Textures, Gestures

Textures, gestures

into the time lapse

haze of morning,

the spontaneous eruptions

of clouds forming within

what appears static and glass

reflecting the easiest passage

around obstruction.

A break in the rocks ,instruction,

swift action

to balance the rigidity

of thoughts

disguised as wisdom.

Sinking somewhere

unconscious

beneath the surface,

the river stones

smooth as tear drops,

far flung and sinking

deep within an archipelago of

birds singing.

Flecks of light like candles,

shadows and their cave mouths commingling,

each motion creates words

reinforced by moonlight

even after the flames of meaning die.

Textures, gestures,

the eyes in a painting.

Faces in the falls,

rock walls,

the profiles of angels in miniature,

ascending

from cracks and fissures

like the first idle thoughts

that spread

from Le’ahi to Koko head,

lighting

the first spark defiant rim

that holds all the dark within

a cloud fabric’s

somber poem.

Underscoring the bedding,

thresholds in the wedding,

dawn and dark,

a consummation in time.

It comes to penetrate the mind’s

El Greco sky.

Bridging storm clouds

with white shrouds of calm

in the perfectly

swirling turbulence that

contrast unites

in the overtures of this day

in what endures of this night

along the edges of impermanence.

you become aware of it

only as it changes again.

Where all our colors are bled

Ocean, like a silver armor

reflecting the diverted glare of the sun.

Ocean, like an interpretation

searching under surfaces of light and dark.

Who will congregate

to pass through this state

like shadows admiring each other’s form?

The wind offers a fleeting glimpse

of that which is intimate with it.

Eyes trained on horizons

we wait patiently for something from the deep

to break the calm of the surface.

Fins breach, the sun-swept

disjointed reach to the sky.

One moment, one ripple

a wave from the inner depth

peels through the elemental cleft

to be submerged and sealed over again.

Join them out there beyond the sky

caring not where one is led

the sea is one great stream

where all our colors are bled.

When we returned

the waves broke spray over lava walls.

The day had a perfect cloud cover

of light and shadow

that splintered the open ocean,

all the fishing lines were illuminated.

Ducking beneath them,

the sea was warm to our steps,

penetrable to our grasp,

soluble to all that would drain,

When we returned

we could not distinguish between the spray and the rain,

from the safety of the sane

and that forbidden place

where the mind is a mist

and we drift without footprints.

Take from the prose that arose from a somber recess

but could never disclose the sense of infinite space

crumbling into itself

like a pinch of ash from a bleak sky

or a fallout of stars in the rubble of silence.