Surfers like seals dot the ocean
Out in this swell, the salt laden pull
Anchors me in the wide bay
As the sand smooth as silk
Trails the briny tide.

I look back against the sun sparkled shore
As the footprints of my truth follow me
As I stand watching the waves break
And fall, their grey veined song echoes through me

And I feel complete now here at this
Otherworldy edge, the bold striped pebbles
Sit at my feet as unspoken words
More truths as yet to be undiscovered
Green dancing journeys  stretch out amongst the waves
And this solitary happiness resounds silently across the Bay.

The culmination of the battle,
Between salty and sour,
Peppered to perfection.
The sweetness of caramelized onions,
The tickling aroma of browned garlic,
In a beautiful confetti of scallions.
Warm and tender meat,
Drenched in an otherworldy sauce,
Bursting with umami and flavor.
A product of love and spices,
Filling both our bellies and hearts,
It never fails to remind me of home.
But mom, you see,
In all these years, I've come to know,
Of all your versions of Adobo,
The best ones are made,
When you share it with me.

you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
saving up your love for a rainy year,
scrounging and saving every fleeting smile and shallow kiss and
miserly, hunched over with the weight of your own suffering and despair,
each scrapped-together pile of crumpled-from-your-pockets shreds of I.O.U.s and featherlight touches.
too afraid to leap and risk, you'll never grow or invest your affections into the stocks of Lisa and George LLC, or Francis and Kelly Inc.
so your love is bound to crumble into fragile dust, the fruits of your labours withering into mouldy piles of seed, stem, and flesh.
the could-have-been and might-have-grown dying, before even living to flourish and erupt into glorious blooms of the strikingly ethereal and otherworldy.
but not for you, not ever for you.
you're the boxspring billionaire of feel-good
and you'll burn before planting your love.

Beneath its angry peering orange light,
The sprawling noisome city in the night
Reflects upon a setting quarter moon
Her shrouded secret-veiling wisps of spume.

There plays out on this otherworldy stage
A fable tale plain made for any age:
There are two planes of interpassing cloud
The dark, the light thereon presented proud.

The dark at most obscure the moon complete,
Less dense are dancers’ masks, deception sweet;
The mackerel bank at verge a clear seen bound,
No smirch upon her face its line beyond.

The light alone’s thin veil hides not her face
Aglow with stolen yellow of Sun’s grace,
But when the dark appear even and sparse
Its lining silver shines in filigree bars.

For us below, moons set and rise again;
Towards the set of our long day of pain
No ache without remembering joyful love,
The dark and light together ever thought of.

414 days since my unworthy eyes
Were granted the sight
Of your otherworldly grace.
A drop of honey down our throats,
My voice becoming yours,
Yours becoming mine.
Your hands were pale and divine,
Fingernails like beautiful talons:
Capable of pain
Yet used with such gentility.
I have never seen so many flaws
That I love so dearly.
Kissable lips,
Bloodied and quivering,
Illuminated by streetlights.
You want my heart
But I ask for it back.
A man of chivalry,
Your quiet intentions confuse me,
And I can’t stand the sight of your
Butterfly eyelashes
And nervous mumblings.
You are so capable of tearing me apart
And I want you to,
But you won’t.
Countless doubts between us,
You could argue my declaration
Of your angelic being,
But you won’t.
You are hidden smiles
And anxious hands
And an otherworldy grace I am unlikely
To ever see again.

dusty white bars rule my life
i am a simple peasant
who was destined
to be a great and beautiful queen
to touch a rose bud and watch it bloom into
a red found only in the purest of hearts

a few months ago i saw some of my blood
oozing out of the imperfect forearm of a fallen royal

harsh lines of magical evil
talk to me as the days melt away
the screams are so loud now that

i live in the void
here there is nothing

i once had a crown
waiting for me
a glimpse of otherworldy sunshine

but tonight the sky is black
i am starting to think my blood is too
soon i will peel back my skin and see

In the dead of night; a strange noise.    Is it though?



tic tic



It seems so in sleep, while on awakening feel around to find the room is home.

Remember the water pipes bang next door and he is a farmer who leaves early; he notes I have a lamp lit always; the last eleven years or so.



Works on the hill behind; would have lived there if he finished the house. The foundations stand still.

He came once looking orderly for the village funeral, and i said no one would notice the mismatch. He had not far to go.



Look to the window and recognise the light that slants across the graveyard, the neat

beech hedge, the company.



Lifting the pillows behind me  listen and wonder if the wild ones are at the door again.

All was  locked well last night, they are too small to intrude.



I guess it is the plumbing again, the thought of experience. We feel safe here in this precarious life.



Listening, another note, the beams moving, the house settling back. Rhythms of time remind us of the fragility of all things.

Moving forward always there come other notations that bring  feelings, the Agnes Dei opens wounds and fears flood with salt.

Cantata Memoria

tick tick tick tick

Night here is filled with fairy lights, the garden comes differing with otherworldy

beings

The night is not dead ever. All small things are moving creeping; even me now. Awake

I find to think, remember and write. The noise is so many words.



tack tack tack tack







clicking

sounds distant

if the window is open.

The hissing is continuous

&

I dreamed  it all in metaphors.



During the day comes the noise of industry from the old toilet block sold

now, owned privately. Making a place with a little garden, the sound of fence posts

being erected. There will be much discussion in the village, while we stay quiet here

and  listen to the noises.



Daytime, night time, tic tic









A strange noise? I don’t think so.



All is natural, easy unless our brains say otherwise with chemicals, peptides and fear. We are fortunate to live in this place where no bombs will take us.

I like to think about hot water to make everything clean. The wild ones smell better this time of year without bathing.



The  strange noise could be these four hundred words?

The voiceless shores of Ancient Greece
If we are constituting heroes in Greek mythology
Tiresias what do you saidst the will of Zeus
One, the one hath been blessed
Like the music in my ears
That who doubt my prophecy
Worldly truths tell of a boy of otherworldy strength
Nether broad, but, pure
Hera burns in red blush as her eyebrows furrow
The sin is complete and so is the milky way
Where the divine milk hath flown
Iphicles may cry a plenty tears
The charioteer Iolaus is born from the split
As bright as the azure complexion of the sea
Heracles runs like the blue skies, now
The wind fastens him and his power
Two snakes may fast approach their demise
The day fast approaches when his virtues outlive the vice
A broken lyre abrogates his penance towards music
A golden apple rests on Megara's tunic
The daughter of King Creon in Thebes
But the God yields to anger of his ego
As this lover faces her happiness endeth
Heracles rests and pursues the Nemean lion
First of his hard labors under Eurystheus' scion
Proceed the Lernaedan Hydra of immense spine
Two for one and a head for all
Twice ahead and none shall fall
As the final call, Hera sends the mightiest of them all
Iolaus aids in the downfall
A captor may miss the Golden Hind Of Artemis
Buttressed arrows shall never lose or run amiss
Heracles runs as the wind does, however, carries some abuse
It eluded him a year till vast effuse
The pavilion was set on trust quite ostensibe
To conquer every existing monster
In this primordial nature
The Erymanthian boar, who dare deny
The world was ruled by forests once
There were lances as Pholus took his chances
A gift from Bacchus held the balances
Often, the strength of such wine needed tempering
The hero of the peregrination asked for him to open his cask
The wine attracted centaurs far and wide
The divide made the labor a slightly precarious task
Many of the centaurs died from the arrows
The teacher of Achilles' took them in
His name was Chiron
He was the wisest of them all
As well as civil
Poseidon is beguiled to rage and cavil
As Hera reconciles with her child after many, many years
Developing a fond kinship with love to attest to
Heracles also lost to Dionysus in a drinking contest
One may say the voices are still heard
From the remnants of Heracles apotheosis
Came a soul worthy of Mount Olympus told by sages
And lovers that existed and stood the tests
Illud erat vivere
The embers of the golden summer spent in joy
Burnt out with the sacking of Troy

Pastel fingers were shaping circles
On the white porcelain wall,
depitcting with them moments incoming and gone
Palms - foreign and unknown are imaging
Otherworldy shores on her.
Ah, you, pagan gods,
hardly will ever get see her star ices
You will never hear the songs,
telling about the colors of her body.

Pastel eyes saw
in her other distant worlds,
while his hands were drawing
in these circles:
waterfalls and around them
low with flower meadows,
and deers passing by through,
high-light palette of feelings by the sun warmth...
Was him an artist without a name,
Or a colourfull writer?
Or completely destroyed by the smell
of the peonies blossomed in her, dreamer?