Saturday, December 24, 2011

*P*E*A*C*E*


*PEACE* 
begins in the living heart
and continues to radiate outward
giving and receiving 
*JOY*
in the depths of the soul
where an eternal life fire burns
the true gift of the spirit
*LOVE*

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

A Cold Rock in the Center . . .



       Tonight . . .
               the full moon stares down with a stillness that
                                       is as hard as ice . . a cold rock sailing
                       toward his destiny . . . a silver pearl,
he hides himself in the shadow of the round belly
                                                        of his world . . and
                    turning blood red . .  he blushes at his folly . . .
soon drifting away . . .
                            yet now
                                      my moon is sailing behind a bank of fog . . .
               a tenuous thing and yet like a veil
                             or a misty shroud . .  these clouds will deny the eyes
          the knowledge of vision . . . and the thing that
                        is not seen . .  ceases to exist . ..



                              an ivory figurine
                   motionless . . . forgotten . ..
    sits in a dusty corner
                           like an old tooth
                                         she fades away
              in shades of yellow;
                              lost in her slumber
           she dreams down slender roads
                            the dust of long lost hopes
   flying up from beneath her moving feet . .
                  her amber colored flesh peels away
          like wings . . .
                         like the pages of a book

                    like the leaves of an autumn tree ..
                      lifting . .  fluttering
                             anticipating a breeze

                 the bare bones of memories . . .
                                         driving ever upward . . . 

          There are whispers in the wind
                        the moon is sighing . . .
                                       his light drips thickly

                                                  like silver tears
                                                          from the leaves of the ivy . . .
                      their tendrils burrow down into the
         heart of the tall black pine .  .  .  shadows dark. . .
                                  invisible points concealed beneath the roots . . .
                resins scenting the air . . . with the wispiness of smoke . . .
                                     something is
                      hidden deeply
      longing to be free . .
                    beating like a heart throbbing . . .
                                    like bloody hands scrabbling. . .
                   like fingernails clawing. . .



somewhere is heard a distant melody . . .
                a window slowly opens and
a thousand birds fly free . . .
         wings exhausted,
                            feathers filling slowly
with silky winds . . .

         parachutes ripe with the fullness of  desire

there is the sky
there is the endless sky
and in the center . . .
an eternity . . .
                     

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

A Flight of Geese . . .



The bus was early
       so I wait . . .
pebbles gleaming
                weakly
in the amber light
     of the street lamp . . . .
The cool damp air
    moistens my reluctant cheeks
exposed to the dark expanse
     of morning . . . . .
I gaze at
        scattered
               cast offs
on the sidewalk,
as they seem to be
            life rafts
on a turbulent
     sea . . .
                    washes of salty brine
exhuming the
      soft centers,
hard shells
            dissolving away.
Overhead,
a thin bank of clouds
            occludes the slender
lights of the
            portentous inky sky . . .
there are moments,
         as cars slush by,
that I long to reach out
and caress a lonely
                          brow,
or expend my energies
           listening to a soul song . . .
a requisite for a poet,
is to delve into
the strati of common lives . . .
nothing is new
           under the sun,
yet
    there are dreams
left unfulfilled
           and loves
                    unexamined,
. . . . . a hard trampling
on the fragile crystal
           of living hearts . . .
   is laying fine lines . . .
adding to the layers
           buried . . . building mounds
   of understanding
and empathy


The humming of the cars
           reach my ears
as if a symphony of sighs,
                  each vehicle a carapace
within which
          the soft flesh
is unexposed . . .
we are lost
          to each other,
I am lost to you . . .
                  your eyes evade mine . . .
as they fly by . . . .
                 like flocks
of wandering geese . . .
     lost
before the coming storm . . .
      we are lost to each other
and yet
in the end our roads will
                      meet
though your flight
           be so much faster
than mine . . .


Drops of water
on my glass shelter
leave
distorted shadows
like tears . . . and scars . . .
on my paper . . .
as I write  … …
        each one slips away . . .
a flight of geese
                      against the lighting sky . . . .








***************************************************************


Enjoying this Jamendo Artist's Music:






Like poetry
or lace . . .
a shadow of a smile
flickers on a face . .
music so expressive as it
enters the realm of light,
yet so tentative and touching . . .
While surfacing . . . so quiet . ..
filling the air
with a hint of
peacefulness . . .
a space is created
in the disquiet of life . ..
a place to become immaterial . ..
and rest
when the world
gets too heavy with flame . .
a shaded corner
to hide from the heat . . .
a sprinkle of raindrops . .
to settle the dust . .. .
a smile remains . .

Beautiful music . . . as always . .. .
Review for:




 

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The Voyage of the Damned


Rushing, as I walked to
accomplish my errands . . .
upon
turning a corner I saw
in the distance
a goal. . .
my destination.

The street seemed so far away,
and as I progressed I anxiously watched
as it never seemed to get nearer
and then . . .

I realized I was missing
the moment
and all the barely encompassed
here in the now . . .

I was missing
the golden glow of the fall leaves,
expiring against a silver bright sky. . .
I was missing the
Mandelbrot patterns around me,
the pine needles
arrayed on the damp ground . . .
the sounds of music,
the tone of birds . . .
and the scrunch of my feet against
the gravel on the ground,
each tiny rock a crystal bell . . .

I was missing . .
the steamy smiles of
passers by,
and the breath of freedom . . . .


As the goal
became just another passing moment. . .

I retrieved my treasures
like scarlet leaves
collected in a wicker basket . . .
and held in awe 
what senses,
reaching out like tentacles,
exploring the depths
and the heights . . .
were able to harvest
against the coming storms . . .

What is my goal in the end,
but death,
and a moldering
away in a grave
unsuited to
deep breaths of
Autumn flavored air . . .

************



An Autumn Moment

The leaves flutter down,
gasping a last refrain,
with colors reminiscent of a Turkish
carpet, arrayed on overgrown grassy lawns
and
clinging like starfish
facing their new horizons,
they feel the flesh of the soil
with splayed fingers,
slowly growing numb . . .
as molds fringe the brittle
textures, scraping away the flesh
to leave a fragile lacy pattern
of veins . . . slowly, slowly . . .
gazing sadly at the stars . . .
as they twirl away in their
nightly dance
across indigo skies . .

The scuffed toe of my boot
skitters through the leaves
committing some to their utter destruction,
and arbitrarily sending others
back into a flight
on Autumn breezes. . .
The cold reaches fingers
up my nose
and the laughter of
children is heard
in the distance . . .


*********************

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Shadows of Time

Detail in Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise, Paris


I find myself in a
place where it is always 5 p.m.
and I am needed to set the time straight. . .
I must be here or I will disappear,
like the cat who left only a smile
as a reminder . . .
of his demeanor . . .

The moon peers down at me through
the skylight in the library . . .
he wishes to read some of the tomes . .
that line these dusty shelves . .
we have an agreement . . .
and I offer him my book of poetry
and a cello song . ..
where there is dignity . . . and grace . .
simplicity . . a cup of cold tea sits at my side . .

This moon is hard and marches forward
like the iceberg .. .. known to carry small children
from the peacefulness of the north pole
where they were conceived
in innocent gardens found
buried deeply in caves of icy blue . . .

that old moon looks like a wedge of lemon . . .
and he patiently watches me . . .
his eye foreboding . . . as he is
inscrutable as a chair . . .
I gaze at him wishing that he were
a lover type .  . . or at least capable
of conversation . . .

I remember walking through the graveyards
in a local town . .
reading every inscription . .
and wondering about these people
who mattered to somebody  . . .
and while I read . .
his face watched mine
as I shed a few tears for these unknowns . . .
and I wondered if anyone . .
would care about me . . .

perhaps the moon
will erect a marble angel to watch over me . . .
or blaze a poem in granite . .
to withstand the elements and time . .
or perhaps my bones will gather flies
like icing on a dark cake . ..
and my flesh will shrivel
becoming dust that unites with dust . . .
perhaps his gaze will reflect on the stillness
of my eyes . ..  like a beacon showing me the way . ..

I saw shadows on the other side of the brick wall
deep they were . ..  like bottomless pools . .
aching to hold
a ray of light .. .
These deep damp blanks
are the loneliest things I know .. .
At least as lonely as I am . . .
and the moon that walks by me . .
even with his luminosity
cannot reach every shadow . . .
or cut away the loneliness
with his sharp beams . . .

He just is . ..  always . ..
and I am the one that sets the clocks . .
for the march of time . . .
and the things that were . .
have gone away . .
sliding down into the pools
of everlasting darkness . .  .

Detail in Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise, Paris

***********************************************************************************
Beautiful music ... ...


   










 by
Daniel H. 

Friday, October 14, 2011

The Sea . . .

Oregon Coast at Lincoln City



The colors and dreams of this music . .. 
flowed through me like a vision . . ..
long and drawn out . . . smooth as a swell on an ocean . . .
shining and reflecting a starlit sky .. ..
a calmness descends . . . the swoop of a sea bird,
a ship on a distant horizon carrying lights
that flicker and dance .  .  .
a beast of the sea . ..  remote as an island,
displaces water as clear as waves of glass . . .
a trail of foam, like white horses,
drives across the endless waters . .  .
seeking mystical shores . . .
somewhere, a great distance . . .
music rises along with the mist
on a great sea . . .


Sea and Sky
by Neuromanter





Oregon Coast October 14, 2011

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Gift . . .


Cadeau
by CHRISS ONAC


Two poems written while listening to Chriss Onac's gorgeous compositions . . .

The Gift

Slipping through the shadows . .. 
a silvery moth . .
flutters in the breeze . ..  from flower
to humble tree . . .
the nectar of the gods flows
out to greet a
most yellow and fuzzy bee . . .
the youngest feline . ..
ventures into the golden day . .
watching the sunshine . . .
and where the shifting shapes
were meant for play . . .
*****************************************

To Err is Human . . .
for creation itself is a stumbling block
to the oblivious . .. 
and the Divine sets the course, 
and the way thereof for
the threads of dreams and human connection . .
slide on under
the heartbeat of the creator . . .
where love is recognized and felt . .
as the music of life . . .

so we dance or we fly . . .
we run or we crawl .  .
time itself is not still .  .  .
we must move or we will fall . . .
*********************************************


Muse

Cloisters - Secret Garden






Deep in the dark and loneliness of the night
I wake up and look at you . . .
your silent breath leaves ripples
of neon lavender .  . traces like footprints
on sandy shores . . . filling slowly with the
reflections of the dancing stars
that trail languidly across the skies . . .
the luminous foam
riding the ocean waves .  . reaches higher
than a grain of sand . . .
a world in motion . . .
a universe throbs . . .
reflecting my heartbeat . . .
I listen for yours . .
but you have vanished . ..
and the night
is lonelier than the song
of the mist falling from the edges of
the dark leaves on the last tree
standing on the brink  . . .

Racing the chiseling of time . ..
the face of the hollow mountain
melts before my touch . .
and the salt on the edges of my teardrops
paint the patterns of my dreams . .  .
my wings are shredded
from the echoing, violent winds . . .
and my soul
is trailing blood . . .


No review written but was listened to as I wrote
the poem above . . .
so thus was a measure of inspiration . .. . 
That Somebody's NOT You
by DeE[J]LuX
 



 **********************************************************************************

Jamendo . . . From the Poet's Heart . . .

Fern


Cool and Smooth . . like stardust in a river flow . . .

The lone runner . . .
landscapes moving by as a vision
smoothly . . .
slipping from our grasp and observation . . .
the feel of wind whipped cheeks
cool and salty like tears . ..
a tempo settles in and moves
the listener . . .
we can fly too, with the wings of our feet
kissing the earth . . .
the soil of our beginnings . . the cradle of our desperation . .
our dream . .
brilliant stars move beneath . .
lifting us higher . . . each speck of flame
in the black universe. . . a song . . .
a melody which flows like a breeze
through our soul . . .
the dust of the stars . .. build our bones . . .
and give us strength for the race . . .

Thank you for the music to inspire me and cool my burning bones. . .


Lone Runner
by Pascalum
************************************************************************************

Magical piano . . . the musician is a magician . . .
causing emotion to roll through my heart in big waves . . .
I gulp down the music like a thirsty being
lost in a desert
and finding an oasis . . .
a tree grows, offering shade from a brutal sun . .
the night falls . . . a clear endless darkness . . .
deep as a well . .
and the starlight . . .
dances and shimmers across the cooling waters . . .
in the distance . . .
the song of a wild thing . .. calling .. .
intense . .. vibrant and piercing . .
what is this river
that runs down my cheeks . . .?
leaving patterns
against the dust
like an enigmatic message . .
of truth and pain . .
of love and despair . . .
I am moved . . in my bones . . .
the sharp edges . . . ragged and telling . ..
a bloody beating thing . ..
is throbbing in the center .. .

I cry . . .


The Illusionist (incomplete, without applause and vocals)
by JOSE TRAVIESO 
********************************************************************************

Monday, October 10, 2011

A Certain Fragility . . .





Sometimes I sense a fragility
in my house of cards and find
myself frantically looking
for a way to shore myself up
against the gentle breath of the breeze
that seeks to snuff out this unstable frame


lost in the construction
of a desperate devising . .
never able to push
the way out . . for a lack of doors . .
the walls . .
the walls they haunt me . ..


The dream is always there
the hope is always fair . . .
we say . .  we say my friend
this was the other day
I walked with you
I talked with you
I held you by  the hand . . ..

there was a child who saved a quarter a week
to buy the microscope
that sat on the top shelf
of the White Front store . .


the smell of silver as it slips
through the fingers . . .
a memory of yesterday . . .
oh so long ago,
the fairies danced beneath the stream . . .
like smoke drifts in the wind . . .
a life so short . .  so temporal . .
snuffed out on a whim . .

The stars are always bright
on the other side of the clouds . ..
I dream, I dream my love
that I was meant to die . .
and yet I find the chance to cry . .
and grab the heart of life . .


I have no patience for this small amoeba . .
slowly, slowly dying against the light
of my bright sun . . .
. . . a sort of love developed . . .
the seeking of something unknown . . .
a world of alien population . .
smeared thinly on a strip of glass . . .
the voiceless . . .
trembling and demented
existing unknown beneath
my white hot gaze . .

The heart,
the heart is always black
my love
with ancient hardened blood . . .
it aches within the breast of me . ..
and etches symbols . . .
upon my brittle bones .. ..


What will come tomorrow
is as eternal
as what came before yesterday
My place in the moment,
like the crawl of the amoeba
is to dig holes
in the face of time . . .


I find a way to travel small distances
into the unimaginable . . .
never taking the consequences
of being a god
over an endless universes . . .




******************************************************************

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Below the Lint . . .

In Strasbourg, France 2011

The Empty Hole


I practice what to say
before I leave the building
I say "good bye . . "
it takes a moment's care
not to say something foolish
or blue;
the flies gather at the corner
where the sun settles,
pushing to find the weakness . . .
an obligation to stand still
at the bus stop
turns into a restlessness
wandering
    traveling
testing each step
each stop of the route . . .
a failure to
realize my place
in the hierarchy,
can result in dismissal
from the ranks
and banishment. . .
its always safest
to take the lowest place,
below the lint perhaps
which only cares to annoy . .
the wind . .  rustles the leaves
on my road
as I walk,
the pale of the morning
precedes me . ..

Open Air Museum, Cuzals, France 2011


******************************************************

http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/99602?refuid=1088547
Melodie in der Nacht
by Linda Li
************************************review by me . . . .

Sweet lively listening . . . many of these songs sounded familiar to me;
they were romantic and sentimental with a sad yearning, a plaintive melody . . .
In Strasbourg, France 2011
. .. and plucking at my memories . . .
something from long ago
drifting like a lonely cloud
across an empty sky . .
returning through my dreams . ..
a half remembered waltz . . .
a kiss, a tender look . . .
all faded away like lavender ink
on old love-letters . . .
happy memories cut short . .
a sadness . .
a melancholy . . .
a crumbled dried rose . . .
dusty petals on the floor . .
there was yesterday . .
and now it is nothing more . . .
than the breezes knocking,
knocking on my door . . .
a candle quickly snuffed . . .
sits sputtering in an open window . .
and the silence in this melody . . .
is more than I can bear . . .
. . . is more than I can bear . . .


The 4 elements
by Peter Kind 
********************************review by me

A breath of fresh air . . .
Love is the energy . .
from which all things come . . .
creation upon creation . . .


beauty in the "earth" . . there is no compare . ..
except for the dreams and fantasies . . .
of the visionary listening
to the music . . a temporal thing . .
a dragonfly's song . . . an angel's wing . . .
lost in the melody . .


Fire in the darkness . . . a light,
a warmth, the listener hangs on to the quiet . . .
humbled by the unknown . . .
sparks rise to kiss the stars . . .
and the night descends . . .


a dance of energy .. .. a lightness
of gentle feet . . . pattering, and frisky . .
lifting higher with the wings of the breeze . . .
as the dark trees on the hill sway . .
they lift their branches in praise
and they dance in the wind . . .


water drifts down from the trees . . .
and pool in the shadows . .
silver with ambient light, small leafy life boats
float across on the mirroring surfaces . .


the stillness of the earth . . . a sail in the wind
the light of a distant fire guides . . .
as a star in a darkened sky . . .
and the water, as spirit, moves the soul
throughout . . .
Tender is the music . . gently to be moved. . .





Maison Henri IV, Cahors, France 2011


Spiritum contra spiritus
by Alejandro Vallarino
**************************review by me . . .
I remember hiking through a beautiful mountain forest,
long ago with my sister. . . and finding a small crystal spring,
bubbling up between the toes of a large mossy tree . . . magical . ..
and this album cover reminded me of that . ..
and, not surprisingly . . . so did the music .. .
it has a rather magical clarity .. .. a twinkling of unusual notes . . .
and surprising moments . . . as if suddenly transported to
a place undefined . .. a moment that makes your heart feel
like a fragile bubble and you catch your breath
in wonder . ..
piano . . . guitar .. . dreamily expressed as if in
a perfect trance. . . very nice and very unusual .. ..
I like that . . it dances and whispers . . .
sparkles and flies . .. like a drop of spring water . ..
on the edge of a cliff . .

Inside a residence, Sarlat, France, 2011



Friday, September 23, 2011

Are You Real?






When I passed through your world . . .
did I leave anything behind?
my heart maybe . . 
a single tear?
a dream .. . a song . . .

once upon a time
a bird flew through an open window
leaving a melody . . 
and a single blue feather . .. 
there in my hand . . . and I saw through the misty distance . . 
as if it was yesterday . . . a heartbeat away . . .

Somewhere
I left a simple memory
of laughter . . . and pictures . . .
wishes . . . and a purple balloon . . .
rising in the air above a river
winding sinuously . . .  slowly . . 
her waters tossing the sunlight
in sparkles and shadows
into your dreamy eyes . .. 

your world . .  a magical land
where the stars bloom
like daisies on a sacred expanse . . .
a place of angels and goddesses . . .
their edges and smiles worn away by ancient passages
of an entity called Time . . .

a distant land
where a fisherman walks on water .  .
where we found hidden kingdoms growing
out of amber and burgundy cliffs,
and valleys so deep
they echo with the fall of dew . . .
and there we found . .. 
ambrosial wines and cheeses . . 
and a lonely old mamma . . . a goddess
sitting on the green . . .
with an eternal smile between her withered cheeks . .
and in the morning the sunflowers
stretch to the blue skies from their lush valleys . . .
and in the morning the birds
fly higher and higher . . . like ashes wafted
into the streaming clouds . . .

we walked along the
hills which grasped the lazy waters
between their bosoms . . 
and I heard their secret sigh 
ascending through cavernous deeps . . 
their song rising up . . . 
from the shadowy beating heart
of the planet . . 
a throbbing heat . . .
a dull red glow . ..   
a place between us . . . you and I . . .
you walk on the one side
and I on the other . . .
forever we are connected
by streams of moving memories . . .




- an orangeupurple dedication (and thank you)  to van syla . . .  a dear friend.
**************************************************************************




The aerie of the eagle
beyond the reach of the dreaming one . . .
is touched by the song
of the piano .. . which music will fly
and take the listener
. . . on the wings of an eagle
 . . . higher and higher
 and higher still
 . . . where we touch the stone
that splits the mountain
 . . . spilling the richness of the sea,
gathering all the stars of the heavens,
having and holding it all
 . . . yet giving it freely
to the dreamer with the outstretched arms,
who is part of the glory
 . . . and the beginning and end
of an eternal story . . .











Thursday, September 22, 2011

Ten Grains of Rice .. . .

Somewhere in France

Let no king reign
without first walking as
a child of the world
un-bandaged in the grimy streets,
wounded and raw
beneath an acid rain . . .
a new born child . .
first guilty of existence, and
unwashed under the flow
of bloodied armies
marching too and fro . . 
a tiny beating heart 
a speck of tender flesh,
clinging to maternal bosoms 
dreaming of rivers of nectar . . .
lest a king's dream
be that of the dragon . . .
an armored tail
gripping the ransom
of babies . . .
and a cage wraps around
a hollow tomb
where once
there was a beating heart . . .
************************************************


http://www.freerice.com

These are the things you can learn while you are donating 10 grains of rice per correct answer . . it is free to you to play and learn . .  and you are feeding the hungry while you play . . . my students love playing these games and especially bragging about the amount of rice they have donated. 
 ************************************************************************************

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Voice


She wears a mantle of silence
a shadow beneath contempt.
Her carapace is an armor
           in attempt
To deflect the poison darts
                       and bites
            of the enemy.
Her shining self
Reflected in the undersides of dew
                    is her glory
               but a lie
Devised to hide
The gory inner mess:
             Debilitating loneliness.
Her creativity lines her nest . . . 
Silk defining the limitations of bounded dreams
                     tied in the fetters
                     of self-denial and sacrifice.
Her voice is but a squeak,
An agony of expression longing to
Redeem the measure of her space
But acceptance of abuse
clings . . . a sour temple between the jaws.


Biting back her words she chokes
And all her leftover voice
                   echoes painfully in her skull . . .


This is a much older poem than most of my published  .. .. I wrote it at least 20 years, probably more . ..  I always felt that I had no voice . ..  for the reason of various strictures in my growing up years I learned to keep my mouth shut . . . and remain expressionless . . . my inner self came out through the written word, usually poetry but often short stories, too  . ..  my writing was often appreciated by the teachers at school and college . ..  so I kept at it . . . I found this particular poem tucked away at the bottom of a box and thought that maybe I would share it with you . . . so here, I copied it exactly the way I found it.

*****************************************************************************************************************

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Another Poem .. .. Another Song .. .. Another View .. .. I Borrow

Somewhere in France (SW) 2011

THE MAN WITH MANY PENS

With one he wrote a number so beautiful
it lasted forever in the legends of numbers. With another

graffiti covered doorway, in France
he described the martyrs' feet as they marched
past the weeping stones and cypresses, watched

by their fathers. He used one as a silver wand to lift
a trout from its spawning bed to more fruitful waters

and set it back down, its mouth facing upstream.
He wrote Time has no other river but this one in us,

no other use but this turn in us from mountain lakes
of late desires to confusions passed through

with every gate open. Let's not say he didn't take us
with him in the long current of his letters, his calligraphy

and craft, moving from port to port, his hand stopping
near his heart, the hand that smudged and graced the page,

Somewhere in France, 2011
asking, asking, his fingers a beggar's lucent black,
for the word that gave each of us away.


- BY Jonathan Wells
The New Yorker
July 26, 2010


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 I was listening to this music, by Re-Lab on Jamendo, as I read The New Yorker and came upon this poem which I loved . . . and wanted to share with you . . . and it all merged in my head as a surreal moment . . . and here of course I continue to share some of my pictures from France . . .


  Piano for the wide oceans . .
seas which wash like tears within . .
the salt, a cleanser that scours
the hole . . . empty and soulless . .
which drives the music
that swirls in lassitude . . .
as the water
retreating from the breaks mirroring . . .
a forest of grass running on the hill
a breeze
a swell
a light through the wave . .
green like the ivy that clings
to the tree . .
a lover's tight grasp
that smothers a cry . . .
a heart beats within
the ocean's wide reach . . .
leaving a trail for the moon . . .
which skims hot white dreams
to me .. .



 




Somewhere in France, 2011

Monday, September 12, 2011

La Bella Principessa

La Bella Principessa


Solemnly you sit
in the golden glow of sunlight reflecting on a yellow wall,
your demeanor calm . ..
yet your turmoil within
is like the battle of dragons,
black smoke of their breath rising up behind your eyes;
your day is caught up in memories
of yesterday's youth . .  
a dream you had of being a girl . .. 
before your marriage,
which, so quickly ripped your carefree days 
into shreds . . . while you were reborn
as a matron . . . though your face,
still smooth as a baby, 
is painted to cover the shadows and the pallor 
of your restlessness and ennui . . 
and your eyes as clear 
as the biggest star on a moonless night . . .
reflect nothing . . .
your tender lips have no longer the strength to lift
into a curve of delight . . . and those peals of laughter,
that once resounded in the valleys of the girls . . .
do not echo on the stone walls of the matrimonial domicile . .
is there a hint of a tear in those golden eyes?
yet you look as if you were about to call your kitten to you . . 
to run and play. . .
and sing with your friends in the garden . . .
trailing your fingers lazily in that fountain, there,
with the moss spotted faun cavorting in the water,
you have always wondered what doorway you could open
to find that world of fauns, and fairies, unicorns and roses . . .
flowers you can find in your own gardens,
but not the kind that never wilt . . . nor droop and drop their petals . .. 
that wither away
into scarlet crusts of blood . . .
spent in their dying moments . . .
your clear eyes glance like water 
on the hot face of the painter . . . 
as he patiently rubs a wayward stroke of his pencil . .. 
he looks into your soul . . . an open door . .. 
a draft blows through with  a vengeance . .
and for a moment you shudder as if a thing with scales
and claws is walking on your skin . ..
leaving tattoos, like drops of blood,
and you sigh. . .
just slightly,
a mere ripple in the oceans of a larger day . . .
and here, the painter says he has enough . . .
so you quickly slip away through a darkened doorway . . .
never looking at the drawing of you . . .
Versailles, France