Photo used by permisssion: Armstreet Clothing Company
Where
the dogwood tree’s shade casts last shadows
and
the wind from the wood through the branches
of
time winds its way across the blue manse,
here,
pools of inward fancy are shallows,
veins
curving distinctively in untoothed leaves.
Large
white petal-like bracts composed a mind
for
the botanical nuances, signs
of
celestial appearings, dark speech
from
realms beyond the cloudless pewter sky.
At
this one pulpit I alone would stand,
preacher
of secrets held within a God,
the
breeze Nantucket, dress blue striped and dyed,
and
orator of whisperings of lands:
where singular speaker outdid the mob.
Hinting of the moments of sunshine bright
I
stood apart listless, pale like a moon,
I
breathed of air far above clouds and crooned
while
playing my guitar of broken light
streaming
through famous panes on afternoons
with
shadows hiding under wood antiques,
and
strumming of new song and chords oblique,
when lentils simmered, the stove ladled soup.
I
saw a glimmer of hope in lyrics
that
wore sundresses, with lip gloss tinted,
where
the bedraggled look melded away,
and
our singing was observed by clerics
dressed in dark suits and starched collars minted,
the
dead were carried to funeral bay.
The
parting hand clasp of the deeper sea,
as
she spit on shore the killer whale—black—
who
had passed and was mourned in a large stack
of
bulletins with tide’s finality.
There
was the figure here now dressed with sand,
who
in coral sea star found her earring,
and
with culprit sage seaweed blistering,
decayed
beneath the heat upon the land.
This
body wreathed with torment there would lie,
where
bitterness was gathered ’neath her breast
departed,
there horizon would vacant
stare,
unhindered at beautified sunrise.
Her
once maternal sentiment and breath
had
soothed the hungry untimely vagrant.
Without
the home of the oceanic
temple,
deep water could not be broken
top
to bottom, and if wine-like token
paired
with marine’s illusive sacrament.
Loitering
crabs now would scatter beneath
ruined
masts and shipwrecks of galleons
from
medieval drime, pea sheen of bullions
in
lorish trunks that once shone with god speak.
Flashing aqua fins of silver mermen
were like lush music in velveteen sea,
where
pearl illusive crowns with wisdom’s down
as swans upon the salt of hard sternum
of
a mortal dowager’s frosty tea,
premeditated
wrath bequeaths her frown.
Heaven
drawing close with finality,
feather’d
angelic host peered ’round the door,
while
hell slammed shut the bottom bunker poor,
they
strummed with brass congeniality.
No
music rivaled this one strain on earth,
for
its equal none could eloquent sing,
nor
dine without the meringue recipe
that
was featured in flute-like hall of mirth.
Champagne
be then poured for one and our pearls,
we would bow our heads at graced royalty,
among reed grass—the winsome laughter rings,
chocolate mousse, topped with chocolate curls—
that from the mermaid is glass loyalty,
among the elite of heaven, they sing.
At this poor pot, the peppermint reaches
from
the shadows to the light of the sun,
it
dilates its veins to climb and running
from
morning to evening, dark green stretches.
From
this lesson, our orator took note,
whereby
she often listened to Jason,
placed the bust of Medea, she wrote him,
with
blue and green lines floating from her boat.
What
verse and of what pow’r shall I be best
visited?
she asked. Frequented, she was,
by
supernal beings, heard poetry
from
afar, and it was fleeting soul rest,
yet
she longed for the divine as tall mast,
on
this ebullient ship lucidly.
The textured
isle of power she now lived on
was
rough to the touch, and her skin was smooth
and
resinous with milky and opaque roots
in
former times. For here was the dream long
into
the night, the place where running drummed
and
met the pavement, every house, dark-limp
an
audience to her sounding trumpet.
She
hit the mark, star-shone and illumined—
with
one round white gleam that was her flashlight—
the
stark dead, for she travelled there alone
and
she exhaled the truth in bitter moans.
A
warrior now at battleground to fight,
birthpains
of Christ within her feet were stone,
and in her wrecked palms, the wretched nail holes.
