beating like, a mad man drummer.
touching me, yet not my lover.
startling, static energy.
speaking, truths not forgery.
joining too, embodied with you.
As children, my sister and I would lie on the bed and take turns closing our eyes while the other, starting from the wrist, tickled up your arm using the fairest touch done in tiny-roaming circles. If the squirming soul with their eyes closed correctly guessed when the other reached the inside crease at the elbow—they got to be tickled again—if not, which was usually the case, places were switched. Have fun trying it. J
Exactly what is it YOU see? Click here for a page I started, titled Earthy Nature, where you will find what I saw.
Ancient Gasoline: a gallon
Decaying wood: a ton piled high
Ten inches of freshly fallen angel white snow
Light winds, perfect for fanning the flames
I love a good burn!
Wrapping cloth soaked in lamp oil around a stick
Standing back, the smoke will be thick
A simple flick of the bic
Flames burst from the pit!
Once the burn is established
Everything collected—useless—and old
Goes on to be turned to flames of gold
That is when
The memories burn!
I stand in dirty snow
Letting forever go
What I once loved
My hands are gloved.
Ashes—far they fly!
The first instant I listened
to a man playing the piano at sunset
on a long sandy beach
no one but me and my dog
prancing in purple waters
and him playing.
I stayed, listening.
The second I saw a pillar of sun
shoot to the sky
while walking over granular snow
during a cold sunrise…
I heard his music.
Writing by moonlight on white paper, red pen
Out the window, black trees grow in a frost field sea
Simple silence to this early morning glee, broken
By fog horn regularly warning of the dangers to be
Yet, I, safely surrounded by glistening white lands,
Hear the horn sounds,
And desires are for the ocean’s calls.
Out the clear glass pane, where
A yellow feather clings,
After the bird hits and falls;
I watch the cloud change colors passing by the moon.
Oh, there is blessing in this gentle breeze
that blows from the green fields, and from the clouds,
And from the sky: it beats against my cheek,
And seems half-conscious of the joy it gives.
William Wordsworth, The Prelude. 1805
The weather has called me to the salty waters…