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.