Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge–August 4, 2020
Beneath the surface of the night
Flailing fitful, restless
A dream slept wrapped
In a syllabic, heavy blanket,
Waking drenched in a sweat
Of moon touched light.
Upon this awakening,
Her shining skin did give
Away no secret of her wings or flight
Beneath the surface of the night.
In this stillness,
You appeared,
Laughing, smiling—
A twirling blur
In a fresh dawn.
In this stillness,
I wanted
To move
Into the light of dawn
With you.
In the stillness,
I struggled,
And discovered
I could only watch
Your light filled swirls–
For I was the stillness.
Here, under a Ruidoso sky, You remind me: An extraordinarily warm spring day Spent in a field somewhere In Lancaster County, PA. Where exactly? Well, now, I could not really say. I’d never find it again, Even after taking the memory Down off the shelf And dusting the cobwebs away. I remember the day in snapshots Before we trampled, stomped, burned our youth: The drive from Baltimore In your little black sports car. The top down. The wind Running its fingers through Your copper hair. The glitter of your crystalline eyes In the morning sunshine. The softness of 501 jeans washed A thousand times. Your artist’s soul looking for the Perfect spot, rejecting several Before perfection found, A sun-drenched meadow amid Pine trees. No Amish around, you said. The care you took with blankets And picnic basket and, of course, Your ever-present sketchbook. Cheeses, bread, fruits, and wine You packed. I read. You sketched. We ate and drank. Then, I posed for you, The first time. No one was around. No one could see, You said and so You shucked me Of clothing and Arranged me And my long black curls. You sketched me And said you wished you Had your paints. Copper and black hair Tangled together. And the sun low In the sky. We Packed the basket And folded the blanket. Some 40, 41 years ago. Snapshots of that day. Why remind me now? We trampled, stomped, burned our Youth down. Oh, yes. we could tease "Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses." We’d do nothing better in the Here and the now were we to tangle Silver and white together. Lies were told, I know. For once, I wanted to believe. Your truth telling services, I do not need… And the tangling of silver and white now, just-- The braiding of loneliness and longing Leaves us soulless.
I read Every word, every sentence of you; I memorized paragraphs Of you. I found warmth In the chapters Of you; My lips whispered the words Of you As if they read sacred incantations. My fingers tenderly turned each page Of you, Missing you upon turning to your last. But finding joy Upon turning once more To your first page, Reading you, Discovering you, All over and over again.
Turn
Breathe warmth
Rest comes easy now
Curled around you—
Poured would be better
Yes—
Become liquid
To be the bath water
Surrounding you
Or the water droplets of a shower
Cascading over you
To possess for a moment
The ability of water
To touch you everywhere at once
Thousands of masts
point into a gray sky,
waiting for the sun
to burn through November clouds,
to warm their decks,
their ropes,
their canvas sails.
Just as I waited,
unknowing,
chilled and bound,
for you.
Words drift
Settle, pile up
In drifts and banks
Over the rocks
In my mind.
I walk through
This blizzard of words,
Watch them settling
On my shoulders,
For a moment, perfect
As exquisitely delicate lace
Before disappearing,
Melting into the wool of my coat,
Gone, lost to me forever.
But not you,
Never be lost to me.
When I’ve had nothing else,
Words were always there,
Trusted and true,
Counted on, relied upon,
Supplying all I needed,
When there was nothing and no one.
But for you,
To always have you,
I’d watch them all–
Drifts, banks, flakes
Melt, dripping away
Into spring
And you.
Days of summer
Are so few numbered.
Golden days filled with heat,
Traveling into warm nights
A favorite season.
This July begins,
With no need to seek life at its cradle
A new journey starts.
It is time to put away,
Rid and purge,
Box up junk,
Hold the garage sale,
Donate what’s not needed,
And then,
End a chapter,
Turn the page.
Reach, stretching toward loving hands,
In that place of life and peace
Where morning is heralded in birdsong,
Written in silly verses of the cardinal, the tufted titmouse,
The mockingbird, and finches–
All who do battle with cute well fed bushy tailed vermin
Attempting to steal away all the seed,
I wake each morning beside beauty beyond any,
Any I have ever known,
Heart filled,
Complete.
In the paleness of a golden afternoon,
We will travel among the mountains,
Where the wolves do run,
Their unscarred hearts thundering in innocence,
Their paws blurred in the whispers of joyful speed,
Leaving tracks in fresh snow.
Then at the end of the day,
We will lay down our heads,
Resting upon each other.
Such discarnate words
have no power, life–
struggle so for air, color–
to capture some tell-tale sign
of the animate.
Letters swirl and dance
in some perverse pretense of desire
to procreate,
to mirror a thing
resembling the beauty
in a picture sent at 11:12 AM
of yellow irises,
wandering purple jew,
privet sprigs and blooms,
purple sage flowers,
and rosemary sprigs
in perfect arrangement.
But these letters,
these words
never find
that perfection,
that beauty,
that touch upon a heart, upon a soul
as flowers chosen and cut
from your yard
and arranged
by your hands.
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