The Full Length


To proceed over memory

drawn down the breadth of its myth.

To withdraw sand from the glass

pressed against a cracked view

of an overgrown road

soon turning into a driveway of crushed shells.

The oppressive Paleozoic heat

that reeks of swamp and burns your feet

in dunes of moccasin decay.

Feel the pulse underneath this artery

as you pass the veil

on the way to the sea.

Through a portal of scrub oak

in the cumberland undergrowth,

&lt you’ll spy blue herons in the lagoon.

Set sail in a one man vessel,

attach meaning to cloud craft

drifting across the moon,

precipitate  night words

to breach the empty beach

in the hour when all else dims

but voices by the thousand

of unseen hosts rising from within

a cacophony of hymns.

It is a sound like searching,

following whims,

encompassing all that a highway would bring

to a child kept awake by heat lightning,

transfixed on the far reaches of the gulf,

that which is spread between the mist and the veil,

the imagination and the material.

Raw and unkempt,

the blanket was a thick fabric

with the whole night sky rolled up inside.

From out of the novelty of this lens

comes the nightly emergence of pens

to populate pages of explanation.

One legend speaks of a dragon

that brought the written word to the Americas

and we’ve followed ever since

the marks that singed

the trunks of old growth forests.

We’ve listened to tales

that spoke of brilliant trails

 as its fireball sails

from out of a mysterious wellspring of suggestion,

to illuminate the skies of our introspection

and to unveil the disguise

over this ancient connection

coiled throughout the years,

through w(rites) of passage and fears

that these pale reflections

lifted from its scales

are somewhat inadequate to reveal

the full length of its depth and perfection.


6 thoughts on “The Full Length

  1. uncle pete says:

    There is meaning beneath the paved over beauty. Thanks for digging it up ye old bard

    • domtakis says:

      My pleasure Pete! Memories can never be paved over, the spirit that Mr. Vale knew still exists down there, Its in those dunes and under the scrub oak canopy, at least in how we remember it.

  2. nicktakis2012 says:

    Awesome picture in my mind of Santa Rosa.. Is it on purpose that you say ” as you pass the Veil on the way to the sea”, we had to pass the Vails house on the way to the ocean… Parallels…. The crushed shell path, the Paleozoic heat, the blue heron in the lagoon.. It’s all there.. Does it speak of what influenced your writing, Tales you read about, stories throughout the years, beliefs held dear. I love the Blue Heron representing Dad and now Tim, they are with us a lot just have to keep your eyes open. We need to go back to Santa Rosa with Grandma.. Maybe next year. Love your writing, Love, mom

    Date: Tue, 28 Jan 2014 18:37:10 +0000 To:

    • domtakis says:

      Thanks Ma! You caught it! I was playing with the word veil for sure. Memories are strange, I was thinking of Mr. Vale and Santa Rosa out of the blue recently, all the imagery that ended up in here came flooding back in and I was just trying to get it down and create a fairly accurate window into the Santa Rosa we remember from so long ago. Glad you felt it!

  3. A beautiful winding of words.

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