~

dusk brings a chill
o’er the ocean,
this secret stage
where twilight fades
in regent haze;
transformed, replaced
with slow drift,
swirling, mist
softly rolling in.
above, the sand,
a salt-washed beach.
a brimming tide
awaits release
of curtain rising
far above, and there,
like bio-luminescence,
she shimmers in the ether;
ancient existence,
always with us,
seldom seen,
her light serene.
a fresh emergence
each moonless night,
a shimmering of colors,
like a nightly bow
an arch of
color-filled delight.
though this night rests,
not drawn and taut,
exuding peacefulness;
her horse in all its glory,
feeding in her pastured stars.
drawing, telling
children wonder-eyed
of her richness,
of her treasures,
loving, storied skies,
light years in the making.
her curtain lifted,
these moments served,
to but a few.
a sacred showing
to our breath-taking,
memory-making eyes.
hovering in her milky skin,
she dazzles, beckoning;
her adieu at sun’s return,
at our rising disappears.
awaits another
night's re-appearing,
her celestial flow
like a river of
imagination, rippling,
much to our surprise,
a gifting
to awakened eyes,
never captured,
only living on...
in memories,
in moments raptured.

~

*post script.

inspired by Mathew Newman,
of Mathew Newman Photography
who captures the night sky so skillfully,
of the milky way rising above the pacific ocean
along southern oregon's secret beach.
his name for the photo that inspired this,
"Celestial Flow", of course.

sorry, i am not permitted to include links
but simply add www. to both these below and you will find what inspired me:

facebook.com/MatthewNewmanPhotography/
or
matthewnewmanphotography.com/wp-content/gallery/gallery-1/CelestialFlowWeb.jpg

he, hardly fit,
sleeps fitfully

he, like a baby,
up and down at 2am

the cerebrum racked,
like a street *** so needy,
for a low caloric,
non-alcoholic snack

pickles - the almost zero solution,
dill in particular,
or even the slightly bad boy cousins,
the buttered variety

so in his customized original
100% sleeping skin gear,
standing in front of the shiniest fridge
gleaming,
his unfortunate reflection somewhat
steamy,
indecisive, which, his pickle, to to choose,
which to eat, completely complete,
to celebrate his dietetic restraint

so she, the yoga ballerina lioness,
finds him upright but not uptight,
leaving him in an awkward
so to speak, poem, pickling,
naked and speechless,
as the mouth is fully engorged

and on point
she summarizes
most eloquently,
the ****** and the crudités and the et. al.,
with a succinctly pithy observation:

"ah, I see (me wincing),
still crazy after all these years

...and other stories

wondrous words,
shades of colorations,
this pain,
artfully slow, steady stalking,
finale staking into
my hardened heart

with tireless twinges
of loss and constant regret,
painstakingly plinking away,
leaving pockmarks of bullets shot
at the concrete ring-fencing,
failing to protect me from just another,

oh god not again,
have no mo' time
for jes one mo' time

love's aftermath regret,
bitter acid wash,
that cleanses nothing,
for you are already nothing
when love loss wrenches/rents your
soul's garments with knotholes of
unfashionable distressed
distress

better not to have loved,
better, better, better,
than this battering silent hurricane
invisible thunderstorm internally,
than respects no seasonality,
for which the meteorologists
can predict neither its path or its
final cessation

painstakingly,
did I build my walled shelter,
only to fail-fall to the siege machines
of beauty and desire,
and
once conquered,
with fire and heat,
they burnt me
from the outward edges inward,
and I am not a
Phoenix

see the stooped slow white walker
more than dead, yet alive enough
existing to be witness to
his own devouring,
his hands wrapped round
the stake in his chest stuck,
painstakingly
protecting it,
lest its removal
be one more undoing of the
painstaking man