Flickered glimpse of dawn, in mourning…
“My God! My love! What has happened here?”
She stands beside me, shivering, drenched, reaching for my hand, behind her.
I hold her close.
The shore line is gone.
No structure stands.
The sky, aching grey, bouncing seagull’s cries against its tarnished iron ceiling.
Morning stands defending time, the pulse of life still throbbing…
Stunned into the aftermath we silently walk the empty beach, weeping, gasping, between what rubble remains, and not one soul.
Surreal this empty host of life, waves roll with an auditorium echo.
Piercing rays subdue the harsh deliverance, gently cracking hints of hope, bouncing subtle shadows across the slowly relaxing waves… sparkling their crescent shapes with diamonds.
She collapses at my feet, sobbing.
I look on, out over the vacant sea, wondering what has become…
Category Archives: Dreams
Flickered glimpse of dawn, in mourning…
Disappearing in a haze of dusk, evening barters with a lingered musk of autumn’s creeping, burgeoned hope, early setting sun just lopes effortless toward the horizon.
Quiet calm throughout these woods, grants a peace to what I would, or should endeavor for my rest, yawning pleasures bring the best of what such dreams might lean on.
Steady turning, shadows fade, to echoed angels in the shade where once my summer’s heat escaped, to feel the cooling taste of grapes, in tiny luscious nectars.
Now just stretching leaves and vines, along the fence, defending signs that summer’s never out of reach, but autumn’s hold on summer breached the failing season’s vector.
My eyes grow heavy, my body, rest, and to the day I give my best to hold on just an hour more, but calmly find I’m nodding off in silent sweeps of evening’s thought that bends my head toward the floor.
So in peaceful sacrifice, surrender comes to be my wife and guide me to an early bed, where calmly call the cricket’s stead, to sleep and dream once more.
Autumn comes in subtle shades where summer’s scent is gently played to perfumes of a sweeter musk, time and aging, so I trust, will call me home to sleep.
That there upon my wakening, cooling sun and shape of things that beckon kind a hint of fall, bring to me another call of years still yet to keep.
Between the gilded scents of morn, standing open, beckoning,
an archway calling heaven’s song, reaching for my soul.
Spun in precious mountain light, thinnest air in reckoning,
stretching white the shadows long, waiting for my toll.
I know no sparkled band of path that led me to this place and time,
I know the keeper, owner, not, yet dare, I seek to meld sublime
into the space held just beyond, heart and soul in conflict,
upon the points of life and death, one free, one earthly convict.
Above the azure honey drips, wet and washed, brush marks lain,
a hint of flame arising slow, rushing through this quiet song.
Flaxen hints in burlap’s hatch, flagging dawning, midnight’s stain,
burgeoned lust in afterglow, blushing in sweet sunbeams, long.
It calls to me, I know, yet know not where I wander,
free to pull, above, below, tear my present self asunder,
break this living’s hesitation, rend a soul from deeper hues…
It calls me, beckons, pleads me home, ‘til quietly, I float right through.
Image by David Richter – Mesa Arch – http://www.davidrichterphotography.com
Posted for dVerse ~ Poets Pub 10-May
Lillian prompted us to consider doors; the suspense of what lies on the other side; the transition of passage; the simplicity and beauty of the doorways of our world.
You can find many great poets at dVerse. I wholeheartedly recommend you take a look.
Mists evade the rolling surf, yet cling to every molecule,
here beneath blue spattered grey, before the cliffs, in ridicule.
Spring the forecast, fall, the truth,
winter’s dungeon through reproof
harbors only summer’s hope when we decide to claim this beach,
gain some sense of proof,
our dreams deny our reach.
Cold the morning air derides all sense of what we hope, to sea,
born on purposed waves of foam through which our selfish lovers flee.
Loath the moment, long for more,
beg a knock upon each door
that keeps a lover’s blush alive within the gently whispered sum,
upon this witless moor,
wonders why we’ve come.
In silent step, pressed in sand,
hushed beneath the cliff’s swift stand,
echoed dreams drift near as ghosts beneath a spattered sky,
walking sweetly hand in hand,
as mists upon tide.
photo courtesy of Public Domain
12 Apostles – Victoria Australia
Across the fields of mists she rides, in quickened step, as thundered ghost, flashing grey to white in tides, between the shadowed elms and posts. Her ochre hair in fury’s fire eclipsing sun upon her wake, yet glides above in liquid lines, beneath, her courser’s muscles quake… into the wood and gone.
What is this dream that comes to me, what is this deft remorseful scene, as if I own the blame for all, yet nothing I can find, or seem to grasp within that fleeting flash? Who is she? Why? Where did she go? What brings such hastened fury here, within the dreams I ought not show?
The scented mist clings as I wake to urban bed and city scape. The musk of dewy forest floor fills my senses hours more. But nothing haunts me like her fire, dressed in white and flaming hair, racing through the glinting sun, purpose bent, relentless stare…
I’m mad, I’ve surely gone mad! Haunted! Ghosts of ancient realms! Yet oddly feel I’ve been there, and fear I’ve something more to tell, or stop her, or meet her, or beg for truce from things gone wrong! But morning brings the city’s thrum. The image fades soft and long, like shadows caught in acrid film, always there, but somehow gone. I do not know how long they’ll still… but haunting hopes I’ll ride along. Upon that grey and ancient mare, to feel her rush, to smell her hair…
I fear my sleep, that crazed I’ve come, yet hope to steep in dreaming’s sum.
I pray for peace and empty sleep, I cast my faith in modest streams, I know I’ll live beyond the deep of ancient mists and woods in dreams…
But never shall I dream beyond, her flashing white, her ochre blonde.
Still the silent quiet of age steeps rich this moment, reflecting,
echoes just what hopes deny in truth’s cold introspecting.
No fear, here, within the pause caught and loosely locked.
Just awe respecting shadow’s keep amongst the greying, flocked.
Peace gathers warm in knowing,
treasured paths and journeys made,
rest in sweetened summer fields beside the rill and glade.
Ripened in the setting sun,
kisses’ pure, seduction brings
the whispered scent of lilac twixt my golden locks, in rings.
Oh! my heart weeps openly,
for home and love’s sweet hand,
yet aging now, my courting call,
returns my lust to dust and sand.
Shed not a tear for me, for I am ne’er gone away.
But find me in this whispered breeze upon a low and setting ray,
for I’ll see you there.
I’ll touch your young and flowing hair.
I’ll dance about you in delight!
I’ll raise the thrush to song and flight,
that you may sense me here…
my pipe and whiskers smiling, dear.
Ragged edge of road, framed in fray and grasses gold. Held in drunken course by bits of broken stays from fences split. Gathered there, around each post, lays lagging wind and moonlight’s ghost.
She wanders o’er the silent lea disturbed to find her way, where once she knew an arrowed path between the barn and forest’s lath, now stumbles towards the wood, in sway.
A silvered grey and fallen barn counts her steps in jest, laughs in hollow whispered grins then slowly slips back off to rest. Ravens perch upon a plow whose earth has frozen still its lust, captured in an eon’s tuft of grasses tall and tawny rust. They bob in exultation, guffaw in crow-ish song, as crossing o’er the rock filled stream she lifts her skirts and tip-toes on. She stumbles through the slope of hill where years before she scarred her spine, exposing what was laid beneath, now blushing from another time.
Before her stands the vacant wood where once she loved to play, wherein she loved the lack of sound, echoed in old memory found, and subtle longing just to stay.
She trips across the ashen timber, fallen fast asleep, brushes back her silver hair and enters to the cold wood’s keep. She scarcely knows her destination among the ruins thick and grey, but being more than child here, starts and stops and weaves her way toward what she knows is waiting, toward where the day so calmly ends, yet caught in hesitation, denies her fear and wanders thin. Upon the wooded knoll she finds the memory of much kinder times, where snow once graced her lengthened dress and teased her with its hushing rhymes.
Pausing there in sad recall, she hears the river’s gentle hush, dreams an ancient dream of youth when eagerly she gladly rush toward the gallant sparkles cast upon the water’s play, come to meet the boats there, and wade in just a way.
She staggers o’er the broken stones, between reposing trees, lifts her skirts at water’s edge and steps in to her knees. All the diamonds in the world are cast upon the aged stream, conjured by the sun and wind, lay sparkling in a dream. She calmly lets her aging go, reaching toward the distant shore, wanders in, gently laughing, until she is no more.
Upon the ragged edge of road, kept to course by ancient posts, a gently whispered dirge is sung by lagging winds and moonlight’s ghosts.