This English Thames is holier far than Rome,
Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea
Breaking across the woodland, with the foam
Of meadow-sweet and white anemone
To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier there
Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take
Yon creamy lily for their pavilion
Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake
A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,
His eyes half shut,—he is some mitred old
Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

The wind the restless prisoner of the trees
Does well for Palaestrina, one would say
The mighty master’s hands were on the keys
Of the Maria *****, which they play
When early on some sapphire Easter morn
In a high litter red as blood or sin the Pope is borne

From his dark House out to the Balcony
Above the bronze gates and the crowded square,
Whose very fountains seem for ecstasy
To toss their silver lances in the air,
And stretching out weak hands to East and West
In vain sends peace to peaceless lands, to restless nations rest.

Is not yon lingering orange after-glow
That stays to vex the moon more fair than all
Rome’s lordliest pageants! strange, a year ago
I knelt before some crimson Cardinal
Who bare the Host across the Esquiline,
And now—those common poppies in the wheat seem twice as fine.

The blue-green beanfields yonder, tremulous
With the last shower, sweeter perfume bring
Through this cool evening than the odorous
Flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing,
When the grey priest unlocks the curtained shrine,
And makes God’s body from the common fruit of corn and vine.

Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the mass
Were out of tune now, for a small brown bird
Sings overhead, and through the long cool grass
I see that throbbing throat which once I heard
On starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady,
Once where the white and crescent sand of Salamis meets sea.

Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves
At daybreak, when the mower whets his scythe,
And stock-doves murmur, and the milkmaid leaves
Her little lonely bed, and carols blithe
To see the heavy-lowing cattle wait
Stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate.

And sweet the hops upon the Kentish leas,
And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,
And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees
That round and round the linden blossoms play;
And sweet the heifer breathing in the stall,
And the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall,

And sweet to hear the cuckoo mock the spring
While the last violet loiters by the well,
And sweet to hear the shepherd Daphnis sing
The song of Linus through a sunny dell
Of warm Arcadia where the corn is gold
And the slight lithe-limbed reapers dance about the wattled fold.

And sweet with young Lycoris to recline
In some Illyrian valley far away,
Where canopied on herbs amaracine
We too might waste the summer-tranced day
Matching our reeds in sportive rivalry,
While far beneath us frets the troubled purple of the sea.

But sweeter far if silver-sandalled foot
Of some long-hidden God should ever tread
The Nuneham meadows, if with reeded flute
Pressed to his lips some Faun might raise his head
By the green water-flags, ah! sweet indeed
To see the heavenly herdsman call his white-fleeced flock to feed.

Then sing to me thou tuneful chorister,
Though what thou sing’st be thine own requiem!
Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler
Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn
These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,
For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield

Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose
Which all day long in vales AEolian
A lad might seek in vain for over-grows
Our hedges like a wanton courtesan
Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too
Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs
For swallows going south, would never spread
Their azure tents between the Attic vines;
Even that little **** of ragged red,
Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady
Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames
Which to awake were sweeter ravishment
Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems
Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant
For Cytheraea’s brows are hidden here
Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening’s dew could fill
Its little cup twice over ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold
And be no prodigal; each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae
Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss
The trembling petals, or young Mercury
Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis
Had with one feather of his pinions
Just brushed them! the slight stem which bears the burden of its suns

Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,
Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry,—
Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre
Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me
It seems to bring diviner memories
Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where
On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,
The tangle of the forest in his hair,
The silence of the woodland in his eyes,
Wooing that drifting imagery which is
No sooner kissed than broken; memories of Salmacis

Who is not boy nor girl and yet is both,
Fed by two fires and unsatisfied
Through their excess, each passion being loth
For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side
Yet killing love by staying; memories
Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees,

Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf
At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew
Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf
And called false Theseus back again nor knew
That Dionysos on an amber pard
Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia’s bard

With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,
Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,
And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy
Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,
And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,
As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of winged Perseus with his flawless sword
Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,
And all those tales imperishably stored
In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich
Than any gaudy galleon of Spain
Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,
The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:
They are asleep, and when they hear thee call
Will wake and think ‘t is very Thessaly,
This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade
The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird
Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne
Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard
The horn of Atalanta faintly blown
Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering
Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring,—

Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate
That pleadest for the moon against the day!
If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate
On that sweet questing, when Proserpina
Forgot it was not Sicily and leant
Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment,—

Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!
If ever thou didst soothe with melody
One of that little clan, that brotherhood
Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany
More than the perfect sun of Raphael
And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,
Let elemental things take form again,
And the old shapes of Beauty walk among
The simple garths and open crofts, as when
The son of Leto bare the willow rod,
And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here
Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,
And over whimpering tigers shake the spear
With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,
While at his side the wanton Bassarid
Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,
And steal the mooned wings of Ashtaroth,
Upon whose icy chariot we could win
Cithaeron in an hour ere the froth
Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun
Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,
And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,
Some Maenad girl with vine-leaves on her breast
Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans
So softly that the little nested thrush
Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

Down the green valley where the fallen dew
Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,
Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew
Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,
And where their horned master sits in state
Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face
Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,
The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase
Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,
And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,
After yon velvet-coated deer the ****** maid will ride.

Sing on! and I the dying boy will see
Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell
That overweighs the jacinth, and to me
The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,
And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,
And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

Cry out aloud on Itys! memory
That foster-brother of remorse and pain
Drops poison in mine ear,—O to be free,
To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again
Into the white-plumed battle of the waves
And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

O for Medea with her poppied spell!
O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!
O for one leaf of that pale asphodel
Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,
And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she
Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased
From lily to lily on the level mead,
Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste
The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,
Ere the black steeds had harried her away
Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

O for one midnight and as paramour
The Venus of the little Melian farm!
O that some antique statue for one hour
Might wake to passion, and that I could charm
The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,
Mix with those mighty limbs and make that giant breast my lair!

Sing on! sing on!  I would be drunk with life,
Drunk with the trampled vintage of my youth,
I would forget the wearying wasted strife,
The riven veil, the Gorgon eyes of Truth,
The prayerless vigil and the cry for prayer,
The barren gifts, the lifted arms, the dull insensate air!

Sing on! sing on!  O feathered Niobe,
Thou canst make sorrow beautiful, and steal
From joy its sweetest music, not as we
Who by dead voiceless silence strive to heal
Our too untented wounds, and do but keep
Pain barricadoed in our hearts, and ****** pillowed sleep.

Sing louder yet, why must I still behold
The wan white face of that deserted Christ,
Whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold,
Whose smitten lips my lips so oft have kissed,
And now in mute and marble misery
Sits in his lone dishonoured House and weeps, perchance for me?

O Memory cast down thy wreathed shell!
Break thy hoarse lute O sad Melpomene!
O Sorrow, Sorrow keep thy cloistered cell
Nor dim with tears this limpid Castaly!
Cease, Philomel, thou dost the forest wrong
To vex its sylvan quiet with such wild impassioned song!

Cease, cease, or if ‘t is anguish to be dumb
Take from the pastoral thrush her simpler air,
Whose jocund carelessness doth more become
This English woodland than thy keen despair,
Ah! cease and let the north wind bear thy lay
Back to the rocky hills of Thrace, the stormy Daulian bay.

A moment more, the startled leaves had stirred,
Endymion would have passed across the mead
Moonstruck with love, and this still Thames had heard
Pan plash and paddle groping for some reed
To lure from her blue cave that Naiad maid
Who for such piping listens half in joy and half afraid.

A moment more, the waking dove had cooed,
The silver daughter of the silver sea
With the fond gyves of clinging hands had wooed
Her wanton from the chase, and Dryope
Had ****** aside the branches of her oak
To see the ***** gold-haired lad rein in his snorting yoke.

A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile

Down leaning from his black and clustering hair,
To shade those slumberous eyelids’ caverned bliss,
Or else on yonder grassy ***** with bare
High-tuniced limbs unravished Artemis
Had bade her hounds give tongue, and roused the deer
From his green ambuscade with shrill halloo and pricking spear.

Lie still, lie still, O passionate heart, lie still!
O Melancholy, fold thy raven wing!
O sobbing Dryad, from thy hollow hill
Come not with such despondent answering!
No more thou winged Marsyas complain,
Apollo loveth not to hear such troubled songs of pain!

It was a dream, the glade is tenantless,
No soft Ionian laughter moves the air,
The Thames creeps on in sluggish leadenness,
And from the copse left desolate and bare
Fled is young Bacchus with his revelry,
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody

So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory;
Poor mourning Philomel, what dost thou fear?
Thy sister doth not haunt these fields, Pandion is not here,

Here is no cruel Lord with murderous blade,
No woven web of ****** heraldries,
But mossy dells for roving comrades made,
Warm valleys where the tired student lies
With half-shut book, and many a winding walk
Where rustic lovers stray at eve in happy simple talk.

The harmless rabbit gambols with its young
Across the trampled towing-path, where late
A troop of laughing boys in jostling throng
Cheered with their noisy cries the racing eight;
The gossamer, with ravelled silver threads,
Works at its little loom, and from the dusky red-eaved sheds

Of the lone Farm a flickering light shines out
Where the swinked shepherd drives his bleating flock
Back to their wattled sheep-cotes, a faint shout
Comes from some Oxford boat at Sandford lock,
And starts the moor-hen from the sedgy rill,
And the dim lengthening shadows flit like swallows up the hill.

The heron passes homeward to the mere,
The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,
Gold world by world the silent stars appear,
And like a blossom blown before the breeze
A white moon drifts across the shimmering sky,
Mute arbitress of all thy sad, thy rapturous threnody.

She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,
She knows Endymion is not far away;
’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed
Which has no message of its own to play,
So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,
Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

Ah! the brown bird has ceased:  one exquisite trill
About the sombre woodland seems to cling
Dying in music, else the air is still,
So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing
Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell
Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

And far away across the lengthening wold,
Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,
Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold
Marks the long High Street of the little town,
And warns me to return; I must not wait,
Hark! ’Tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.

Bud of the winter dew on lips grow,
Snowy boughs surrounding began to unfold,
'Spring it shall flower' you must travel along, to see
When she will flower and in her very first glance,
Shall innovate the ether lapis-lazuli sky,
And the glamorous sun in her luminous dews,
She will cast her gaze towards the infinity,
And the veiled spring-night of tender full-moon,
With millions of star thriving, will be reflected upon;
She will whisper to the sleeping morning breeze,
And that will wake dancing the primrose's aroma,
Smoothly waving over the green meadows!

Who will let it be freely, purely, organic!
In whose innovate warm touch shall dissolve,
Poor winter's covering upon the earth,
Hence, once again green earth shall cast,
A glance to its vernal zenana,
Beneath the sunny sky wherein the air,
Shall sniff the aroma of the radiant rose,
And the birds shall tour around,
Singing the song of freedom!

Endure, yet she is beyond the gaze of the sky!
Now a season poor as she has flown away,
Gone to address the assembly of the Angels!
Therefore, accepting an invitation from the fairies,
To have a bath in their lotus-pool, prior to flight.
Hence, delighted fairies all flew to the palace,
To give the news to Queen Mab!

And soon a while after they return,
Around the pool, they greeted and sang,
The spring while she steps into the pool,
They sing and dance, hail the spring:

'The troublesome thorn mingled into itself,
The long ugly arm has collapsed pieces itself,
And the beauty has broken through!
Behold! The shining sun under her shadow!
The beauty by her grace fathomless,
Gorgeous she looks, rosy winsome!
Make all dance her awakening fragrance,
Tenderness she breaths, and caresses the bliss,
With a heart of endless love,
Vivifies the file, pleasant, dynamic!'

Meanwhile, the maid of honour came with the news,
They wanted to hear 'the Houris too shall join them.'
Yet they are flowering themselves alike as they gaze,
Upon the adoring scene of divine, winsome, paragon, fashions,
Impressionist hairs of the Queen of Paradise!
Where lay upon the Throne, and youthful streams,
Flowing, surrounded by, and canopied by the sky
Of glory garnished by the millions of the divine artisans!
There the sun care greatest and offers harvest lights,
And now, she comes to the streams, she shall swim.
Therein the never fading water-lily will please her sight,
She will listen to the divine birds of joyfulness,
Singing the songs of the blissful souls,
In the name of the all praiseworthy,
The perpetual Creator, Allah.
As she will innovate the songs,
And the innovative image of the eternal creations,
Will be bestowed upon the spring and all the houris,
Shall greet the spring as they will pour
Flowery rain over the fairies' pool!

Listen, the angels sing 'Lo, the spring, '
Again and again, as she dives into the fairie's pool,
And dips out up to the earth! See for yourself:
As youthful as ever with the sun shining on her forehead
And the day on her flowers, with her the earth is radiant
Her soil is perfumed, she belongs to paradise!

Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfill Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)

I

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past—they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power—
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that’s gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows—Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow?—What are they?
Creations of the mind?—The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

II

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon’s verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had looked
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers:
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,
Which coloured all his objects;—he had ceased
To live within himself: she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all; upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother—but no more; ’twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;
Herself the solitary scion left
Of a time-honoured race.—It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not—and why?
Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover’s steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

III

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:
Within an antique Oratory stood
The Boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned
His bowed head on his hands and shook, as ’twere
With a convulsion—then rose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The Lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved; she knew—
For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart
Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o’er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed
From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more.

IV

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Couched among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruined walls that had survived the names
Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,
Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumbered around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

V

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love was wed with One
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold!
Upon her face there was a tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which preyed
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.

VI

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The Starlight of his Boyhood;—as he stood
Even at the altar, o’er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock
That in the antique Oratory shook
His ***** in its solitude; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o’er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced—and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reeled around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,
And the remembered chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back
And ****** themselves between him and the light;
What business had they there at such a time?

VII

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love;—Oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others’ sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

VIII

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains; with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues: and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret.—Be it so.

IX

My dream is past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality—the one
To end in madness—both in misery.

Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?

Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..

As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.

If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.

Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.

back to unpoetic realities..

When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.

Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.

Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”  
We’ve grown so much at Yale.

I challenged him
burly ******* captain
stubbled beard as coarse as sandpaper
standing there in muggy dusk
arms akimbo,
mama san starched uniform stained with swagger and sweat

two silver captain's bars ******* any of my brilliance or bravado
all he had to do was speaketh the words
“need those maps, head out at 2230 hours”
and that was a death sentence
which was commuted to life
if four decades since has been life

there are not words for the black
of moonless jungle
except nothingness and paralytic fear
and through that lightless, lifeless, abyssness
I crawled, crouched and crept along
sometimes as slowly as the minute hand on my watch

the silence, the silence, the silence
became my splintered cross
to carry to my place of crucifixion
at my Calvary Hill behind barbed wire, blue lead barrels and
fearful eyes

silence, silence, silence, black wordlessness
black soundlessness
punctuated by shallow precious breaths
and imagined slant-eyed demons
waiting behind each berm
to turn the timeless night into timelessness
of more black

should I chamber a round?
and follow its solitary sound
into the silent holy night
and shatter my own fragile fright?
would that end this knowing without knowing?
and answer the question,
“is this fear worse than the answer?”
since questions have answers but answers have nothing
the nothing of which I was sure I would become a part
in the silence, the silence, the silence
of the black canopied jungle
in Tay Ninh Province
in 1967

where I was sentenced to death but allowed to live
in silent, black wordlessness
sentenced to live
to wonder, after all these years of shivering fright and flickering light
did the captain become a human?
And was I really allowed to live?

over the sunrise views
porpoise-play
and Pagasaean Gulf
with all its blue-white
sun-tanned pleasures

above the summer homes
out of those mesh-canopied beds
past our outdoor showers
dripping with grape-vines and late-morning ***
decadent breakfasts of fresh
half-euro loaves
Käse and Jam
or Gurke-Tomaten Salate
with "Hermes" flying
in our ears
hair and food

over the wake-boarding lessons
the minefields of neon violet-yellow Quallen
beach games
done with a hundred some-odd oracles
the Tractatus
but not the dead seahorse i found  floating before our argument
free from those schedules
the system of sunscreen application
bathroom and kitchen protocol

far from quintilingual fisherboys
the stucco church cartooned with gospel
its old priest grinning with his martial pride and simulated machine-gun fire
away from translating in my sleep
national pride
shame
and culture shock
forgetting that quiet dialogue of judgment
smiling between tourist and local
far from the baklava docks
Gigantes and stuffed peppers
Zorba refrains
swigs of Mythos and Feta

perhaps somewhere like the source of the Plateia spring
   where once the Argonauts had quenched their thirst
past burnt olive trees
past the first line of blazing hills

there
there i sense the fertile green i've always known

O
my gaze drinks the sweaty yield of exploration's calm

breathless
wearing rivulets of long-yearned release

so redolent the shade
in a ravine holding ****** silence

i eagerly descend
and find my eagerness returned
in measured wounds
low lying branches

sparse brambles
crowding soon
see me crouched
and crawling down

as if to judge me worthy of its solace
the leaves of late summer
once blades of moisture
twice as sharp in death
pierce my pressing hands and knees
allow the taste of sweat to sting my path

as if embitterment itself becomes a sweetness
colluding for my darker whims
breaks of thorns enmeshed with trees
gnarled sentinels for raking
joyous stripes of blood
brittle roots eroding into air
to scour off my sunburnt skin
invigorate the tension for my goal

remembrancing the threading cores of shrubline life
i lull into the swoon again
stringing slow sun
in husks of brown
wire gates to consummate a nether craving's peak
choke and lash of myth and love
a penance ecstasied in shade
a fleecing dark i will deny

Lilies in the long grass
wild with tigers, striped orange
under trees, cool canopied
buds of sun blossoming
pretty cats slumber
sleek they dream.

Nights,
twitching whiskery
breathing slow
slinking low
as if to stalk
shock the sallow moon
hunt and growl
purr and prowl
animals whispering
stark the tiger lilies
glistening.

It was a starry night,

I remember the moon was bright.

As I sat in my canopied room

Atop the inn of gloom,

Its musty stench of walls and flesh,

Surrounded by dim light and floors below, strewn

-

At first I was anxious and nervous

About the spectre’s appearance

But something in his presence was calming

Curious as it was, I was longing.

-

He was not ghostly in the way you would think

He was as real looking, enough to drink,

Though it was something in his air and aura

That told me his demise like Gomorrah,

And how he was perished and dead,

And with these rotting words he said

-

“Gaze upon me and listen well,

For your silence I wish you not quell,

My words you will not stir,

You will absorb and then, good sir,

I will reappear as those who’ve been

You yourself and died again,

You are the last and only one,

Upon earth to know this secret done,

You will understand this true confusion

And soon be rid of your delusion.

But I warn there is a painful price,

In cherished aforementioned gift so nice

Of that you will find soon

And your burning soul will croon.

-

My name is High Lord Kellik,

And my touch you’ve already met.

You’ve felt me here before,

I walk with you, ancestor, but more.

I am the first of you in this lone world,

I suffered what once was unfurled.

-

Now know our cryptic secret revealed

Of the same bloodline congealed:

To all of us who are one,

This life is not your only one.

-

I’ve risen again from fallen,

I was in Jerusalem

When my Lord he calleth,

God chose not to follow them.

I was of the Tuetonics,

Though my death was quite ironic,

For they had me drawn for heresy

And quartered for allegedly

Stealing an Arab’s maidenhead

Even though my wife was pregnant then,”

(At this sentence, twas there I noticed,

The chainmail and a cross of lotus,

Betwixt his breast and penance

He seemed holy, even justice.)

“I loved my wife from first gaze through labor,

Twas the last I saw of her, I savored

The love in her eyes when I lost her.

All I wanted was to adore her.

They led me into ‘court’ they said,

Twas to be my own deathbed,

And when they called out all my sins,

Of course I denied, being pious within,

Although my truth they would not have,

I again suffered my brother’s terrible wrath.”

-

I spoke my first words, shaking, unstable,

Asking questions gated in stables,

“Sir, I know my silence is needed,

But I request some answers conceded,

Why did they not trust your pure enough claims,

Brothers, as you said, seeking no gain?”

-

Spake he “I understand your logic,

Twas mine although my brothers were stoic,

You see, it is the terrible price

That I spoke earlier, a wretched vice,

To know the things that we will tell,

You must know the darkest hell,

You must know that you will die

A most gruesome death without comply,

Because we are one, it must happen and then,

You’re born the same, to die again.”

-

I sat silent for a moment and pondered,

I thought of a tree that aimlessly wonders,

About its life serving no purpose,

To grow leaves and die, its only service,

It seemed of me, so pessimistic

To know this life is quite solipsistic.

-

He continued,

-

“Know that I had the easiest death,

The first brother-blade did pierce my chest,

It struck my heart, and I must make amends,

That is why none of us will find love again.

-

I was of the knights most valiant,

My fervor was the most resilient,

Whatever we may ever be,

It is irrelevant, you’ll die like me.”

-

Shocked, I sat in euilibrium,

You’d think it peaceful

But my world was undone,

It forever changed that starry night,

And was only the beginning of my hellish fright.

-

Lord Kellik departed there through my door,

I heard no steps upon the floor,

I thought it odd for plate boots to make,

No sounds on oaken plates of estate…

-

Soon my door was reopened again,

I looked up and gazed at him,

At me, twas now I started to see,

Resemblance in us, for no helmet he wore,

But rather a coat of a Hessian he bore,

He masked the same look I see on myself,

When I’ve been through darkness, my own hell,

The blue eyes like mine, were mine, and hair,

Dark brown, and had a piercing stare,

German accent had he upon conversing,

“Wie gehts? Ich heisse Kryztoff von Gersching,”

“Hallo Kryztoff, mein namme ist Andrew Marheine.”

-

“There is great hate between two factions,

Two worlds, once one, under taken action,

The English came and fought and tried,

The way Americans denied

The rights of those that were first here,

I was hired to broaden their fear.”

-

Surprised at his English,

I also switched,

“Sir, I noticed that your neck is stitched…?”

-

“A wound from battle, the only lucky

Thing that ever happened to me,

But knowing what I do know now,

I would pick severed jugular to doubt.

My unit was captured by a group of guerrilla yanks,

They slaughtered us each unless we joined their ranks,

In this massacre there was no honor,

In sending home bodies, lost sons and fathers,

I steadily refused to be a part,

So they began tearing me apart

Until they then realized

I would gladly be crucified,

That just for that, that I despised,

Each one of them for their “freedom” lies,

Their General King, although respected,

Washington should not have defected.

You see now where democracy has led,

The better off, are the lucky dead.

I see you ask of what I died?

Of what brought about a Hessian’s demise?

The gutless ******* shot me with small cannon

Direct in my stomach, you cannot fathom,

The amount of pain in three long hours…

I wished for death, but not from cowards.”

-

He was proud looking, but not Narcissus,

Battle worn, and quite seditious.

I noticed his sword, the handle notched,

For every inch of life he’d squashed

Like a child’s boot to an ant hill.

This man died alone and still.

-

He spoke once more

-

“You have been blessed with knowledge and wrought,

You though will be turned to naught,

The pain you’ll be in, too much to endure,

Your arteries pumping blood to the floor,

We know not how you will die,

But painful be it, no chance to survive.

Because, like us, you have no one here,

Like us, not missed, no tragic dear,

Your name be forgotten until

The next of us lives to see us fill.”

-

He exited without another word,

I found it quaint, unlike the herd,

I strove to be different, I suspect I’ve succeeded,

After all, who knew their death, and believed it?

-

Wondering if I would again be visited

Or if my passed lives were but two limited,

I also thought of how they appeared…

I could not recall how the first had veered,

Or why they ventured to me and told

Me of their stories that would make hearts cold

Stuck with this thought, another come forth,

From my wooden frame of door,

His brilliant armor, black with silver,

Across his back, a sheathe and quiver,

He looked at me, and I again saw myself,

And again saw another me been felled,

“Hello,” I said “won’t you come in?”

“Obliged,” spake he “see what lies therein.

-

He began,

-

“Young man, you know not missing your home,

But I come from the brightest years of Rome,

Although I knew only Coliseum

I hoped my soul be with Ellysium,

I was a slave in the rich man’s bloodsport,

And the crowd, they cheered for more and more,

To live every day knowing you must fight,

Can bring great depression to one’s very life,

Caesar said I could in time be free,

I fell my last fight, suffering,

The anguish that flowed through me at then,

Was not of physical harm, but when,

My bowels were visible on the ground,

All I could feel was loss never found,

I swore allegiance to men never met,

And all it brought was discontent.

Never think twice about an act,

It could save your life until this pact,

Although you will die, nameless forever,

Know that even the smallest endeavor,

Will not change this predestination,

This marvelous melancholy is Hades’ invention,

We will not wake until we’ve slept,

The eternal slumber, and mourner’s have wept,

About a loss that is so profound,

Until they forget why the feelings endowed,

Are the enemy to their own happiness,

They then know not of what ‘revolting’ is.”

-

This nameless man stood up and gazed,

Outside of my withered window pane,

His eyes lightened and looked ever broken,

And I could see a man who’s life and freedom were stolen,

If ever I had wanted to cry in confrontation

It would’ve been at his lamentation,

But I bit my tongue and held back from that,

Although he noticed with eyes like a cat,

He smiled at me, I smiled at me,

And it was then that he began to proceed,

Out of my door, and out of my eyes,

I thought about my ending surprise.

I now knew death was not to be,

An old man while I was in my sleep,

But rather a darker, gruesome end,

Perhaps lacerations from within,

And as this trickled across my brain,

I could swear to God I went insane,

I sat in my room for weeks despaired,

Tasting nothing except the stale air,

and then one day it finally clicked,

That life is what it is, a foul ******* trick.

.
Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfil Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea Nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)

I took a nice long walk,
and had a very nice talk
went down my  driveway
past old man pickles...
wearing old flannels and boots,
tipping his John Deere cap
relying on his cane in vain
down to the edge of everything
to my  favorite secluded path
just past familiar borders,
where a mossy stone fox
and 2 giant maple trees
guard her entrance
down laden paths of brick red
and burning orange
...I press on,
woodland creatures
scurrying & hurrying about
no doubt getting ready
for Old Man Winter visiting

As a chubby squirrel
sits happy and thankful
for the crumbs I laid down
I give the eager fox a pat
on the head,
thanking him and asking my charge

Agreeing to the terms,
signing a waiver
traveling deep in the woods
to a glen  
with a canopied
ceiling of golden mustard,
greeted by an eager ******
cutting wood
Past the foggy bog
and past his favored log
at last I hear the croaking frog

Where I suddenly
saw some very interesting
....looking people
they are obviously not from here,
  I'd say,
I know these woods well
they brought a pet,
we've never met
but a wonderful way
to meet and greet
thank you guardians of the forest

"Adorable dog"  
my hand reaching from my side...
smiling at the newcomers
and to my critter friends

"Oh, my ...he looks just like a giant
toasted marshmallow,
so perfectly groomed,
a very beautiful animal,
so curious he is"
I compliment the hound

The gentleman was just that
Said how friendly he is
Brought him right over, for a pat

Of course, me...
I get down on one knee
talking to the furry fellow
'bout the crooning drops of yellow
communicating
he looks in my eyes,
& past my disguise
and sits,
patiently,
gracious and thankful
for the new friend
and bidding adieu
to some old,
but not forgotten acquaintances
"We understand one another"
I chuckle warmly...

The two ladies looking on
in seeming horror
& utter disbelief
so I think, anyway...
that I'm gonna get *****
doing such a thing?

That is until she blurts out
unable to restrain herself
seeing her lips fumble with thoughts
"Interesting get-up you have on"

I ponder the comment,
not wanting to say anything just yet,
I squint my eyes to see her face
then I look at her & quietly say

"Likewise my lady, interesting indeed"
the gentleman smirking at me
giving a wink, perhaps
hoping she doesn't  notice
then she goes on to say...

"That shirt, is...
perfect, I love the natural look
such quaint embroidery"

I again ponder,
speaking,
with a thoughtful reply & a sigh
"Quaint, by definition,
meaning...
old-fashioned, charming, sweet, picturesque?
Or more like bizzare
unique, offbeat & unconventional?
Then I agree, all of those are fine compliments, my Grandmother,
a Native American...
hand stitched this beautiful piece,
colors of Fall
I am just like Vermont & this place"
I laugh low for a second...
admirin' the trees clapping happily

She stared at me
with a puzzled face
one, I'm sure I won't soon replace...

The gentleman now smiling
into his discomfort,
when the other, lady pipes in...

"Your Grandmother, you don't say?
well... I suppose if you take it away
that tattered old sweatshirt over it,
those faded blue corduroy pants...
& those shoes....I just can't..."

Now I'm getting,
a tad bit irritated
though amusing still
remembering the goal
to help those weary souls
I look off to the side,
staring in one direction...
gaining insight
still thinking,
... the second lady chiming in

"Yes, so true..has potential,
how much for the shirt dearie?
It might be worth something"
... urging the other gal on

As the gentleman
steps back in disbelief
I'd imagine anyway,
not uttering a sound now

Now my one eye,
the left one is twitching
I look at her, I stare on,
as her mind I'm bewitching
keep on looking at the stitching
as I call out my Grandma,
to tell me exactly
...what to say,

"Anyway, thank you, I think.
I happen to love everything I'm wearing, especially these shoes.
You know what they say about walking a mile in someone else's?
I might consider loaning them to you if I knew you better, except the thing is,
like this place, like this land ...
and people are never supposed
to be for sale, this piece of history,
the weaving of my family ...
is not for sale either,
for any price each stitch in time
is priceless, so I am sorry,
but no deal ma'am.
Hope you enjoy this beautiful place, thinking yes,
by the look on your face?"

Befuddled and speechless...
the gentleman finally speaking,

"Oh, I think she means that this place is so interesting and amazing.
We probably should get going, get some lunch.
Very nice to meet you though."
The brushoff?
a nervous calm falling over

Humphhhh..

A good idea and distraction
as they hem and haw  
about being "famished"
I offer...

"Famished?
Can't have that.
You mean to say,
you went all this way,
and you didn't squirrel something
to eat
in that ***** pack?

Pulling out a yummy sandwich
slinging a worn backpack,

"I have drinks in there too,
lovely lemonade & some nuts,
dark chocolates even.
Perhaps some things in there
I forgot about, best not to venture out
into these woods with nothing.

"Here you go, take this,
I won't take no for an answer"

Stunned and stupefied she just reaches out and humbly replies
"Thank you, I think?"

I smile and say
"You are most welcome,
thank my Grandmother
and thank you for coming,
enjoy your stay"
I wave them on

"How do I thank her dear girl?
  Is she still with us?"

Now I am quiet
I look to the heavily
opening in the trees
"look and you will see"
I point upward reaching
my hands are teaching
drawings in slow motion
as the trees open to the sky
colors gradate and radiate
a red tailed hawk comes by
the largest one I know
completely in awe they are,
as I slip off...

Something whispered under breath,
"Can you believe that?
Where'd she come from anyway"

Then,
looking in the bag,
he reaches in opening
the sandwich
and bites...
chewing on goodness

"Oh, wow, this is amazing,
this is just delicious,
everything you could want, try it"

the man offering to the ladies

Unable to resist a satisfying nibble, tempted by fate, they take a bite,
"your absolutely right"
she declares...
"and such a lovely lady she is"

"Hey where'd she go?"

"Why, I don't know..."

"Gone like a wisp,
you can tell she is deeply rooted
in this place and such a
beautiful place it is"

they see eye to eye

"With so many valuable lessons
to learn along this yellow wooded path"
as they all agree,
satisfied with their journey
eager to push on...

"Did she mean that bird is a spirit?
Her Grandmother?
Maybe she is a ghost too?"
They are definately wondering...

"So true and I'm kinda of full,
  how about you?"
He states, poignantly adding
"Let's try some of that chocolate"
sampling the lemonade
and roasted nuts
topped off with that sweetness
tasting the menu of sharing

From  behind the tree
where I'm sitting
I have a VERY big smile covering
  that clever, wily face

Knowing I'm not seen
letting out a giggle  
as they turn in wonder
I know the secrets of this place
all its words
and where
it echoes

the loudest.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

I

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door
  A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
  Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
  Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o’er;
  Far off the noises of the world retreat;
  The loud vociferations of the street
  Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
  And leave my burden at this minster gate,
  Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
  To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
  While the eternal ages watch and wait.

II

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
  This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves
  Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves
  Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!
  But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves
  Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,
  And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!
Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
  What exultations trampling on despair,
  What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
  Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
  This mediæval miracle of song!

III

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom
  Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
  And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.
  The air is filled with some unknown perfume;
The congregation of the dead make room
  For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;
  Like rooks that haunt Ravenna’s groves of pine
  The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.
From the confessionals I hear arise
  Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
  And lamentations from the crypts below;
And then a voice celestial that begins
  With the pathetic words, “Although your sins
  As scarlet be,” and ends with “as the snow.”

IV

With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,
  She stands before thee, who so long ago
  Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe
  From which thy song and all its splendors came;
And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,
  The ice about thy heart melts as the snow
  On mountain heights, and in swift overflow
  Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.
Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,
  As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,
  Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;
Lethe and Eunoë—the remembered dream
  And the forgotten sorrow—bring at last
  That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.

V

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze
  With forms of Saints and holy men who died,
  Here martyred and hereafter glorified;
  And the great Rose upon its leaves displays
Christ’s Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,
  With splendor upon splendor multiplied;
  And Beatrice again at Dante’s side
  No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise.
And then the ***** sounds, and unseen choirs
  Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love
  And benedictions of the Holy Ghost;
And the melodious bells among the spires
  O’er all the house-tops and through heaven above
  Proclaim the elevation of the Host!

VI

O star of morning and of liberty!
  O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines
  Above the darkness of the Apennines,
  Forerunner of the day that is to be!
The voices of the city and the sea,
  The voices of the mountains and the pines,
  Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines
  Are footpaths for the thought of Italy!
Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,
  Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,
  As of a mighty wind, and men devout,
Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,
  In their own language hear thy wondrous word,
  And many are amazed and many doubt.

Singing honey    sucrose stream
Tidy shelving snug underneath
Nestled neatly inter-wing
Feather down cream

Mothers stroking cradle   rocks
A thousand balls of foam spill
Softly avalanche and bury
Pure angels in snow    hands

Petal sky smeared casual
Walks warmly sweetly
Silken fur raises brow
    At       the coming

Lily padded velvet pawed
Strong slender limbs graceful dancing
The Supple strength
Holds a breath for dawn

Long stalks arch backs
Purring release modesty
Pure unction weeps    complete
Smooth shell face washed in milk

A banner sail widened arms
Outstretched for breeze’s kiss
A wishing penny glides
Through water falling   leaf

Mallow clouds woolen sheep
Dandelion umbrellas    borne away
Slowly sinking Sun dyes autumn
Watercolour cascades melt

Thinly  delicately   imagined
Fragile world Mary’s peace
Doll dependent doting
Soul canopied sanctuary

Silence **speaks

It's been years since I have visited your grave.
It's been years since the last time I cried your wake.
It's been a long time and I missed the love you gave.
How I wish that tears won't fall if I step on your coffin and break.

In your silent sanctuary that only God can hear, I knelt down and pray.
In your silent sanctuary that silence canopied the wide open cemetery,
I release my anger, pain, hatred and agony.
In your silent sanctuary where you saw me sobbing silently,
I have no fear expressing my emotions wholeheartedly.

In your silent sanctuary, I found peace and prolonged harmony...

Everyday I'm trying so hard to like my favorite things for reasons having nothing to do with you.


Today when I decided to drive on the meandering border of Walloon Lake,
Wildwood Harbor rd,
     The canopied trees
     flashing shadows of squirrels peaking through paws
reminded me of every motorcycle ride I accompanied you on.

     Holding tight to your chiseled stomach,
     hands cupping your belly button through your sweatshirt pockets,
you would maneuver your mobile machinery through every dip and dive,
garnishing curves with streamline, flawless breaking and acceleration.
       I would lean into your spine,
  imagining the path of your lower back as the map of our road ahead,
each bump and curvature a flawless representation of reality,
  the living moment.

Something sensual existed about the way you and I forged a relationship on pavement,
  riding the asphalt the same way your bending fingers rode my thighs.
     And every time I choose to drive our road with my less than aerodynamic Marquis,
each stomach flip from the unsuspected slopes
   transports me to lazy mornings-
         Naked and alone in any way imaginable.
    Purity and solitude,
truth, the end of it.

So I turned onto M-75
              trying to forget every reason that I love Wildwood Harbor for you,
                            and only remember the reasons I love it for me,
                                           but couldn't find any worthy of space.
                                           You made everything so memorable.

can we go swimming in
Argentina already,
and fill our hair with knots and ocean salt?

can we walk swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?

can we drink coconut water in
beer bottles,
and drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?

i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,

and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.

Smell of last rain still not dried on their bark
They stand skyward taller somber and dark
I part the sodden grass to see if there’s a mark
Of the autumn’s trail when I last walked the park!

Does it still survive there the hushed canopied shade
Where sweet nothings were whispered commitments made
Dreams grew like wild grass and then in despair bled
As time ripped the woven words made them a barren glade!

Do they still come there in two lover’s timeless face
Sit on the wooden bench embraced in sculpted grace
For in those summer noons they hadn’t an address
Except in the labyrinth of heart a misty priceless place!

Can I still find them the two heads drawing close
Looking bonded for eternity breathing from one nose
Never making it but never timeworn forever new
In the pursuit of autumn’s trail the duo of me and you!

Smell of last rain still not dried on their bark
They bough over the couples in foliage green dark
For years will breeze past but they’ll make their mark
When they choose to hold hand and walk into the park!

Tonight, the morose melodies
hummed by our silence will remind
us of our hearts' ambivalence.

Tonight, the moonlight rays
refracted by canopied leaves,
that leave  broken shadows  

showered along this pavement,
are ears that will hear the mellow  
whispers of yesteryear.  Not even

our fated fears from  captivity of  
time and oblivion could deter us.
Because tonight, one thing is certain,

love will never leave us...

The ten commandments say nothing,
in the translations I’ve read,
against coveting my neighbor’s good
fortune,
timing,
intentions,
sense of style,
or the countless other intangibles
gifted by Nature
and our DNA's mischievous inventions.

I’m a strict constructionist,
when it suits me, and especially so
with documents carved in stone
by invisible hands
having no recorded fondness for the market.

I’d trade places with any nameless witch
caught cavorting in her coven’s canopied oases,
their cauldron-ringing capers
and care-free cackles cheered
by owl hoots and cricket song;

Or the smallish, self-sacrificing spider
who rather than a cigarette gets a close-up
view of his mate’s spinnerets dispensing
the silk sheets to wrap him
as a happy meal deferred.

I also envy their creepy hatchlings
who weeks later will climb to the tip-tops
of firry fingers, cast a single wistful thread
and wait for the wish-fulfilling wind
to carry them lifetimes away.

That’s how I could stiff this chill
that taps me on the shoulder, and chase
after a far-off warmth I’ve weened
since my weaning was done.

I count these covets no sins.

Cupid’s ***** must be candy hearts and colored cards
His rough night must end in heaving twisted over the toilet bowl, boxes of chocolates and caramels dumping into its porcelain chamber
Naked, he probably limps into his canopied room
Pulling shut the purple curtains, climbing heavily into his bed of roses
Head throbbing, beautiful blonde curls drenched in sweat
Waking up soaked in fallen tears; flower petals

It's near to midnight,
and the work week fright,
so let's last-raise our glass,
and be upstanding,
let the words of
sleep-steeped prose of
a younger poet
rest our heads,
leading us to wander
off to sleep,
where we meet and greet
our poems borning
in their rawest form:


*can we walk
swaying like the tide,
along the damp, moon-lit breast of the beach
and fill the empty bottles in our clenched fingers
with lavender and red ocher,
a pallet of dawn
reflecting off glass?

can we...
drape ourselves in hanging hammocks under a
wide eyed sky?

i only want to listen to the distant roar
of water attacking sand,
like soft, silk whispers in a
salt canopied bed,
crickets chirping through the night time
warmth,

and tropical, sleeping
breath
slowly unleashed.

Your childhood plaything
Became your clone  

You traded crayons for
Your mother’s lipstick

Children’s fairy tales for
****** romance paperbacks

Your room’s rose wallpaper is
Canopied with Audrey Hepburn posters

At night, you braided your hair
For those sophisticated waves

You ****** on lemons
To perfect your pout, and

Brushed with baking soda
To bleach your teeth

Your envy: the doll’s porcelain skin—
Not too unlike the seat cover

You clutched after meals,
To keep the spirit clean.

Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted.  My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.  
                                                 At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary.  As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.

.
Hiking in a musty wood,
A path is laid in mulch and fern,
Dark and canopied, rung evergreen
And deciduously rooted.  My one goal
Set to plateau, reach of hilltop meadow,
Others had told me, lay a pond in the sky,
Was there to experience a peek, where tall
Grasses and dry luster of flowers wild, sang
In highland clearings of golden lace and tarn,
Set with sun to fly and by sharing the long ocean
Straights, beyond the wildest, white horned mountains
Of the moody pacific and with eyes casted once more of
Youth, after sanded sleep and then to steep in wandering
Cloud, as eagles, robed in light and gleems of night, drift,
Careening wistful and free as running dream or simply roam
A foot as the wise, bearded, mountain goats sure and snowy
As they ruminate and forage.  
                                                 At elevated breaking point,
Of storied, pristine clearing, a smoking, lone marmot knotted                          
His voice in plead and alarm as I was about to breach,
As brigand, the sun clad forbidden, citadel unbidden,
Home of pious souls, of cerulean still waters, intact
Peace, untrampled sanctuary.  As made, that day,
Unwashed interloper, I gazed through threshold
Ends of trees and respectfully circled,
Reverent in spectacle and joy,
Back, down, earthwards.

Amperage of connections fallen out and lost
No carnival party to revive.
Ashore astronomical beholders vision,
A needle through the rich man's eye!!!!
Camilla scents,
Canopied distinguished in canistered tents.......
Century carols confine the interstate mind!!!
Circulation is impatient wherein clots block chloroform vine's....
Wed-lock intensifiers waiteth to be fed,
Trapped,
Packed,
Chained to their beds....

Hath thou lost thyself yet???

And the forest was silent again…

Splintering shadows creep slowly
across the overgrown footpath
frantic fingers slivering in sinister shapes

Slumbering moon beams cloaked,
abaft of a stately oaken veil,
a canopied thorn and branch woven tapestry

Wallowed whispers cling to cavernous winds
pushing chinaberry stalkers deep
under the cover of moss coated roots

When suddenly…

          Underbrush fantasies flourish
          behind vine wreathed curtains,
          on fallen leaf stages of assorted colors

          Foot light fireflies trim the edges
          in panoramic illuminations,
          flickering to tickle every fancy

          Fairies perform pirouettes on tippy toes
          Glistening wings flutter, shimmering to the
          melodic sounds of hedgehog harmonies

          As bullfrog baritones and spider web sopranos,
          sing the sweetest songs in the key of autumn
          bringing smiles to all of the creatures in attendance

When suddenly…

Far away on the eastern horizon
the faintest specklings of amber appear
slipping through the densest drapes

A great horned owl yawns and blinks,
gazing eyes follow the turning head
as he surveys another day in his life

Sounds of scurrying, bristled brush
echo through now glowing limbs
signaling the end of the evening

And the forest is silent again…

i do everything i can to feel alive. i’ve ran until my knees felt weak. i’ve jumped into the cold ocean waters. i’ve gotten high. i’ve gone on the wildest of roller coasters. i’ve canopied before. i’ve eaten crazy spicy foods. i breathed. and i don’t know how to explain. i think it’s just all the headaches, sleepless nights, and lies i’ve told. i think it's just all the times i’ve cried and tried to die. maybe that overcomes the things i’ve done to forget time. maybe that overcomes the cheer of when the sun rises in the sky and the wind that caresses the trees under the bright moonlight.

meaningful in its meaningless:
windows rolled down
nightair canopied outstretched
fingers
memorized streets flushed with
the transience of our
itching notions

we spoke of the seemingly surreal future
getting out of this red, square place
and slipping into a big city blissfully
unnoticed

words became arbitrary
as we pulled into the driveway
kicked back our seats
cried defiantly
            the pending beauty
            the potential tragedy
            the growth spurt still
quivering in  muscle spasms


Clarity:
the world holds more for us

On brown earth and fields of clovers,
a glade has grown to be.
Its cool breeze and green leaves
offer peace and solace to me.

Spears of sun pierce through the shade
and paint the thirsty wood.
Its tendriled veins writhe and stretch,
beneath a canopied hood.

Atop the ferns a parascope rises
swaying back and forth.
It moves to the left, it moves to the right,
and then I hear a snort.

My dog eared friend brings to me,
a long and pointed gift.
But such a prize is recognized
to leave just as quick.

The air is filled with warbeled songs
from treetops far and near.
But an incessant buzz cuts like unkindness
and comes to fill my ear.

I see it plain above my zenith,
a machine of flying plastic.
Its rotors spin in four successions,
it floats and moves - stochastic.

This hovering sentinel watches all
with a tiny gazing eye.
But who's to gain, learn, intrigue,
by spying from the other side?

From up so far a world so small:
he sees himself a king.
Out of dangers, out of touch,
to him no harm can bring.

And though he thinks that he remains
concealed, secure, untracked.
He does not know, below the grove,
I am staring back.

We walked two miles through July wheat fields
that undulated  beneath Sunday morning sun
like golden swans.

The pond was glacier stone smooth, and canopied
by silver maple and swamp oak; willows lined
the  banks.

Miriam unfastened her hair, tossed her blouse
over my shoulders,  kicked her cut-offs
toward the boat’s bow,

and dove.

Nature’s lessons
Drift among the distant hills of Texas call the blue bells from sleep
Remember youthful play to far away amidst the mist with gray to weep
Clear the eyes by today’s joys see the river endlessly meander enter the flow
Never a heart as livened by the blustering wind release your heart let it go
Deepest longing when nature is observed clouded sky blades of grass sigh
Walk with bare feet delight sensual connection with spine among tender shoots
Hills ever roll lower lands expand to the morning sun in these common rays are its roots
The butterfly’s wings brings a carefree silkiness in tiniest span painted in miniature still spell bounding
Was the soul before in a fix trouble wide seemingly to high follow with the eye the bird’s joyful sounding?
The trees stand in a blessed grove canopied sheltering arms holds you with tendrils most tender
In this shady soft light you can find rest and comfort all is ease here you can have your heart free just surrender
In this we conclude by scenes of rapture we have loved and together we have tasted earthen glory
By minds in concert we have purged evils vale arrested mystical truths and with great thrill we share the story
Not everyone will go on this quest to define and know each other in innocence it makes for a rare find
The key that opens the door is discovery the door is patience the way ever opens by love and trust ever will the two bind

as the dews touch my skin
silence canopied the evergreen
butterflies are lifted up
like when he held me with his arms
i saw my sorrow float in the water
carried away by the river
then the rabbit walked in
calm as the stream
below our feet
i took a dip and felt my body rejuvenate

and those huge rocks
the love we roved is written
in the first season
how could i forget
the ******* explosion
and the bliss
when two cosmic bodies collide