Dreamworld

Rest your head against the warm wood
And spiral into the dream world of sleep
On the spiral staircase that takes you there
You soft haired creature
Step along candy sidewalks
And candy cane crosswalks
And dance in the petunia scented courtyards
In the gardens of a seaside town
Drink in the sweet orange nectar
Of mango fruits and other sweet things
And suckle on honeysuckle
In the shade of a willow tree
Dip your toes in the water of a lake
With moonlight shining across the surface
And feel the naked chill of bare toes in cool water
Cool water as deep as the deepest ocean

Slide away into another land
Where seas of rain pour down in curtains across a summer world
Warm rain, wet rain, fat raindrops sloshing against the side of your wet curly haired face
As you splash through the puddles like a demon god
On the earth to revel and thrive
Walk along the wooden boardwalk
With the dark blue sky of dusk painted above the sea
And the reflection of lights shining in the water
Find soft nougat
And walk along with your eyes shining bright
And breathe in happy
As you sleep away the night

Sink Water

Blood in the sink water
floats along like an inky red storm cloud
roiling away from the source in the foot
a deep long gash

A gash is sliced into the brown curtain
by the angry slash of a sharp blade
in a long-ago movie about the affairs of the rich in sunny Morocco

The foot in the water is being washed clean
by the hands of the forgiving one
whose touch soothes the trickling gash
until the murky cloud of red gains no more flow from the foot

The gash stays in the curtain
exposing the fluffy white stuffing underneath the surface at the edges of the rip
and no one fixes it
as it serves as a reminder
for all the jealously and blood red anger of the past
and explains the tension that still lingers in the air

As the rain fell softly a woman opened the curtains and stepped through onto the balcony
Barefoot and dressed in a red cocktail dress, v neck and satin
And she opened her palms to the sky, curling her fingers against the light touch of the falling raindrops
Caressing her soft skin with a love she had never felt

And in her mind she was flying far away
To the top of the hill where she would climb as a little girl
And look out over the streets of the town
Back when she wasn't so lonely all the time

On the top of the hill was a tree
Old and gnarled and short in stature
That she would lean against and sit in the half shade under the scattered leaves
And imagine a place far away
Where a castle stood tall and she could climb to the top of the tallest tower
And she could eat wild grapes and read in the warmth of an autumn sunset

A painting hangs on the wall of a room
Of a glass of wine tilted slightly on the surface of a marble table
Red wine
White marble
And the wine slightly sloshing against the side of the glass
As if it might spill
Or right itself and sit still on the flat and even table

In the same way a choice hung in the balance
Of a man sitting in an old chair in the room with the painting
With an old telephone perched on the table beside him
A decision to seek out his long lost children
Or to forget about it and exist in limbo, never knowing
Which way was right? which way was the righting of the glass?
He did not know
And might not ever know
But his heart leaned one way
And the heart of an old man
is a lot stronger than it might seem

Years ago a thunderstorm boomed out around a house in the country
With crackling lightning shooting across the dark sky
And cascading rain thundering down
And inside there was a warm fire
And a soft couch
And a warm friend

Will I ever be able to write anything but portraits?
To weave in the details of a full and deep picture
Or can I only write beautifully of small scenes and glimpses
Of a portrait of a person or a place

Some smells elicit long ago memories
Faint glimpses caught on the breeze
Or strong whiffs of perfume from a passing stranger
Like a song they take you back
As only some things can

Simultaneously I want to fade away and I want to live
Life is that hopelessly deep
Without a chance to capture all the color in the head
but just maybe a chance to come close
The golden rule of respect
is often cited
But the golden rule of life is much less known or understood
The rule of life is that no matter how full of life we get at one time
We will always be back for more
As memories can be very strong
But they are not quite enough to suffice

Blood slides down the white painted wall
Like rain sliding down the outside of a car window
Looking out with nose pressed up against the glass
Against the wall, a hand, softly pressed
A jagged cut across the skin of the palm

As the first drops drip against the floor below
The hand is taken away
And held out under the noontime sun
And-
slowly-
the warm soft fingers of the sun's rays
heal the wound that crosses the hand
and sew the skin back together

Morning

A storm of writing unleashed from the god overlooking the mountain. His hands and feet were bound to the sky and he burst forth clouds of verse and layered canyons of dream landscape, sculpted by the flowing hands of words tumbling together in sequence. His breath played through the sky with the yellow glow of an angel sun, a hazy halo floating through the cirrus breeze like a stream of half whispered sighing. The slow pulse of his heartbeat lulled him to sleep, softly sending powdered snow down to earth and encompassing the world in hushed white safety.

This time there was no slow rush of waves sliding up onto the sandy shore
rolling over bare feet like the calming waters of a heavenly world
And there were no sea shells echoing with the call of the deep
No half torn jellyfish washing onto the beach
For wayward kids to sting their skin upon in curiosity
No sleepy sky
or sprinkling rain
or the hungry call of seagulls on the wind

This time there was a new world. Fresh and unrevealed. Where the life-giving waters were now fields of grass stretching out for miles into the distance, unparalleled in soft green rollingness and not scratchy, grass you could roll through and feel like a tumble through down blankets or comforting fields of snow.  Where entropy could not pry with its chaotic decay and the scattered death of peaceful deer.  Where in this alien world deer were the friends and entropy was unheard of, forever removed and unable to touch the deep brown, moist soil of the earth or the smooth shine of the sun.
****************************************************
What would we do?
if the layers of ivy did not cover the face of the hideout
sheltering it from the prying hands of thundering wind and the prying eyes of stray passerby
What would we do if the starry sky
was not as majestic and black?
Or if there were corners or edges
to the great blue sky
Or if snowcapped peaks of distant mountains
did not reign out on high
Or if church bells
clanging bright
did not ring out the jubilant day
Or if someone-
somewhere-
could take the rain or snow away

The world would be quiet
And not as full of life
But we would weave the ivy
And imagine the bells anew
We would find a way
to color in the sky
We would fight
to live our right
We would take it back

Dusty Light

Shards of light peek through the wooden ceiling
through holes up above in the knotted wood
with specks of dust swirling in the slight golden rays
as I lie in this windowless room
that's all musty dark and safe feeling
with eyes half closed and wanting to close my mind
to shut out the happenings at present
but you can't close your mind
no matter how hard you try
**********************************

Opening eyes under water
to catch a glimpse of the rising sun
pouring down in sheets of bright
like a shining crown of blood red and gold

whispering along a wooded lane
to find a path to jubilation
to seek the way to exaltation
in finding the secret to happiness
and reveling in the relief of the discovery

breathing in the smell of rain on the sidewalks
to try to feel something fully at all
to get past the poison that encases the mind
in its own world of never quite
with no way of getting out
and feeling the block of mental walls
that keep you from feeling anything
without the solid weight of the wall in the way

can you slide away the poison of the past
so it disappears and you can feel again?
so you can look at the world without half gray eyes
like sitting in the six a.m. rain
by the street in London or in a hotel room in Ontario

is there a way to stay
in the harmonica sounds and swirling guitars?
in the Mediterranean waves with the boats passing by
where no one drowns the positive swirl
of this intrinsic fairy tale optimist world
where pain is tired swimming legs and aching lungs
and my own understanding of the world fits happily

the king or the tyrant is not the victim
no matter what the talk says in the public apologies
the victim is the slave
who is subject to the social structure
with no one around to help
and no one to listen when they call out
or shout into the night

is my spirit dying?
or is it just dormant?
I would prefer it to be dead than dying
so it would not be so painfully present
or for something to wake it up
and keep it awake with warm blood in the heart
like warm ocean waters fuel the whales
to sing their songs for thousands of miles
the monsters of the deep whose secrets and lives
far outweigh any petty human creation
or mark upon the world

and they know it's time to go
but still they linger to look at the stars
and take in the all encompassing expanse of the night sky
and dream that it's a dream

I am not afraid
I never have been
of much of anything
but I feel stagnant
and that is almost more of a punishment
especially when you thrive on the burn of a challenge

when sandstorms block out the faces of all those around you
and fireballs cascade into the side of the hill
then the end times are near
and the wind will howl with a drowning scream
so that is when we must run for the ground
and scramble underneath into a warm burrow
where the evils of the earth cannot reach a sleeping soul

shine on in the hearts of man
you lovely imperfection you
that crafts passion and thirst with measured hand and even pace
that makes beauty shine and the towers lean
slanting towards the warmth of the sun
so they never fade away

I have never been comfortable with things fading away
I want everything to stay the same
where I can run back into the woods and find escape in the night
and breathe in the scent of milkweed and butterfly bushes
and rest my hand against the old warm wood
but I don't live there anymore

I will never surrender
and I will never let myself fade
but I can't make that promise for other people
who might fade away into the half light
half awake in their minds
and that is the one thing that scares me the most
out of anything in this world
and maybe the only thing that could break me

Perfumed colors fly on the winds and the breezes
in the evening summer air
with firefly lights and warm night glow
and smells and sights and sounds

The past is there
like a hanging cloud
and still it stays
always there