Confessions Without Borders

Driftwood, Pacific Rim National Park Reserve, Vancouver Island, British Columbia
Midnight descends in a common darkness

of heavy emptiness.

The building’s a vacant gaze,

skull sockets for a windowless place

with no retention.

Thoughts simply pass through

this dimension into forgetting.

Soon silence transforms itself

into a multitude of birds

begetting the sun.

They call out in unison,

beak by beak

octave by octave,

voices rise from the grave

to the swaying nave

of a great cathedral.

They begin to break up the night,

to cave in that ceiling of dreaming,

revealing we’re alive for another day.

 

Pull this moment over you,

like a cap that casts shade

on the glare of all other

goals to pursue

perpetual platforms,

to pass through

circles receding

into a sanctuary of shadows.

The cool safety of shade baits

half-opened shutters of whispers,

to your closest friends

you’re a good listener.

The stillness you entertain

for scraps of thought,

 a fresh catch thrown

from languid skiffs in the sun.

A feeling of mist and abandon.

Voices hanging

like an aged and translucent skin.

Truths and prejudices

perhaps are no consolation

for a questionable worth

to wrap ourselves in.

Where does the inside end

and the outside begin?

The capacity to determine

the dimensions of an ancient foundation.

There are no borders only confessions

laying in ruin.

The boundaries are absorbed

into the coals of a dying fire.

Surface shreds of lives left forgotten,

mandala funnel void of countless impressions,

sudden shifts in the symmetrical spin,

the rhythms of experience chiming in,

resplendent, golden

moments like companions fading away

until new ones are born

out of the foam and clay.

Warmed by the building flames

of what became boundless

flashes of color

unearthed on a beach of lambent shades.

They’ll coalesce on edges

where all the driftwood merge

to go up again.

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8 thoughts on “Confessions Without Borders

  1. that line “a fresh catch thrown from languid skiffs in the sun” . really gets me thinking , but i can’t get my hand around where it’s taking me or where you wanted the reader to go. dad

  2. domtakis says:

    I was thinking of fishermen unloading their nets in tiny villages like in Cinque Terre and how receiving scraps of thought is somehow like pulling in the fresh catch.

  3. nicktakis2012 says:

    I love the pictures dreamed up in the beginning.l the skull sockets of the buildings, the birds flying up ,, dreaming.. Such a great picture.. Eerie , awakening .. Bits and pieces of yourself come thru.. A good listener.. Great moments.. Not understanding the edging .. Trying to grasp your meaning. Please explain when you get a moment.

    Love mom

    Date: Mon, 3 Jun 2013 23:39:09 +0000 To: nicktakis@hotmail.com

  4. cindy knoke says:

    This is beautiful. Kudos~

  5. I absolutely love the comments by mom and dad. I could always count on my parents for an honest opinion. One time, my dad read one of my poems and said, “WHY are you always so cryptic.”
    That being said, people do tend to interpret poems according to their own experiences. When I read your poem, I could hearl life coming and going. What is the reason for it all? As you say, “where does the outside end and the outside begin.” Questionable worth…..
    Now….
    I realized that my interpretation may not even be close to what you meant. But the cycle of life, mist and abandon, coming and going, is what I heard when I read your words.

    • domtakis says:

      Thank you Mary, I love what stood out for you when you read this piece and its comments. There is really only a thin veil between all of us, particularly when interpreting someone interpreting a feeling or internal/eternal state. I always appreciate the honesty.

  6. Ummmm….I meant to type “where does the inside end and the outside begin.” Directionally challenged once again, I am.

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