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 …
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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 …
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Mary 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.
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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 …
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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 …
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Photo Credit: Budd Titlow
Open 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.
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