Three Streams

Longing

I smell your voice
in the warm summer night
the thick smoke hewn weight of it
laughing through the air
a brother to the darkness
is this place of dreams
this time of all times
and none

Youth’s Last Night

the forfeits
fought and died for
dead soldiers line the walk,
wasn’t that a party
that time that time forgot
and so have I
only the chill of the hour
seeping up my legs
my hems wet with
dawn’s dews


Matter Horn

shattered and shorn,
sleep tattered torn,
worn with spatters of bloody dreams
revealing futures fled
and pasts unseen
like the dimlit path that guides me
onward asleep to you
oh hold me love
and let the dark be our all
it is all I have left
a prayer, a spell
unchanted

aPaD: Icarus' Affianced

fly with me, before the storm
tears us from the sky
before the heat of the sun
like the hammer of a jealous god
melts these waxen wings
to punish us for daring
to love so hard so high
so long
the earth is a far thing
not to be considered
when love has given us wings

but

always, I fear
gravity's inescapable rule
the inexorable fall
hearts in mouths and fingers reaching
to hold
just for one second more
and then that final tumbling crash
to arid earth or sunclawed wave
to grief and pain
and hard harsh reality

unless

we could direct our fall
use the storm winds to speed us forth
cutting before the god's rage
and alight instead
amidst cool linen sheets
and soft eiderdown clouds
a nest
made for loving
and holding safe
such odd birds as we

feast

we spread the sheet like a table cloth
and take our places with eager anticipation
and the first remove is served
your mouth my hands, your skin on my skin
a banquet of flavours and textures
a joyous celebration of the sensual
warm, cool, icy hot,
the temperatures flow as we find our rhythm
sweet,, sour, savoury, salty
richness of flavours exploding
mouths enraptured, eyes wide with delight
enjoying, savouring, celebrating our feast

and once we are done,
replete with love and content
flooded like the river valley
sighing in delight and
wanting the taste of more,
but unable to lift a finger for it

and in the midst of plenty
we cry for the famine just past
and that about to come

the moment when

startled
crisp and golden
(the moment when)
you met my eyes
said the word
and made me
yours

Reaching

the day started so grey and sad,
a dark misted rain obscuring everything
and the colours of spring dimmed
we go about our seperate days,
I here
you there
struggling, living, working

and every now and then
I reach for you
knowing your arms are waiting
knowing your smile quirks your lips
knowing your eyes meet mine in that
sexy sloe stare, that half promise
half challenge
that always makes me smile

and the weather just doesn't matter
if it's windy and warm there
or cold and clammy here
we are reaching each other
together

Holding On

when all we can do is cling

all the tears sucked down by the vortex

not even breath enough to scream

white water

rapids and rocks

the pounding grinding rush

each day another tumble

another chute of the rapids

and all we can do is hold on

hold close

and wait for the calm

Sakura

rain silvered petals

the alchemy of April

drifting pink blossoms

spring snow is not white

but silver pale and soft glowing

blossoming love's pink

cherry blossoms glow

in the pink of the petals

I find reborn hope

Enchantment

he watches through the magic glass
the witch combing her hair
the wooden tines sliding through the silken mass
each long stroke followed
by her shapely pale hand smoothing
stroke, slide, stroke, slide
he cannot look away
hypnotized by the sensual grace of the ritual
by the exquisite riches beyond his reach

she knows he is there
she knows he watches her
she knows and it pleases her deep and devious mind
she does not change her pattern
or create more of a show
but she knows, oh she knows

firelight gleams behind her,
moonlights sheen on her face
her shoulders bare to his bespelled gaze
and she combs and strokes slowly
till the hair lies smooth,
waves and curls of honeyed gold
over skin warm and waxen pale

he cannot see it yet
has never felt all that he dreams of darkly
:his hands in her hair buried
her face below his, luminous and soft
her scent pervading
entrapping his senses
the petalled softness of her skin
and the golden silken slide of her hair
in disarray over the wine-dark pillow

she knows he dreams
she knows he rides wish-horses wild
and smiles her triumph over his heart and soul
even as she lies down upon her darkly golden bed
wrapped round in wards and circles of protection
and draws the spidersilks close
she knows, but as she veils her eyes to sleep
she smiles small and sweet, and

he sees
that she knows
and more...
that she dreams too.

Healer

I lay wounded
alone and hurting
sore, scared, and scarred
a prison cell or hospital bed
so cold, noisy, impersonal and cruel

when silence comes it brings cold peace
and sleep taunts from her cobwebbed corner
I ache and cry, alone again, alone
with regret and remorse's price
paidin pain

and there in the stillness
your voice drips down to me
honeyed balm to a wounded heart
saying all the right things
in all the right ways
and melting truth in
every golden
sweet word

QuickSilver

how fast the river flows

lambent beads sliding together

a powerful whole that is made up of so many parts

and in its inexhorable motion

changes everything

even the water's course itself

an alchemical mystery

inspiration like quick

silver

muting and morphing and transforming

ideas into words into

shining towers and the arching

parabola

that tears those towers down

the dark magics

of change, always changing

aPaD

A Poem a Day. 01

Where is April?

woke to snow
mixed with ice-rain
first day of flowerful
and no weather change
it's still winter within
you're still so far away
we're still clinging to hope,
in the still of the wait

Waking

like the sky of spring
too bright and aching
pulling up clouds for covers
let the rain fall
and ease me back
to our bed
to curl into your arms
and wait in sleep
like a new leaf
unready to unfurl

Another Late Night

...and no sign of the end of the road, the narrowing tunnel, the broadening expanse of the dreamlands call. You are so wrapped up in the cocoon of your own changes that you can't see out, stretch out to share an arm and shoulder to cry (havoc) upon.

I cannot need you so much, who have so little to offer in trade.

Trapped in the patterns, in the road travelled too well, and the ruts too deep to lift a crippled foot free.

I saw an old horse yesterday, heavy and lethargic and hurting. His knee looked like mine, his leg misshapen by pain and lack of use. If I was a horse, I'd have had me put down ages ago. What hope of a life without movement, freedom?

October's Moon

moonlight frosting runneled condensation

bottles of ink lining the sill

chilled pre-dawn air

so cold in my shift, these thin sheets no protection

so cold the thin film of ice I scratch into

the brass nib heavier than my hand can hold easily

the words spidery, stilted, a spell half spun

and so cold the emptiness

your missing voice

your absence keenly felt

a wound the full unsilence

white noise, moon noise

static across the space between us

the vacuum and dust of so many failed flights

scratched record radiation of so many rocket launches

to nowhere, leaping up into the stratosphere

only to fall back to earth on fire

lucifer’s laughter

to splash down impotent

having only achieved a part of a dream

(did we fail to dream enough?)

one small step is too far

and you wonder what is wrong

you wonder why the distance grows

it isn’t, it doesn’t

it’s only that we feel it more

sometimes

when the moon pales

and the chill air enforces the small coldness

the loneliness of these sheets

the deep fears

of insignificance

of efforts never made

of time spinning thinner

of impermanence

the words scratched into ice

that will melt when the day dawns

leaving only a faint

memory of the feelings

until the moon shines on them again

unending cycles

lonely lunacy

Summerswing

swing me wide

in my pale green dress
catch my bottom in your hand
momentarily rest then push
the chains hot under my

hands old tire seat

blackstrap heat

again again laughing
you push me wide and high
skirts fluttering petals falling

sandaled toes pointed

tucked under then unfolded
in that deep physical memory
unfolding a smile like the giddy sun
deep in the pit of my stomach
sometimes you make me

swing-dizzy like this

wompaskiddy

spun wide flung
a feathered fine drift
of white cloud swaying
in that deep amethyst sky

drifting apart till I come down
as a summer rain cool soft
or a morning mist
to kiss your eyelashes
closed against the fall of
my droplets kissing your face
wait don’t stop baby push me again

push me harder swing me higher again

fling me out farther into forgetting
recalling I am not twelve again
nor again am I innocent
of all this

pain

Rich Words

When Dreaming

The snow can fall in drifts that become
the pink cherry's petals
the sky can slide
between azure and indigo
or even echo the shouting yellow
gold of the sun in the glint of the rings
we gave each other
the single twist of warm metal
against the bronze and cream of our skin
the clasp of our hands a Moebius strip
unending, ever changing the day

when you look into my eyes
and see all the green of the sea
the fathomless truth
and I see in yours the reflection
of my own hopes, this long sojourn ending
in the touch that begins the next

your shoulders are broad
your skin warm and honey-soft
your hands possessive and gentle
taming a fearful heart with a stroke
down my mane, the river of hair you so love
to smell, to bury your fingers in
and breathe poems into

the neverness of the dream protects us
holds us true to our course
the wind blows as it may
but we are guided by Polaris
and the music of the spheres
wave-rocked on a keel wrought of the few breaths shared
the sighs of such lovers lost in time
and knowing only that when all is right
soon will come
and we will have our time

When Then

Misted rain, soft and springy,
June. Already? Our chance has passed
Was it ever really a chance

Or just a date I selected at random
When you pressed for the answer
When?

May!
I said, May, flustered and
A little mad that I had to know
When, when?
A month too far distant (in December) to consider
It might never come to pass…
May has fled
And now… it’s June

You are still there and I am still here
And we stand staring
Looking across
This chasm of space
Cut by time’s white water rapids
Growing deeper, if no wider,
As the weeks, and months,
And then the years pass.

We dream but refuse
To plan for the essential eventuality
We dream loudly, we dream frantically
We reach across and feel the phantoms of each other
Held tighter than lovers
But if we do not step forward

If we only ask
When
And do not say
NOW!

It might never come to pass.

Aftermath

The morning coffee is too sharp

Ashen kiss of emptiness

When bitter words have cost us more than we knew

Sleep had drowned the memory

But sleep ends too soon

And I am longing for your arms around me

The possession of your kiss

Instead of the chill and the ache

The acrid, stinging lack of you.

Love and the Dark

She knew only how free she was, how the darkness removed the bonds from her heart and her soul. Somewhere in the impending dawn, she was a slave to opinion, a gilded bird in a tattered bamboo cage, and all her songs were only noises to fill the white space of her enslavement.

Flying over the cobbled streets, feet bare and skin chilled with the night, alive, prickling, tingled eyes flared wide, she was fully open to the ardor of her own divinity, and fully defended against the overbearing will of those who would own her.

In an eternal night, she would be always free, but sunrise was ever looming over the horizon, pearling the sky and signaling the end of her dreams of flight. With the dawn she was returned, trapped, imprisoned by flesh and the demands of the world. Knowing the false promises of night and the myth of love, her cage was a hard comfort, the bars real to the touch as the night left only fading memories of feeling free.

Image is Songhees, copyright Photos by Heather, (used with permission). I have walked this path many nights, seen this mythical city of light in person on those rambles and in all lights. I still miss my island home, but I doubt I will ever return.

Spin

A leaf fallen, eddies and swirls. When I close my eyes all I can feel is the spin, the tidal crescendo building, sweeping, roaring up inside my head.

Dreaming of you, feeling your hands and soft breath, your ache and desire. How far we will have to reach to find each other, and what depths of the elements we must survive? Time is a mirror, a river that flows, always.

But are we rocks, standing firm, moving only by tiny increments? Are we walking within, able to fight the current to find each other?

Or are we only the curled fallen leaves, caught in eddies and swirls... spinning...

(art is Michèle Dessureault – Tourbillon #45)