The Potential of Travel:
The potential of travel when confined to islands becomes mental.
The strength of creativity, equilateral
to the flight of frigate birds
and the horizon that completes the triangle.
The shadow casts a wide net knowing not where it will land,
somewhere equatorial, over vast tracts of luminous sand.
Sometimes it’s necessary to scan an entire ocean
before we can temper the distortion.
Can the mind’s eye touch the spirit?
Will the interplay of a thousand images get near it?
There comes a surge of words but you barely hear it
in the motion of a distant storm
and the supple blackness that gives form to the correspondence.
The Drifting Leaves no Footprints:
Lodged like a shell in this primitive expanse
your dreams of drifting leave no footprints.
You await the tide, the next great swell
to bring you back out again.
Through the hypnotic reverie of the surf
the sound of whitewash dissolves
into ancient squares.
Surreal and composed
it proceeds over stone
breathing its soundtrack into the motion
of when it comes and it goes.
It rises and recedes
beneath the toes of a statue,
this patron saint of lonely virtue,
companion to the emptiness that time would accrue
over centuries of our movements and the residual echoes
are the only things left that pass through.
Fragments of the Imagination:
Fragments of the imagination gathered like debris,
it’s a war for control within the limits of any city.
In the contents of journals
In the semblance of journeys,
fragments of experience are closely cropped,
before spilling to your feet like errant teardrops,
turning the well worn passages into cascading streams
and through these gleaming mirrors all will be revealed.
Outside of Awareness:
On the outskirts of the glass city,
far from the sheltered harbor,
near to the pathways outside of awareness
there is a mystical sequence of moments
at the crossroads of consequence,
a series of propositions to remind us
that we’re merely riders on the wind,
passengers on the bridge
spanning the moment
between the past and the future,
suspended, nebulous as a rumor
afloat in the ether,
the faintest of bells
ringing out from towers and hills
and the freedom that follows
the silhouette of sweeping swallows.
The Back Valley Exhales:
You’ll descend like a strand of rain
loosened from a cloud,
a radiant bird
the illuminated shroud
of a monk at work with the sacred word
describing the light before it’s dispersed.
The knoll is aglow in resplendent intervals of flame
from out of the shade of the back valley
it is framed by the ridges, to hold in the essential energy.
Until exhaling with the strongest of wind,
it is a phoenix conjured again.
There’s an attempt to harness it,
to give names to the shrill songs
but wayward is my own breath,
destined to unravel before long.
Looking back on your travel like a colorful thread
lifted like wildflowers from the riverbed
unencumbered from moors
the moments of ascent
reaching towards the unbroken sky
when there is no breath to give
the memories die.
The Motion Beneath Confinement:
There’s a highway that follows the coast
and around every bend
recollections call out like restless ghosts.
A temporary retreat from quarantine
the city is shuttered, encased in concrete.
Here you evaporate instantly
into mist and sea salt,
leaving stains we’re urgently altered
by the whims of the water.
Waves breaking against the foundations,
no windows remain.
All the best laid plans,
wind blown and sacrificed to the rain,
to all the old gods in nature.
We’ll advance, hand in hand with the unknown.
All structure going up like matchsticks,
like retirement homes in the lava zone.
Against the hardened darkness
there are streaks of light,
in contrast we find the alignment.
So we lose ourselves for a time
peeling back layers of confinement,
seeking motion for guidance
to see through the blindness
and the sickness that knows no limits.