Our last connection with the mythic.
My mother remembers the day as a girl
she jumped across a little spruce
that now overtops the sandstone house
where still she lives; her face delights
at the thought of her years translated
into wood so tall, into so mighty
a peer of the birds and the wind.

Too, the old farmer still stout of step
treads through the orchard he has outlasted
but for some hollow-trunked much-lopped
apples and Bartlett pears. The dogwood
planted to mark my birth flowers each April,
a soundless explosion. We tell its story
time after time: the drizzling day,
the fragile sapling that had to be staked.

At the back of our acre here, my wife and I,
freshly moved in, freshly together,
transplanted two hemlocks that guarded our door
gloomily, green gnomes a meter high.
One died, gray as sagebrush next spring.
The other lives on and some day will dominate
this view no longer mine, its great
lazy feathery hemlock limbs down-drooping,
its tent-shaped caverns resinous and deep.
Then may I return, an old man, a trespasser,
and remember and marvel to see
our small deed, that hurried day,
so amplified, like a story through layers of air
told over and over, spreading.

It was starting to snow as I entered Pere Lachaise cemetery. The few that had ventured in, were streaming out, as daylight faded, fast giving way to twilight, on this 1st of February night. I had 30 minutes of daylight left, to take the shots that I’d planned for all year.

I knew where I was going, having visited the cemetery in the summer, to scout locations for this moment. I walked up l’Avenue Principale towards Le Monument aux Morts and took the first right on l’Avenue des Puits. My pace quickened, not wanting to waste a single second, of the dying light.

I crossed path with the the last stragglers, most likely having paid homage to Chopin or Morrison. I was entering the oldest and most forested area of the cemetery. It sent a chill up my spine, not because of the cold February air, but because of the surreality of what was in front of me, a cobble stone path, lined with old trees, surrounded by an ocean of tombs, fading into the white and gray of a snowy afternoon.

I arrived at my location, the tomb of Heloise and Abelard. I set down my tripod and camera bag. I stopped to take it in. It was eerily beautiful, the snow slowly falling, lightly covering the tomb, the flowers, the love letters, laying around the plinth.

I was surprised at the number of single roses and love letters that were strewn in the yard, between the wrought iron fence, and the tomb. Even during the dead of winter, young women pilgrimaged to the tomb, leaving letters and prayers, hoping their love will last forever, in life and in death. Sadness overwhelmed me, as I felt the longing and pain of their and my,  unrequited loves.

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, double checking the battery indicator and exposure. I put the viewfinder to my eye, slowly pressed the shutter till I heard a beep, as the auto focus sharpened the view and my world became crystal clear. I zoomed in and out, composing my shot. I was too close for my lens. I picked up my tripod, turned around, and surveyed my work area.

I moved up the path, three tombs over, next to an old wide trunked chestnut tree, set my tripod and bag down, and recomposed my shot. The snowfall had intensified, to a heavy flurry. The snowflakes were thicker, fluffier, slowly drifting down like dandelion seeds. I was swimming in an ocean of white magical specks. Everything around me was dusted in ******, pure white powder.

I unfolded my tripod, mounted the camera to the head, and verified it was securely attached. I zoomed in and out till I composed my shot, stepping down the aperture and up the speed, till I achieved the dark, moody, feel I wanted. I pressed the shutter and captured the shot.

I was looking through the viewfinder when a woman stepped into my shot. For a split second, I was angry, then confused, then intrigued. I looked up, stepped back from my camera, to see and understand what was unfolding before me.

She was wearing a full-length white Lynx fur coat and cap, black leather gloves and boots. She was stunning, breathtaking. Was I hallucinating? Was she real? She hadn’t seen me, as I was behind her, catty corner, partially hidden by the chestnut tree.


She was holding something. I couldn’t quite see. I looked through the viewfinder, zoomed in on her. She held a single long stemmed blue rose in her left hand.  Instinctively, I pressed the shutter, captured the shot, the photo, the image, of this unworldly scene.

It was late, almost dark. What was she doing here? Was she praying, why, to whom, Heloise, Abelard, or both? She moved up to and placed her right hand on the protective wrought iron fence. I took a shot, then another. Then with her left hand, she gently threw the blue rose, time slowed, I pressed the shutter, never letting go, as the flower arched in the air and landed perfectly, on the plinth, at Heloise's side.

I released the shutter, still looking through the viewfinder. She placed her left hand on the wrought iron fence, bowed her head, just stood there, in the darkness, in the snowfall.

She pulled her right hand away from the wrought iron fence and wiped her eyes. Was she crying?

She slowly turned around. I pressed the shutter, held it down, for a continuous shot. I saw her face, her raven black hair, her incandescent blue eyes. Like a cannonball hitting me in the chest, I realized and recognized who she was. It was her, the woman from the metro.

She looked up, turned her head, and looked directly at me. I zoomed in, framed her face, continuously pressing the shutter. Her face expressionless, her eyes aglow. Had she seen me? I don’t know. She took a step, turned her head, and walked back up the cobble stone path, and faded into the night, into the falling snow.

An elephant remebered running wild in savanna.

The rays of the sun shining down warming the ground beneath him,

He bathed in the light, as he trunked with the other elephants around his elder's legs,

He remebered the large disk of light as it descended behind the earth and the sky became hues of color,

He remembered as he lay down in the nights, drawing warmth from his elders,

He remebered this as the lion, with jagged teeth, ripped his guts.

The lion, having had his fill, looked up at the elephant and there as darkness settled in his eyes, like curtains closing in the finale, an elephant ran wild in savanna.

Patterns form across convex corneas
Geometric portraits of tangram animals
Hexagonal-faced lions
Triangular-trunked elephants
etc.
Tessellations of
anagrams
Draped over rods like Batik fabric smoothed over king-sized beds
Calculating Bayesian probability on fingertips
rote
styles
Whispering, "Carry the 1!" to columns of 100s
with a remainder? Try again.
Plot Cartesian coordinates with mechanical pencils
click! click! click!
Crying, "Awwwww.....
                                  you
                                        sunk
                                                my
                                                     battleship!"

You were all the shades of purple
Violet petals blowing in the wind
Mauve smashed grapes between toes
Plum like bruises on bent backs

You melted into the hues of blue
Cornflower sky vibrant in July
Teal waves bombarding the coast
Navy like jeans with grass stained knees

You faded into the tones of green
Olive leaves on thick trunked trees
Lime frogs hopping on branches
Chartreuse like fresh cut kiwi

You gave into the tints of yellow
Golden sunrises on the horizon
Khaki canvases stretched thin
Canary like lemon drops on tongues

You were all the shades of orange
Tangerine bonfires at midnight
Rusty nails twisted into planks
Amber like dripping honey bee hives

You darkened into all the hues of red
Cherry slick tabletops in a diner
Rosy cheeks flushed from the cold
Pomegranate like bricked suburban houses

You waned into the tones of pink
Magenta cotton candy stuck to lips
Coral reefs blooming on the seafloor
Peach like skin after a day at the beach

You disappeared into the tints of white
Powdery snow on concrete ground
Cream goosebumps on silky thighs
Ivory like teeth through pursed mouths

And in sharp contrast, became black
Obsidian rocks at the volcanic base
Charcoal soot stuck under fingernails
Onyx like the deepest darkest night

Blood purple and trunked they raise to my ruby mouth socks
      liquid cooling stone

      cogs turning wheels turning cogs turning wheels
      cancer lifts to transcendence

      shimmering rainbows collide into metallic dust
      burnt orange flowers and blossom

      blood boxes box other blood boxes so the blood boxes can't spray life
      the green droplets drooped once to many on there little watermills

      Tori stop being Tori once nothing can pass through there centers
      Ash is not a torus

      righteous containers contain the righteous contemplating the unrighteous
      star dust encases star dust

      Sherbet and laughter, pipes enjoying other pipes smoke
      Stupid People

Okay, I did it, I had to drive
a smouldering stake in his eye
screaming he lashed out

and in the panic, he couldn't see
with his other eye either
That was it, a good story

that I liked to tell, but
apparently, it's not good enough
for the sailors of today

who have seen skulls
in the Mount Etna caves
with a large hole in the middle

One-eyed giants died there
worthy of a hero
like me, they say

but I do know
that they were elephants
one-trunked quadrupeds

What is the matter with people
that they rather believe in fantasies
than in true, hard life?