The precipice of summer lingers …

The precipice of summer lingers lying quietly to the definitions we cling to … ritual eggs brighten rows freshly tilled by plow shears we forged from the last glance our eyes held with the starving peregrines on the ledges of the city towers … their children are dried to hollow dusty holograms … the tapping of a heart’s chain slung carelessly to trip the rainbow’s remains for their want of nurturing spittle … rain too far a distant dust bowl dagger slit in lamb’s wool absorption to quench  … we are vain, almost vulgar, in calling for a holy preservation of the child Self … the yoked sack membrane damp as the due we all crawl through eventually in suckling dread hours … the remainder of stains on duckling cliffs ruby~ing palms and knees … my toes turn in, Leo knows how it hurts, how the martin’s purple came to be … why  can’t we take our hands off the joy stick of illusion long enough to know … giving up creation to create with each other … for whatever time we are afforded by the roadside ditches or in marble mansions … ambling, rambling, or scrambling for its living breath … is by design a worthy purpose …

4-23-2017
© 2017 cdd all rights reserved

NaPoWriMo 2017 #5

Luna Love

The foul leave feathers for me daily in trails to gather … from the barn to the Iron Wood tree stand yonder … at the crest of the meadow hill flanking the logging roads … crevices are home to the Luna moths and moon beams … their winter homes in the catacombs … Christmas past’s silent seed pods … the morning stars descending from the heavens … holding ground bound cocoons in blessed rest … assured peace till April came with lip-less kisses … the caterpillars have hatched … soon there will be more to save and shade from the sun … their short life and love expressed in a quiet transmission … souls hear eons apart …

© 2017 cdd All Rights Reserved

Holy Vapors

4102464783_9d1fc299a0_oMary in a Roman Catholic Church in Chicago

I had forgotten what it feels like to breathe … taking in lungfuls I could claim as my own … for the moments we had held them … the utter thoughtless exchange, otherwise now a dwelling stay … I’ve been giving it away so long … to anyone who will take it … or was it to anyone who would let me have a dram … does it matter what caused the stain when a cancer is the day’s remains ? … he said he saw all my pain in the betrayal of my soul’s window panes … suffocated lambs behind them lain in poultry rows for counting games … shims and shacks, shake and shame … the balance of the blade became soft once I realized … air left volume to perception’s choice … to the dreaming city sinking sea bound at the break of a new eon … terrible in the white blaze it wrought before us …   we held cirrus clouds in our cheeks just then, inverted O~ring memories … praying to undertake the glorified transfiguration and not become their Holy wafer … but the vapor, each breathe seeks to pass across in death.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved June 11, 2015

The stars spoke saying,”We are the constant, the spark of dark flame within your illumination. You are the path we guide our birthing by.”

I know it to be truth for your warmth wrapped about me, the quilt of eastern breezes, and I was held in an eternal womb of your vibrant sky dust.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved

NaPoWriMo 2016 #30

Freedom

1794649_662903857084186_1215079214_n

Sweat wand hair triggers press the oil stain of guilt upon life’s innocent … in the scope’s glass the assassin’s eye synced to God’s pupil dilation … reacting only to the dark side of the moon these days … the remainder of the time seeking the light of the angel’s looms … weaving man’s additional moments based on when Leonard Peltier dreams of making love …

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved

NaPoWriMo 2016 #27

images

Believer in Signs

Upon rising in the morning, the dreary window pellets of  Dawn’s still falling rain clinging to the frigid glass, I glanced out upon the lake, as is my custom … Across the mid distant clay completion of it’s surface, beyond the brushy bank, now green with grasses below the leafing river birch on their high banking perch … I took in, having waded out a good measure perhaps as much as a horse is long, the starkest white crane I have seen since my early childhood … When I was small we could encounter the Whooping Cranes often, wading in the salt flats near the tiny village where I was born … Yet, this ghostly apparent wandering light seemed no ordinary Blue Heron I have spied before and most certainly not in the drear of a rain … My eyes seemed spellbound to the creature. lost in it’s magnificence for moments which I cannot make my self accountable for to wakefulness … It examined the bank where the geese have chosen to make their nest this year, a great intensity caught it up on the bank, yet, venturing out of the water it did not … Raising it’s neck to what must have been the full extension of it’s body, carelessly like an innocent child stretching after sleep … It seemed to make invisible contact with an answerable entity … Gaining the solution sought it stepped lively around the nearest lobe of the bend of hazel brush and was gone from my sight all at once  …  After dressing, I returned to the window in search of it’s beauty once more, to find it perching in one of the Great Cypress leading up to the meadow and forest beyond … I come from a long line of poets and the like, for myself,  there was an unspoken message in this spiritual totem, this rare sighting of the Great White Egret …

© 2016 cdd All right Reserved

Photo Credit: Budd Titlow

http://blogs.tallahassee.com/community/2014/03/23/great-egrets-conservation-icons/

NaPoWriMo 2016 #14

{off prompt}

1454625_634342436609043_570995081_nOpen and Close of Day

The sunrise is the hue of pink champagne this morning … the blessed first light most favoured breaths taken of the day … it’s blush, chasing a thin ribbon of periwinkle towards the evacuating night … the shyest whispers of The Phoenix’s burnt orange and cinnabar tail feathers … peak out into the ocean of space patiently awaiting for it’s moment to eclipse the bladed grass’ shadow dance … a brief lived reign in which an eleventh atmospheric parallel remains …  stolen from pain … Now, as I sit resting at days near end … the West has swallowed up the day’s lantern … lichen wash water of the subtlest green shadows … hold court behind the paper cut wall off  trees and time … the sky has chosen aquamarine for his duster … and marble cake of violets kissing  coral  remains as his waking tea … ’tis ever the fewest moments of hushing as the night’s shield approaches … he hides behind this ancient armor watching Venus awaken … yawning in her sea spun gown of illusion to meet again  the suitors of evening tide … spoken of as Everafter, this is a peace all may know … closed eyes and a deep inhale … the music of souls becomes unmistakable.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved

NaPoWriMo 2016 #7

(off prompt today)

Loosing Neo’s Compass

Is loosing the belief in our own ability to transcend …  the darkness in which we may force love to abide … the greater lose felt as we witness … our Self begin to pass through our own palms … sands so parched for care and kisses now … the oceans fear their request to be quenched … lest the salts should harden as do hearts … the grains never reaching landfall … from between pressed and parted fingertips … the breeze kidnapping their crystal core magnetic North … carrying them home again … we shall all return to Zion in the end … or, accordingly, to the Hell of our own making … would we choose a higher love having known this ? … bound ourselves in the vows of watery devotion alone ? … leaving trust behind in the armoury ? … sacrificial lovers lips are the only truth we can sell … to keep the condensation of lies from drowning us … Are you dodging bullets yet, my darling, in your playtime black leather coat? … Me? … I am dancing to the endless silent beats of Zion’s sleepless drums.

© 2016 cdd All Rights Reserved

 

NaPoWriMo #3

Dearest Mr. Cohen,

I came to your music quite late in my life,

Pardon me, but this couldn’t be helped,

I was born a little too late for my soul in nineteen sixty-four,

By this time in your life you had already seen,

The stitch, purpose, and the cosmic inseams,

What about life and why we use words,

Having been placed so strategically.

Yes, I am American born, wishing more understood,

The depth and compassion, you’ve given the world,

I guess it is true, as I’ve always been told,

I just have a flower girl’s soul,

For my inner child knew, when first I heard you,

As a poet, as one of the wilde,

You spoke from my heart, so true.

I’ve listened, I’ve learned,

I’ve read and reviewed,

Studies your portrait a million times through,

Held the words you have offered,

The naked soul you shared often,

And, yes, I argue with God too.

You kept it simple so much of the time,

No need to make burdens or bruise,

You made it so hard, you tore it apart,

Just for a reason to use up the glue,

You planted weeds and harvested flowers,

Boquets of glass, caskets for those who choose,

How we live at times, to merely taste the hues.

You’ve taught us of love’s emaculate embrace,

Kissing war of the foot though with distaste,

To sing for our sister’s freedom and grace,

Even though our counting beads are worn,

On hands stealing bread, feeding mouths of babes,

Your strong laughter lives in our pink hallways,

We shant ever forget your face.

You examined all our heros, and the heroins relaced,

Immortalizing these fragile poets promise with your praise,

Others dared not walk that space for lack of courage spent,

You, Leonard, took the dark wood’s path with lampless gallows,

For there is the greatest danger in lighting a smoke,

When your clothes are soaked in your truth and gasoline,

Opening all of the closets at once with no conical of refrain.

With Sharon you’ve breathed life into woman, Glorifying She in the fullness of the Self,

In Her truest beauty, Her sins, Her nakedness, or your word gowns,

Tis how we find our compass all so often, music being all we have,

In the temple, in the bedroom, in the grass or flowing fountain,

The melody seeks the melody hands dancing passion’s play to love,

This seeking ever draws us home in the end if we listen long enough.

To thank you overly, Mr. Cohen, for the songs and poetry,

I know that’s not your particular style, So, I’d like to say I am grateful, friend.

For your journey being such as it has been,

For your sharing, for your great smile, your diligence, and the quest,

The risk you took in searching so deeply, inside your wounded Self,

For Suzanne, Boogie Street, and Master Song, (to barely name a few)

for every drop of yourself you gifted.

Sincerely,

Carla Dawn

© cdd All Rights Reserved

#NaPoWriMo 28

I am going to choose to stay in love … it is what makes me happy … not for the reasons you might see … or the way in which you would think I should … I wish to stay in love with life … with the way the moon rises each and every night … to look forward to each Spring after the long weary Winter … knowing their is a week in which the iris will bloom … and I will be able to experience their blessed scent … to empower others and keep myself uplifted, learning, growing, sharing … even when the struggle of life is uphill … I’m in love with art and music and dancing alone at times … stargazing, wishing, and asking for a child’s second chance … I dream of planting a new rain forest of trees, writing a million poems, and remembering everything I can that is good about believing … saying each three times … I am choosing to stay in love … because love’s power heals me with every brilliant new sunrise … more than I could have ever known.

#NaPoWriMo 28
© 2015 Carla Dawn Dunlap All Right Reserved