The lobelia is dying. Its tiny bluish-purple
blossoms curling inward as though they are
giving up, the stems slack, lifeless. It seems
depressed.

She would ask if there is anything
she could do—but it’s a plant—and she doesn’t
speak the language of plants.

She bends down, takes the lax stems in her
hand and holds them the way she holds the hand
of the elderly woman she cares for when they
have run out of words left to share.

She’s new to this. She has not been fully
responsible for another living thing in many years.

There was once her dogs that she finally had to
surrender that time when she was in California
and wasn’t sure whether she was going to admit
herself into a psychiatric hospital or take a last walk
half-way across the San Lorenzo Bridge.

And there were her sons, whom she left behind on
two occasions because she was going mad in
Massachusetts. When the pressure had grown
too great and her resources too thin, she fled to
California to get away from it all—and both times
discovered she’d brought all her problems with her.

The last time was her Road to Damascus. She
found the dharma at a local meditation center and
brought it back with her. Minus a few difficult hurdles,
she has been equanimous ever since.

She looks at this once resplendent lobelia drooping over
the side of the planter on her deck next to the pansies, so full
of themselves, and the indifferent alyssum, and she wonders
if she can help it live. Or—if not—can she help it die?

has striking blue blooms
for asthma and bronchitis
lobelia blooms

there is a door....
eight weathered, slats of wood.
each slat, about four inches wide.

the door has,
in it's upper-right quadrant,  
a small, face sized window,
with,a pale,dove-blue curtain.

this door, has been painted
purple,
the colour, difficult to describe,
tho, reminiscent of shades of
carbon paper, or gentian violet....
deep, vibrant, solid, regal,
intriguing....

the path, which leads to the
door,
is gently curved, across the lawn.

blocked sandstone,
in a mix of large and small stone,
the colours of,
clotted cream and aged parchment paper.
and on either side,
a mix of, blue lobelia and  
happy faced purple pansies.

the door handle is bronze.
large and ornate
and on closer inspection,
is in the form of a mermaid.

the letter slot, etched with
seashells and starfish

at my feet, inscribed into
the top step...
"those who don't believe,
in magic,
will....
.....never find it."* R.Dahl.

and next to this door,
set into the wall.
an exact replica, of what i have just described,
only, nine inches tall

do not know,
who lives,
behind this door....
but i am, so going to find out.

i sit and breathe
the world, becoming
shapeless
and i float
left to a whisper
scents of lobelia- soft
thoughts of you
like pressed flowers
between the pages of mind
beautifully preserved,
dead,
nonetheless

Chrysanthemum fuschia marigold lobelia begonia hibiscus frangipani poppy

                                Some unnamed wildflower
By the side of a mountain path
In the rain

Smelt once
Never forgotten

And wild garlic plucked in
Fevered hunger

O god

I need your
Earthly connection with
Color and narcissistic
Flour-

Manna from heaven

FLY ME TO THE MOON

a *****'s cough
the Atlantic breaths in...out
'Ahhh....' sighs Memory '...you've come back

a riot
of lobelia
the butterflies go wild

shoebox
Men's Size 9 now
old love letters

Blood trails on the mossed Greek cheeks
The Memories' eternal catch but a wink in the cemeteries
My hands are made of spider webs,
Mine own heart, of shards
Fly, away they fly blue and white butterflies

A wine glass rolls in my hand, in my red lips.
Here stands Mona Lisa in my ethel funeral,
My abode so criminal: black leaves,
wrinkled lake, and dusted music box

A haunted castle in my spectral soul has
A marble floor extending its arms
To the mosaic of stained glass made
Of old apparitions

I, hopelessly romantic
Under the arch of an inscrutable moon gate
My clandestine tears on love letters
Stained with times and cherry wine

My rose is my wand so shy
Spellbound together like a parchment of decree
To the concaving world for a long farewell
Anonymous me! A man without pedigree

By the ruins of far nymphaeum, where
A garden of sculptures echoes underwater,
Where lost dwellers sleep of inarticulate tears,
I submerge like a goddess who lost her firstborn

On the cliffside where lobelia blooms
Wait I motionlessly amid the gyre of speeding seasons  
Hidden like burnt legends of gods
Like a page in the Library of Divine