Rachel in Joplin

Last Loyalty Lost

I followed familiar footpaths
to find her this last time
this once more
this only
this
last
loss
last loyalty
last casualty
last cost
last call
of the grail
of the ark
of the Gospel
of the heart
of the greatest of my signs
and the bruising of my shins
of the fern beds in the pines
the sadist and the sins
of the thirst for this elixir
and seduction on the wind
of the shapes that still define her
all familiar, take me in
take me in
take me in
take me
one
last
time.

After three days

Dome of the Rotunda of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem.  KG Tidball.

After three days

the world was fixed 

in an orbit

from which it cannot

escape.

Bon Iver - Towers (Official Music Video) from Bon Iver on Vimeo.

Abandoned

strange assemblage
wheels, backseats and radios
lost utility

fleeting glimpses
absent, coming, going
a few moments more

ball dresses falling
float into heaps on the floor
disrobing Autumn

The Spoils of Silently Watching

Arising before dawn in ritual pursuit
aware of austerity, sharp, acute
a chill that has settled
and defines for a time
the spoils of silently watching.

As the hoary frost on crimson leaves
succumbs to the center,
succumbs to the sun
as ice becomes rain
and the dew is undone
and the bluest of blue
frames vivid prisms spun
of the thread of a love
fleetingly grasped
desperately held
and quickly lapsed
into seeking again
into hoping for when
that moment will lend
less furtively.

Retiring at dusk from the ritual pursuit
aware of austerity, dulled but astute
exhaustion has settled
and defines for a time
the spoils of silently watching.

The moment I said it

Chasse

Sleeping, sluggish, a dormant desire

is drawn from the dog days of summer-

as the front is unfolded

the summer defrocked

I return from a lazy warm slumber.

And the creak of the hasp

and the shake of the aspen

spark dreams of October fire.

And the velvet glance

and the cyclic dance

an alluring chance to conspire.

Rising, alert, an ancient urge

springs forth from a change in the weather

it will not relent

breathing deeply the scent

of the chase and the blood stained tether.

Night swimming

Night swimming
and I am towing
a boat.
Night swimming
and I am pulling
a rope.
Hauling
hauling
hauling
a hope.

I am kicking
I am paddling
I lose myself in the darkness
feigning calm
for the hopes
of the passengers
on the boat.

We are far from the island
far from our shores
there are hours
and fathoms
and whole dreams
to go.

I hear them singing
hear them chanting
"we are the pirates
who don't do anything"
and I choke at the irony
and on warm weedy water
and I swim
with a rope
and a boat.

Becalmed.
She died.
Dead in the water.
I can stop swimming
by entering the boat.
But the boat is not
where the boat is to be
so is less useful
to the destination
less desirable to me.

And they're in.
And I'm out.
and they're chanting
and I shout
"an hour or so more"
as the dawn takes its form
and the skin on my feet
is blistered and worn
from fins and conveyances
to overcome forms
of the body, resistance
and I have been here for years
night swimming
with a boat
and a rope.

I'm in here

dry shrinking soils

clusters collapse into cracks

drought in the vineyard

beguiling allure

shameless in too short summers

Moccasin flower

I hear your echo.

Awaiting your next preening call

I lie motionless.

Lioness, Lioness

Lioness, lioness bring all to swift right

lioness, lioness strike surely tonight.

And you

have

crumbled

acquiesced

caved in

to triage traps

let down the furling freedoms

and retreated with taps

where the trick

is to try

not to look

like a spy

or a trite

little trollop

or tramp.

And the message

is garbled

by gambit

or goad.

And the cypher

is cracked

with camp

or code.

And if only the comments

and the deft smirks and nods

could escape the shake-downs

and stamps and jihads...

Frisked, frowning, fucked by the scrutinous

followed, failed, felled by the mutinous

tickers, talkers, tellers of truth

rickety, crotchety, stealers of youth

who insist on a sin and a stain on your virtue

for writing and writhing in stills that won't hurt you

in springs and in flings and in rings like a hearse

hewn in hackneyed hickory shag verse.

Wigwam, a womb, a warm place pleading psalm

where a body lies still to be christened, embalmed...

internment I wait, and wait, for a tourniquet

reeling, risking, rollicking, riveted.

Please stop the bleeding and tell me its you

please stop the hiding and tell me what's true.

Lioness, lioness bring all to swift right

lioness, lioness strike surely tonight.

yield and embrace

lilacs like love-making

intoxicating

40 & counting

The chorus, the chorus
and the pregnant air
brings me back to tall places
to a promenade bare
of promise or purpose
or pretense or price
or penny royal tea
or pixies enticed
by the prospect of plucking
fireflies from ice
or possibilities of kissing
the rune-stone twice
but full, so full
of a flickering hope
that a breeze will blow
you to our elope
our elixir
the fixtures
of pagan ropes
that bind and bind
and forbids a Pope
from fashioning edicts
and obstructing the twine
from tying the unions
too long let unwind
unwound, unwooed
let slip down a slope
where the best to be done
is stack memories to grope
but we age and wither
and the time passes by
and we know, but vaguely
that the hour is nigh
for a fleeting duvet
for a last foray
for one more flicker
for the bats to obey
to the glades of our glories
to the desire of the day
yet we hide, as imprisoned
better angels at bay
and the question lingers
will we be once again
can we see once again
how to taste what has been?

Iceblink Luck