Gems of Dawn and Sunset

Image is my own

 

If I could gather a handful of dawn and a handful of sunset,

I’d cut and polish each handful into gems

                       For you to keep,

To take out and wear as you would wish,

For there are no stones of value containing beauty enough

To give you but these that are not true stone—

 

Yes, a handful of sunset,

A handful of dawn—

Their beauty ever constant,

Yet ever changing—

Daily renewed—

The only things containing beauty enough

For you.

 

Burn Away

Courtesy of free photo library
Is this what you, indeed, wish?


The feel of some bold mystic chaos
Contained within the fire of kisses
Traveling along the boundaries
Where lived an identity
You lost long ago—
To feel that chaotic fire
Burn away the identity
You wear today—
Feel passionate softness
Twist within and around
Leaving bruises unseen
And you undone
In twisting mystic
Chaos of fire.


Walking

Image courtesy of nationalgeographic.com




Walking through days---
There are too many left
And not enough 
To let me forget.

I walk into sunrises
Into sunsets--
There are not enough
Sunrises or sunsets left
In life to let me forget
And too many yet to live
To live in remembering.

I walk to gain forgetfulness.
There are not enough miles,
Not enough steps,
Not enough earth
To walk
To bring 
About forgetfulness.

I walk, seeking shelter
From thunderstorms
Yet they remind me.
I walk, seeking exhaustion
In the mountains
Yet they remind me.
I walk, seeking the healing of salt
From ocean waters
Yet they remind me.
All speaking
In whispers 
Of the earth’s remembrance.

It all reminds me—
The brilliant azure sky,
The verdant green of forests,
The primal roar of oceans,
The Rorschach shape of clouds,
The roil gray of storms—
It all reminds me,
Brings me back

Nothing allows me to forget.

The Gargoyle

Foggy Night and Moon Light over The Gargoyles of Notre Dame in Paris (Courtesy of istock.com)







When the prowess of early morn

And the touch of dawn’s fingertips

Overwhelm my heart and soul,

I am reminded of some story

I heard somewhere as a child—

From a book or cartoon

Or some sitter’s wild

Imagination of bedtime tales,

The story of the gargoyle

Who was beckoned

To a place in heaven

By an angel fair.

 

And there the gargoyle stayed

For a day or three or more

Or maybe a week or three.

For a moment,

The gargoyle knew sweetness and joy,

Thinking, perhaps, for once, just this once,

The universe had smiled down

Upon one of the gargoyle race,

And felt the cracking of stone begin.

 

But the gargoyle, being a gargoyle,

A somewhat silent, stony creature,

Soon bored the angel who withdrew,

Having angel business to attend too.

 

The gargoyle knew. Knew from the start too,

But had hoped it was not to be held true–

That angel and gargoyle were not a pairing to be made.

Such creatures being out of each other’s realm

Cannot last but a season or two.

So, the gargoyle fell to earth again

To crouch forever upon a building,

 Keeping watch upon the city and the sky. 

 

The gargoyle knew this was the nature of things

And thought itself blessed for ever having known

The sweetness of an angel.

For what angel had ever doted upon a gargoyle?

The gargoyle asked.

 

For years, the gargoyle crouched,

Watching the city and the sky,

Remembering, reliving the sweetness

Known of an angel.

Yet wishing such sweetness had never been tasted,

Never been touched,

Forever was too long to remember

The memories encased in stone

Where wind and rain would never touch,

Would never wear them away.

 

Thus, the gargoyle paid the price

For allowing stone to crack.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Language of Gods

Photo by Madex Photography on Pexels.com

In the language of gods,

we speak in whispers

of the luxury to touch

And know all there is

to know of heaven and earth

mingled here in our hearts

and in the earth

beneath us–

a braid

we create in ecstasy

of feeling knowing

all there is to know

of ourselves

and each other–

the sweetness

of rapture

dripping from

the soul

 

 

Petals of Words

Photo by Yaroslav Shuraev on Pexels.com

 

 

I swore never to give my words away like blossoms in the spring.

Yet, I marvel at all the words I’d gather,

arrange for you in artful, elegant bouquets.

I’ve keloid locks where my words are stored.

I possess not the oils to soften those locks,

Trapping my words deep in their vault,

My words may never know freedom.

 

Yet, I find myself streaming petals of words for you

In hazy, lazy patterns,

Knowing you have the wisdom, the soul

To read my words much like braille—

A code of sorts–

So you can hear and know,

Though unspoken,

All my words bestow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upon the Morning Air

Image courtesy of Melinda Fawver@Dreamtime.com

 

A scent upon the air this morning still

 

At least in these wild imaginings—

 

With the colors of sunrise muted

By the humid haze hanging in the air,

My eyes close to better see the glow

Of white skin by moonlight,

To better catch the scent

Of her in the slight breeze–

 

And then—I do not know—

 

It seems I feel the touch of angel feathers upon my face.

Color Dreams

https://godoggocafe.com/2020/05/26/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-tuesday-may-26-2020/

Today’s prompt: End a piece of prose or poetry with the phrase “I miss you”

 

Don’t know what to do

when I dream of you.

Waking, I want to drench

my brain in pure bleach,

soaking it through,

until all the colors of you

out of my soul leach

and no longer do I miss you.

Lessons

Dia de los muertos..makeup by June courtesy of Pintrest.com

This is the lesson of you,

Oh, the things you do teach–

Wearing your blue mantle

Lined in blackness

With your crooked fingers

Tipped in painted red do you reach

Ripping out hearts

Adding to a collection

You keep in a box.

 

Until the day of the dead,

When you light your fake fires

And scented candles,

Spread your blanket

For the time to admire

All hearts in the box of your collection,

Chant your incantations and prayers

To La Muerte for protection

From the evil you spread

And La Llorona for aid

Searching for the newest victim

From whom your red tipped claws long to rip a heart.

 

Walking to Race Point

Race Point Lighthouse Sunset Photograph by John Burk

Sleeplessness always told the story

between the back when and now,

what she once thought a game,

tracks leading nowhere.

This last section of living

something not well lived.

A swirl of memory

piercing through knots

too tight to be undone.

She had lived without a plan,

having a heart that spoke in tongues

she had yet to understand.