Footprints

Will it hold my spirit
as it climbs?
My soul,
as it rides this curl of smoke
that creeps up the thatch?

Pure, rain-washed,
prodding the murk,
probing Erebus,
sowing light.

Vaulted by this rhapsody,
a web of notes, strong,
within me,
against the Wind.

Will it
hold my spirit?
Will it
my soul?

As Visions lay, cremated,
wombed,
by impotent ash;
longings withering in
the stale breath of years
as I lay, snared
by dreams unlived.

Will these offspring crumble too,
a specter
of bygone years?
Will the footprints grow sun-baked
with no sprout of green?

Therein,
is the dream that strains,
the stealth,
that stumbles in - unbidden,

to pull the silent strings,

to birth the notes, to
rapture me.

At Twilight . . .

At twilight . . .

I slip through the wormhole –
across the rainbow –
this half-visible coloured torus.

I, walk the two-manifold-disc;
shape-shifter, shifting from
substance to non-matter, beyond

the wormhole, beyond the horizon’s
rim-thin reels of crimson,

as the sun with a jealous eye
kills the ageing night.

I,
shape-shifter, shifting this
twisted tale of twilight –
this virgin vortex, beyond

blue rocks that kiss in doom, beyond
winged-ram-fleece, beyond
climes, where music thrills from strings stretched
from the sun –

The music of the Shining City,
weaned on the winding wish of the whirlwind . . .

There she stands . . .

There she stands,
Queen of my dreams –
her eyes –
twin lighthouses for
my storm-tossed soul . . .

Her tresses flirt
with the wayward wind –
coaxed air makes a lair in her hair . . .

I will watch the moon leave its hiding,
I will watch as nighttime falls,
I will watch her heart and read therein,

The beauty of it all . . .

Here, I stand,
washed by her eye’s pool,
here, I bow – captured – a slave,
not conquered by a sword – but a look.

Clasp the roaming wind . . .

Clasp the roaming wind, bend
its sinews to the east; it is not
its destiny to
sip the sop of Sisyphus . . .

Clasp the wind –
tease its veins . . . its flow,
towards the hearth where
the embers fail.

Ferry the cumulus;
wind-hinged vats of black milk –
storm cloud-blobs, which beat
their drip-drip-drip;

drops distilled from ashes
of a cremated creed . . .

And the wind goads the clouds
to balsam,

to knead,

immortal plumes from the ashes . . .

Whispers

A wind-tossed leaf
with a voice -
soft fluff on the ripples of a breath,
flows to the end of an echo;

Lone leaf, learning
the lore
of the wilderness;

Lone pilgrim
of the Wild.

Chrysalis

Swathe in the tenor
of the living air . . .

Hearts,

sconced in their
supple songs. Bright kernels.

Happy hills, collared by clouds
splaying sprinkles of gold
across the sea above,

Stem our Hearts

in the Chrysalis - the bud
between sunrise and our dream.
Shore the surf
In a merry scamper,

waves wading, the crisp chortle

of the sands.

A Dream Sequence

Soft flutter of wings . . .

Wisps of hair preens the breeze,

merry bells,

tinkling,

from between her lips . . .

My heart ticks

apace with the freezing heat - 

pure light - 

snow-white flash in tundra sheets . . .

Stillness becomes me - 

only a finger flickers,

as I, reaching still,

to touch her heart . . .

It flames!