The Essence knew no Boundary

koralia bonfireThe essence knew no boundary

over great tracts of wilderness,

in the abrupt descent into the sea.

Through uninterrupted spaces,

the spirit is as evident

as the grass it passes through.

Akin to a last breath expanding outwards,

seeking a landing,

somewhere to rest its laurel leaves

with lines of light

that guide through the night,

like the lanterns of Santa Marta,

all the runaway stars

that slip through the sky to the playa,

a culmination of sparks from a dual bonfire.

Passing between flames,

we were no longer the same but altered forever.

Candles capture our image

while smoke lifts us ascendant,

etched in the moon’s white visage,

we’re stark black and in tatters,

crisscrossing footprints, overlapping shadows.

Love and loss lean on each other

until they become one in the same

mournful song of nocturnal birds taking wing,

soon settling into everything;

a scent, a fabric,

the fragments in nature that form a picture

outside of any frame, it’s nothing we can name,

that which knows no boundary.

Entrenched in the heart,

the feeling swells into a soaring crescendo,

breaking chains of attachment, Bowie’s “Heroes”

communicating directly with something immaterial.

If the spirit was a wind,

it would be as wild and wayward as these trades,

ragged from journeys, seaborne and saved.

We would get a sense of it through its impact on the waves,

in the patterns in the sand it creates.

Relating to spirit it stands

seedless yet rooted,

following the oldest  of forms,

connecting practitioners with those who passed

a half a century before.

There is a subtle stirring in these movements,

a newer manifestation of an ancient art

which is once again a communication.

 

In the next chapter, after everyone goes home,

we’ll tend to the alters.

The ash of insense and dead petals will be swept.

The salvaged portrait polished

until we find time for reflection.

The gaze in the photograph

attaches a steady line to our own memory,

like a charcoal tracing over the spaces between meaning,

in a search that is never wavering,

we can come to an understanding

that between death and life

some things endure.

 

For Uncle Joe McCauley

I think of you often

 

 

 

 

 

 

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4 thoughts on “The Essence knew no Boundary

  1. villysie@aol.com says:

    That was great thanks you so much Love Uncle Villy

    Virgilio Sierra Director estudioMORFO http://www.estudiomorfo.com

    39 rue des Bourdonnais 75001 Paris, France tel/fax 33.1.42.21.3004 cel 33.6.63.23.8756

    Cra 51#79-238 suite 5 Barranquilla, Colombia tel/fax 57.5.356.9213 cel 57.318.281.7846

    5261 Lagorce Drive Miami Beach, FL 33140 USA cel 1.917.459.0278

  2. Peter McCauley says:

    Beautiful Dom. .Your right. We will never be the same. Its blurred now. The line between life and death. Its a holy place and its all around us.I love how you show that.

  3. Rebecca takis- smith says:

    Very nice way to remember and revisit.
    Beautiful poem. Thinking of Unlce Joey.
    Xo, Becky

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