On an Archipelago
far from septic isles,
Deep in silent azure
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box, for safe keeping
And set her dreams on a bed of lichen,
fields of leafy pathway stretching
she’ll nestle woven toad flax and larkspur
to steadfast her conscience.
The Birds of the flock
thrush and dove, sensing her bridle
rejoice in her Mother lode,  
precious be their plenteous dawn.

This is the beat
for the future.

Slow.

Continuous.

Quick in paces.
Slow in the right
places.

The bassline of the future
should be love.

Let's make it as slow and continuous as our ideals have said it would be.

In the last moments
of the world
let every man kiss every man
every woman kiss every woman
every love see love.

Fuhreal,
let's take love
to a whole new level.

Let's make it so beautiful
that we stop killing cockroaches
and poaching
the god's green broaches of branches
full of howler monkeys
howling for conservation against the parasitism
that man has become accustomed to.

I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.

The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.

And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.

But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.

And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.

The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end

And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it.  It is done.

On an Archipelago
I place broaches and pins
in a wooden box
And lay a translucent lichen box for you
Somehow the fledging seagulls
Will seek your precious door

Treasures layed out on a bed
On a rainy day staying indoors
Opening a lidded Formica box
Faceted stones glinted before.

From broaches now broken, undone
Sorted into colours, spectrum through
Golden backed pyramids of glass
All spread out in straight rows.

Love Mary x

my heart thumps louder

as death appears
unspoken words hang in the trees
listen for my voice whispering in the wind

death draws nearer
unspoken sentiments in a simple glance
unattained goals and unmet dreams

death reaches out his hand
unspoken love in the things I did
a smile broaches my face

death touches me in that final moment
a world speaks of the love I gave
the love I gave with actions. not words

unspoken love, in the end,
is the most powerful of all

The weather speaks its wintery tale
On this last day of April
Sending mayhem into bush and tree
Shaking the blossoms in their break
For bud.
The Bride drops her veil
Under Flowering Cherry wings
Red Camelia broaches
Fall as from a night at the theatre
Lost forever in a carpet of dreams.
Around the perimeter
Everything sways
And the blue cloaked conductor
Orchestrates from
The washing line .

Love Mary

Why should I fear
If you tell me that I am naïve,
Or weak,
Or made of far too many flowing, passioned words
Than could match that creature which life is?
I say,
That creature will bite, and scratch, and tear, and scream,
Lunging with that chain around its throat,
Until all breaks or all falls down.
I say to you,
Do you know what it is, that creature which life is?
I say,
This crying monster may not so terrible be,
When acknowledged.
Black, its fur, and sharp, its teeth,
But this is what we are unless we're free.
Let us be free, and not bound by naïve imaginations;
We are not nothing, and the cries of our souls, so black with tar-like pain, are cries for all whose liberties are bound.

I will be what I am, what I was made to be,
For I know what freedom is,
As one does know the light which broaches morning's rising sun.

And I say to you, dear heart,
Are you free?

(c) 2017 Indigo Kenna

Can I expect greater focus and stand derailed?
Our train for thoughts, not landed, until reticent reveals-
We formed and turned, tooted and found,
a direct place seemingly law

  the regard of wisdom fathoms
  tell tale signs not butter tripes
Is not time that similar insolence?
The gathered people shall renege as justice foresaw.

Glee in the place of prayer who can place their thoughts so well
Lest we'd be walking avenues
of light
irrespective of the towne's name.

Proclamations the virtue to share more solitude of thoughts
Which of itself is as original train... it  went off the tracks

Couple of minutes cinders free floating, auburn, yet, suppressive.
A fluorescent orange forms not an error with deliverance but how did it get there to  begin with

Perhaps a breadth of light did bless the soul

For I know not the real use - free to return to the basis wherewithal  systemary thought processes deserve what follows as they say shall conclude when only of pain

Thats not merry, rejoice, all reality follows the litany that you could have a special fate
an answered prayer for that real worth ,
a chamber of secrets if you will have waited to be
eased, soothed & ascribe deliverance's ambiance

Oh'! Brothers and sisters winning by means
of the visions lasted of years

While once... and never any thoughts that embellished conscience samples- what little sinicisms in these holiday prayers...
there are more armistices than need to
welcome reform or speak of ideals  
ode  and memento mori  old friends and I
Tales tall  have that we rationaly are physically well

But to evince what creations life's victories meant to mean
there are arrivals of whips lead by cornucopias  foods
and flowing silver hair broaches results of supreme
consecutive alarms that soon announce

Heavenly illustrations yet the sensations
eternal holds, a glorious femme

Whence seasons divided, follies... and arrives the memory of lyrics

Ascended path, gifts auspicious, send our togetherness and
make this our Christmas blessed and thanks so gracious