Sweet to your lips , the nectar of the stars for we are in our bodies because of earthy souls that gaze into a reflective pool higher than the veil of day to pierce to the stars , till evening rest upon our weary bones and we take these stars as sweet nectar filling in what modern distraction has eroded away .
Train horn deeply awakes this evening,
this mind theaters like a picture book,
inside pictures roll slowly reeling, turn like a toy kaleidoscope.
Bare tones root tendrils deep, while an evening is
rising to the audience of stars.
There is a creamy smoothness around.
along side my moon shadow stirs,
silently and kindred is love, this dark aroma of night.
I saw pictures curve from a bend of a page,
inside frozen for a second and captured forever,
there the jaguar caught pacing inside a cage.
Three pelicans remembered by the shore
waiting for a California rain.
It is this moonlight stillness waxing shadow,
Opening a pouch, seeing contents spill from fingertips, to earth thankful that each flake glistens,
We are touched by the light of the moon.
A breath of smoke drifts always upward,
like the mirror of a rock wiggling through the shallow water finding bottom.
Somewhere between a surface reflecting.
And now a memory of the train horn
stretching like this milky moonlight,
under a dome of stars.
Stillness becomes a dream rendered,
twined soft the silk cocoon of memories.
evocative pulse lingers lucid pulsing within a dream,
peeling the crisp outside apart, inside warmness wet, emerging silkily from the chrysalis of sleep.
here this crespucular soul learned to last,
tides ebb then spill upon starry shore,
fore sunlight becomes nights breath,
Diurnal arch reaching the stars.
” Fireflies don’t know they exist till after the night sparkles. ” her thought rendered mine. With a whiling gaze, she took to the horizon dreamed.
As the dawn peeled nocturnal the skin of dreams,
kindness felt before love adorned the scent of whispers,
feline names graced this life,
cats gazing with moon,
dreaming of a saucer of cream.
Panthers took me deeper,
into the tide of a swirling night,
It took forever becoming the catch,
a static ebb tide,
Suspended in the between,
A being rippling into the ocean of dream.
Scry again another,
night fills a sky starry, this gaze of kindred constellations beckoning under a sky that dreams earth.
the firefly pulling close tasting my breath,
gaze into the shore pooling with stars,
this capsule of night is swallowed whole.
Entering as a Jaguar quenching,
Lucid dream, which fireflies dreamed,
they exist like Jaguars beneath a canopy of stars.
New edit 3-11-17
It was in the sky, always above. Seems so that the beauty moves across the sky so far away. Even some times my eyes don’t see the galactic fireflies we on earth call comets. Then when one shows up there and is predicted, it pulls on the memories of another far away place. A time when no one living today was there. so we have images written about. Images etched on new tapestries which today someone figured out the squiggly object on the wall rug is a comet. The behind the Great Wall, Chinese Seers collided a parchment or glazed a vase of jade.
It was in the skies last night , way far away like human understanding, a kindred love of sharing and someone far away awoke on a hill top or in a cubicle in a skyscraper remembering this dream.
2 – 11 – 17
That which remains was here before you were born.
The fur that held your beating heart, remains on the earth from a nocturnal snack that once rippled through the golden meadow,
upon the ground, what remains has always been that space between.
It’s just the memory that puzzle held together, no border no edge. The shape between , being eaten inside then regurgitated again back like a whirlpool the soft fur-skin given back to where she came from.
Curves running in circular motion
That which remains was here before I
A shape out of the corner of my eye
A contour between inhabited space
That which once you walked through
Inhabited between like trees or mountains
The spaces where clouds reign ń storms decide
Remains my memory an aboriginal truth,
The myths of dreaming night skies, embers of fire surrounded by a ring of river stones loft and merge with the stars. That which remains Living between the clusters of stars, dream time kept that space between alive, into beings before you were born.
The anima between the clusters of stars,
dreamed living under obsidian sky.
That which remains was here before you were born.
That skin which held your soul was dreamed like the rippling waves given life from the wind, evoking that which remains between.
2 – 2 -2017 –
I drown myself in a creative thought
a strive to blend colours without a muddy outcome
to write a clear vision, yet swim with a long breath to surface again.
To breath in the rain that wets my soul
as if I am the only one under a sky.
Then turn around within the glow of an opaline moon and fall into a smile of another’s stillness.
Serenity of raindrops, serene ringing of an eternal bell. Floating as it seems forever under a moving sky.
Waiting for the stars that wait for the atmosphere dissipating into another change.
As this evening sky opened the mouth of the other side,
there so evenly sliced floating much as another dream swallowed by stillness.
Who drew this new moon to this shore,
blew an earthly breath of surprise, an evening light from another realm piercing through another side, where in this sight that cupped Orion’s Belt, beckons past with prescient now this porcelain phosphor sliver moon.
Like a clean shaven hermit conjuring, widening float parting of a mouth, it is but a new moon drawn by light, like the curve of a birds body in flight, for here a moment transports a whisper of thought, playing a forgotten pattern, whiling turn of this earth gently kisses lower into horizon, heart beats give a thought surrendered,
Oh yes there in the west again so red, a crimson mars king wished to scry the mirrored crescent bowl, casting ripples entering moist into the mouth of light. Vesper drew the new moon to this shore with an earthly breath, a surprise of evening light.
Have you ever collected the surface of water into your palms ? Held cupped while droplets fall strobing inside sunlight streaming though this canopy of trees.
Light and shadow, your thirst filled reflection rippling.
Were centuries held in this liquid memory bringing this moment?
Was this Sun caught inside the bowl of your hands with the glint from each water droplet sounding to earth.
Was it curiosity that landed upon Mars finding an ancient stream bed holding stones smoothed?
Or the deep reflection inside your round coffee cup waking the jaguar inside your obsidian reflection of your emerald eyes being lifted to your lips.
May be as another dream your mind cupped ,
lapping beside the shore as another anima of memory .
Gazing into the future ten thousand years ago .
Watching giant clouds move across the surface of a larger pool,
herds of creamy colours migration slowly setting a stillness of pace.
She quenches her thirst surrounded in reflection,
a canopy of nature as thoughts long ago, never spoken .
She purrs contentment filling deeply a memory,
a glimmer opens upon a ripple ,
of a familiar beasts reflection inside an obsidian bowl.
Dreaming inside a canopy strange.
Linear time, like a chrysalis, holds the body until the rhythm of nature beckons, emerging into collective consciousness .
What gives the spiritual meaning, is inspiring another through being . That place when the magicians table is in a balance. A collage of consciousness with cyclically found objects . Patterns of colouration expressive of anima. A reflective inhalation igniting your mind, body and heart. This gallery of living, finding objects that speak, exploring until that final piece brought to your eye fits. With all the other shapes, like a puzzle, mercurial, nurtured to fulfill your interpretation of gift, of life; a transmutation. I can reflect to my earliest memory the magical meetings that gave intent a harmonic ripple. A tingling of balance, that place between, when you know you disappear into an object you are painting or a shape you are carving, or an alphabet you are arranging into a verse that captures the sense of being part of this earthy existence.
That living trance