The Visitation

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The chimes of the balcony

trickle into the memory

that I was not alone earlier on the cobbles.

Followed by your echoes,

weightless and elegant,

like a flowing fabric

or the shadow of a delicate fan,

you came like a welcome reprieve

from the humidity that knew no wind coming off of the sea.

All of the valleys were choked and stagnant

until your scented form brushed by

like the visitation of pikake

or a rain that knew forests better than concrete.

You are the balm by which old selves begin to retreat,

the relief of twilight after the heat,

all the small glittering fragments,

fleeting as loose fitting rings

as day slips into night.

These moments can accumulate in trees,

with angelic voices and the flight of eucalyptus leaves

from your silver sleeves

it breathes freely by land’s end

and on the terrace with paper and reverence

I’d make amends,

with fingers and pens

longing for useful lines to describe

the legend of your disappearance,

like a sun behind the sea,

I’ll follow in your wake

with letters sealed in ink endlessly.

 

Cover Image “The Kiss of the Muse” by Paul Cezanne

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Still Lingering

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Pendulous minutes

do not transform to words

but emotions.

Still, it lingers

for that first line

to move across your tightrope wire.

The mind, perched above an unspeakable blankness,

late summer losing its sheen,

hitchhiking

until the rides dried up in doldrums,

until night folds in

without a room to rent,

without any light to pitch a tent,

with no station to channel the breath,

from all sides comes an irrational fear.

Peer into its depth,

declare that you’ve lost your gift,

pulling sentences from time,

an amorphous shape to define

ideas beginning as flickers,

then springing to lamplife

to permeate sleep

and create with words

 the smell of dew laced with kerosene,

wet mornings camping

Shenandoah.

The tent canopy conceals

a hard, strange bed,

a precious bootless rest

above the path’s myriad experience,

dreams caress the soundless transience.

When time becomes oppressive to sleep

and the mind, like pulp,

forms fresh images for the pen to reap,

you idle, where no roads go.

Remembering every manifestation has a motion to it,

every creation has emotion to it,

every relation can have devotion,

like sand against the ocean to it.

Where shall my thoughts rest tonight?

On what downy  palm sway soft breeze

invites the mist to lay before me?

What visitation to release without holding?

Precious but not controlling,

these ghosts, my close associates,

the ones I have to work with,

creatively, in collaboration

with the infinite integration

of insects and grass glades,

it’s about harmony,

those doors swinging both ways,

its about syncronicity,

about your words and my breath,

it’s a part of me and everywhere.

In every sand grain rests sunlight,

it’s serenity,

paid in myriad ways

through work that begins in the heart.