A Romance

When in the ‘spanse of time I would recall
A silly-rhym-ed symphony of words-
Worth nothing 'midst the clamor of the bells,
I'd walk through familiarity
Of emerald grasses sweet and soft to touch.
A gentle kiss of wind against my breath
And vivid hues of violet light the way
Back from the house. My footsteps would not fail
And I, once more, would be with-out those walls.
The brickwork, dubbed by years of soil, wear
The temp'rate trials of a life -- a monument,
Colossus, giant form, cemented sure
Against the rocky fundamentals. Then,
Escaping through the rooms towards the door
To scurry to the lighted windowsill
From which the brilliant light, emanating
And clear, poured crystal rainbows all along
The rug. I sit serene against the glass.
My clawing eyes searched ev’ry inch of earth
To find a fault. No problems seen, I stepped
Across the threshold, regal and composed
To meet the raindrops searching for the warmth
Of human skin. Pleased to concede, I’d go,
And ev’ry day her eyes would search for mine.
I would dance for her and sing a song
To chase away the pain within her bones.

A romance born of bare-foot promenades
And kumquat trees with aloe interspersed.
Amongst the scent of myrrh-like breath, I see
With elephantine eyes the murky lake.
I feel with recollections strong the cool,
Soft wind composing milky-water rips
And tears. I taste the end-of-summer sweat.
I hear my idle voice raised to the doors
Of heav’n itself to touch the ear of God
Or anyone who’ll listen.

Now I hear
A voice, more agéd and repulsed by sound,
Attack the throne of pearl and glassy sea
Which mimics that most perfect and ideal
Mirage. The agate tears of sky and wind
Returned to earth to quench the crying ground;
And I, alone against the rage, am still
Along the waters edge, toes deeply damp.

I owe to you my sanity. I dream
Of you in moments of despair –
To look upon a skyline mixed with steel,
You are the only grace to ransom me.
How sweet your leaves, how kind your tender branch
To hold my swinging legs and weary head.
Would I were there to once more sit alone.
Would I were there to dip my toes in deep.

White Flowers

I have grown quite tired of white
Flowers: always celebrated in mourning,
Or in weddings. I am in need of color,
A spell of bright swirling sparkling
To brighten up the gloomy world.
What there is of Fall
Is beautiful while it lasts—
The colors are sparks against the low gray clouds
Until they fall and leave us gaps up to them.
The winter, too, sparkles—
And though white, still it covers
A great host of colors and histories:
Choleric babies and warm fireplaces and fallen leaves turned into some dirt.
But these white flowers cover not.
These white flowers are funeral dirges
Or songs of great white mirth.
I grow quite tired of breaks in color
For a solemn affair.
I want for one wash of color, unbroken.

26 November 2007

Monday 26 November

I wonder at all the other 26 Novembers—
The todays for some and the yesterdays for some.
I wonder at the other Monday 26 Novembers
That felt quite like this one—
And did a child play in fallen leaves
Or in fallen snow?
Did a hard, cold rain fall
Or did the sun fall like a great beacon?

And did a young man, ages ago or yesterdays ago,
Sit down at his desk,
Pen or quill in hand,
Ink smudges lining the beds of his fingernails
(from whence came all those funny words,
Until, good God, some oil was struck,
Making rich the writer, making rich his
Sons)? Or did a young man
Yawn and turn over once more,
Escaping the incessant drones of some similar bells?

I recall one such 26 November—sacred and bleak
Where a great hush fell with the avocados
Down to the earth with a whisper.
Children played in the murky waters, splashed
As though only an ant might have died,
Squashed beneath their fumbling feet
As they padded towards the shore and the waves.
Then from the west, with the falling light,
Came the sound of some similar bells—
They called out, like fireworks splitting the sky,
A death knell.
And all at once, there came a hush,
Soft as the crushing of the life of some ant.

I wonder at how they used every 26 Novembers—
A lifetime of Monday 26 Novembers.
How did the lady tidy each stray hair
Before approaching the aisle?
And how did the son creep up beside the lizard
To catch it before it ran off?
And how did the oil monger carry home his wealth
In dirty handfuls with stained fingernail beds?
And how did some similar bells sound
In all of the other 26 Novembers?