through drip after anonymous drip,
As I begin to recall
The path your melody took that one night
We planted emerald seeds
In the dust of our leftover dreams?

How might the intoxicating musk of feral roses
Enjoin me to dance

With the legerity of softened bones
Sweetened and subdued
By the candied spice
Abducted from your fulgurant whispers?

How might I digest our song
One last time

Until my heart overflows
With the rhythm
Of nocturnal Arabian masquerades,
And Eden uncloaks
And her naked silhouette
Beckons me to rest?

Art: “Roses”
Vincent van Gogh

Burgundy Nights

Burgundy Nights

Her breath eludes me – it is alien.
Trembling hands glide restlessly
Through billowing burgundy satin dreams
So soft, so ethereal they slip from the hand
Like molten ruby.

I’m here, I’m not here.
I follow her, anxiously
Into a relentless density of wooded paths, united passions,
Curiosity ramified into infinite branches of intent.
Each one rising, falling

According to a smile – laughs, anticipations materialized.
She beckons me there. Deeper—
She’s familiar with these worlds.
Already traveled, already there, waiting for the hand,
Or at least its shadow

Aimless caresses ignite discrete flames,
Illuminating labyrinthine grottos decked with playful crevices
That glide, gently, hands, interlocked
Her eyes in repose, satin cries unraveled,
Gracing my countenance with delicate unrestraint

I indulge her fury.
A small Death, all the sweeter,
Awakens latent streams flanked by the élan of
Reckless oblivion
Within her bosom I am immersed in my cause
Without qualification,
Suffocated by the rapture of fleeting remembrances of
Those foreign nights.

Art: “Spherical Romance Art Set”
Holly Anderson