~

of her are
countless stories told,
ancient face angelic;
some think she a
seductive mistress,
while some see none,
but lunar cold.
but others find
her gaze majestic;
never sleeping,
memories keeping,
always watching,
ever seeking... as the
world below unfolds.

eyes that
never turn aside,
her tidal draw,
that ne’er subsides;
and flows within,
her mother's pride;
for even when
we see her not,
unbroken gaze,
men's deeds engraves;
of ev'ry tribe,
the fateful scribe;
she the keeper
of this race!

~

post script.

since childhood i have found the moon to be entrancing... both beautiful and mysterious. surely i am not alone in conjuring mystical theories and fantasied metaphors for our lovely lady above!

as the ever watchful eye in the heavens above, do you, like me, wonder if just maybe it is she who metes out justice, who deals man's swift reward?  and what if, just maybe, those who to our eye, seem to escape the consequence of their actions, who seem to skate along unscathed... what if their consequences are simply too great to unveil in this realm, and instead, she, the fateful, faithful scribe has rendered and reserved for them in the next, their recompense and just reward?  i shudder to think of it!

~

~

when eve’ning calls
the day to end,
and steals away
beloved friend;
naught for holding,
naught for love;
only yearning,
for what was.
once where pillows,
cradled heads;
swallows tears,
wept on their bed.
once the soil,
on paths two walked;
turned to dust,
beneath a rock.
within each tear,
the salty sting;
a silent sob,
the daylight brings.
lips that spoke,
in loving notes;
that kissed each dawn,
with healing hope;
mem’ries now,
a silent voice;
whispered prayer,
a stifled choice.
these the trail,
of loving well;
leavings of
a lover’s tell!

~

post script.

“brother-in-law”... when a beloved sister loses her battle, what becomes of that title...  do the words drift apart as the hyphens are disbanded?  and what of the light that once added brilliance...  is it forever fractured?

thirty-nine years is a trail long walked; a tale colored by hues both light and dark.  a loss such is his, is to me inconceivable; i believe i would choose death instead.

~

~

"did you know,” says he to she,
“that present act, as in music,
current status is a movement?"
the space between transitions,
afore its alteration,
from a time and place,
to a new dimension;
before a score becomes unsettled,
and shifts to lilting melody,
amidst the rhythmic cadence,
like phrases ’tween the beats!
sheds new light upon one’s moves,
invites my claim what looks unchanged,
is too in movement’s midst;
despite the strain of rat’ling chain,
that bind one’s present to their past,
lies this inspiring thought!
perchance they'd call it something else
were turn from overture to arias
a movement changing naught.

~

~

along the golden sands she runs,
swinging arms, matching stride;
crashing waves bring seagull crumbs,
deposit treasures with each tide.

sea shells scattered on the sands,
like incantations on the wind;
she gathers them amidst the strands,
blending voice above the din!

each gusty wave of her baton,
the wind is maestro to this band;
from cockle’s flute the highest pitch,
to conch’s cello, deep & rich.

the tulip’s voice of brass cornet,
of scallop’s rippling clarinet;
the kettle drum of florida’s cone,
and hammered strings of angel’s wings!

instrumental simplicity,
ancient chords, rehearsed refrain;
her call to join each voice unique,
each grain of sand, each clapping wave,

leaping toward orchestral stage,
calling forth their joyous praise.
till mistral bows in whispered hush,
a thunderous crash, their glad applause!

~

maestro -
a distinguished musician, especially
a conductor of classical music.

mistral -
a strong, cold northwesterly wind
that blows into the Mediterranean.

~