Caught between two planes of existence, slumbers promise a far of lie, lost within the realms of my dreams all fingers, eyes, smiles and presence, held captive within your essence as spectres draw me from my sleep fingers cold dragging, pulling gasping as touch becomes real and I am awake, in the darkness of eternity, caught between the two planes of existence, again and again and again you are there, waiting for me to dream…. again and again and again they are there waiting to pull me from my love.
They’re Catholic, does that matter? I say it like it does, like the cross in their window bears their souls, but where was God when she fell? Some people spill love from their pores in caring smiles and mindful nods. Her twinkle near most left that day, and for a moment I saw doubt in his eyes. He looks like St Nicholas, smiles like an old pirate and looks at his wife as though he has found the grail, I suspect he has. I suspect unbeknown to him, them, all of us, he has found that which is more holy, more powerful and more beautiful than any other earthly matter. Their love is different. The passion comes in his early morning jolts to the allotment, the way he stops at the corner looks back and waves like a mad man drowning at sea, anything to see that twinkle in his gals eye. She aged, over night, but her beauty never faded and her belief never drained. She smiles now with those sparkly blue eyes lined with tears as she hobbles past on his arm, the broken hip a memory of the past that remains in her gait, him in cut of shorts, a baggy office shirt buttoned up high and white spangly legs… They’re catholic, devout, they go to my church that I pretend to forget to attend and as I sit beneath the muted blues of an evening sky and watch him wander by I wonder. They’re Catholic. Does it matter?
I envy them, him, their love has a pureness seen only in the final pages of old dusty fairytale books, each kiss I believe renders them immortal, spells dispersed and magic created in the enchanted presence of such a love as theirs. Such a simple existence, a moments kiss and passion fills their auras spilling outward, exploding into the melancholy day and yet, a kiss filled with so much desire and not an iota of indecency, as though they are God’s angels, as though their love is blessed by the heavens and coveted in white feathers. They speak with their eyes, knowing glances that say, ‘ill be back soon my love, but in these seconds without you, know only this, I exist for you, for you.’ I envy them, him, her, I envy them.
This is an observational poem on a couple I see almost daily, in the latter part of their lives now they still love each other with a pure depth, she stands at the gate waving till he’s at the end of the road, where he gives her one last wave before he turns the corner… It’s a beautiful thing to watch.
We are all broken fragments of hope, scattered tirelessly through times path across linear dimensions weaving through planes of existence here upon Terra. Poor ageing Terra.
Then Gaia kissed life into us, the skin was her canvas and the scars the colours as Mother painted energy between the deep rivets adding gentle brush strokes of silent hues and vivid screams of life.
Her paints run low now, her waters are dry, the air dirty, her creation is decaying, compromised, the canvas rotting…
At hours past when lingers only twilight, The owl, my companion guards my nights His call an ancient song of remembrance a message from Selene of transcendence. Among the vast emptiness of life the tangible moment between seeing and sight when eyes closed I hear, I see I know, The universal energy at perfect flow Alone, is that moment, when voices I hear, closed eyes and faces so near. I’m told it is a gift to see and hear and feel, It is an existence all too real and when I say I think you… then know you are, you will, you do… For we are just energy… And I have a front row seat for the show for that is my reality.
The wakened sight of the blind burning rigidity into fluidity through lucidity of mind. A made up story of upon a times, the damsel, the Princess, the Queen and her tarts. The owl is wise at twilight, the flea upon a beggar, the mouse, he creeps, he crawls he squeals yet sees it all. But alas, his tail is a noose, the farmers wife got loose upon offer of a truce. You see, its all a Grim type tale, blood and guts, deceit and glory just another virtual story. Gone now is the hole, The rabbit and Alice Dreams have become pixels, Princes… Pixels Kings… Pixels Promises… Pixelated fantasies, Imaginary realities King Ego ruling the roost the awakened state the new fairytale truth.
… I find it still lurking, that broken fragment at my core. A moralistic demise speckled in broken shards. It is me, an intrinsic scar on my soul. The reflection of my own self belief that can only be bandaged with plasters of lust, not love, kissed with lips of desire, not love… A primal need for a primal scar perhaps…
…but what happens when love comes wrapped in primal kisses. When every bite of carnal sin tastes of ancient love. When every word is a stroke, every syllable is a kiss, every pause… … A thrust of liberated ownership…
… What happens then to the scars of my past, etched within the dark recess of my soul.
blossomsworld 