Magical Melodies

Our Muses,  one by one, with no excuses become faint and are swallowd up by the ether.  Two by two,     we see what was and what will be.   Those two sets of footprints, washed away in time. Overlapping sentiments.  The tired rain,  cries.  The memory however,  like stranded leaves,  just out of reach.  A mom,  gives  birth to a brother or sister.  Something else to lose.

And with the ice,  the solid c0ld, and the snow, remain inert.  Frosty prologues with a cutting fog, stares back at us.  Fondly remembering. We cannot remember the song,  but we remember the words.  Like dangling participles and a candy cane on a tree.  The smell of cookies and ginger bread and the twinkling lights,  we pine for evergeen,  under a mistletoe and stolen kisses with the taste of pink reveries.  Childhood never dies in our prime, nor in the future on a bed of pillows.   Make this season be, with poetic  flames,  spreading the best of times,  the fragrance of beginnings, and the exit, with purity reestablished.

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Amber & Tanzanite

We can only do, what we have done.   Truth born out on the terraces overlooking the ocean.   Cameras blink in Kodachrome flashes, pretty little women with sunshine and sashes.   The peacocks utterly arrayed, time for amorous clashes when the night is still young.  Amber warmth and Tanzanite dream,   the sultry shower of gentle touches,  for me is lost in the dull, dark crevice.  Gold and silver and a gawdy  necklace,  the latter seemingly to be, entirely feckless.    Twins angels, soft to one’s touch,  with tiny raindrops pinging on our arms.   Is that pure love,  in the soft flutter of butterfly wings?   All the honey as an enticement,  darkens.  Promises reneged upon and writs of notice,  like confetti,  are now, a stainless brow.  From Rice to Cynicism and Jake from State Farm,  now insidious, irreversible.

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I heard… my Lord speak, past the Charlatans.

I heard the loud gossip.   The unremitting implacable voice that bled tyranny  without a purpose.   The dangling nuances floated like dandelion leaves weaving themselves intricately in the still practically still air.   Soon the caterwauling traversed the Ivy walls and permeated a culture.   The perceived sin was a stain and the accuser with a letter opener divulging it’s contents with savage alacrity.

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Pretty soon more bees appeared humming innuendo in consonance,  breeding a fomenting tide.   The woodchucks were building a dam to a pent up rage.   Finding philosophy,  clarifying perceptions and sustaining the crackling whip.

Now the tide’s foams where churning,  this mass moving forward in soliloquy followed by a sneeze.  The steady hum of ceiling fans and the bubbling cauldrons of digestion echoing about.   Terse abeyance with the clicking clock,  this momentary lapse in a long and counterproductive day.

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The victim’s penance was not enough!   The dirty closet was for later and now just the poison of a sting,  it’s arrow embedded in the heart.   The poor Butterfly felt dizzy and the drawing of the curtain too much.  This Monarch was unseated,  it’s clefted speech unrecognizable.   There really was no sustaining sin or the need for such whippings for the Antlers of the accuser gored with reckless glee.

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White linen appeared,  as a Praying Mantis praying her sublime ode with perfume and the perfunctory slap of heavenly quiet.   Reckoning not with shackles but a compromised self-image,  the progression of a pendulum,   striking the atavistic cheek with a dose of reality.  The Victim like the Swan apoplectic at it’s good fortune,   humbly then cast aside the hurt in favor of a favorable outlook.   Exonerated and unimpeachable joyfulness like the bells of a church chattering.

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To a pastoral scene within a dream of Tanzanite Blue and the shifting sands of time to a reverence and the hand of God looking kindly, prodding,  reassuring.   You are safe,  feel the cascading waterfalls wash away ordinary blame…    Resolved…..

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I felt… Oh oh feelings!!!

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Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings – always darker, emptier and simpler.

Friedrich Nietzsche

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I felt but what was I feeling?

Were my perceptions of myself,  perceptions or guesses?

Were my guesses literal?

Or were my literal cognitions but fanciful dreams in a pick pocket’s hands?

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Were those hands ruddy or smooth?

Were those acts of sleight of hand cumbersome or like velvet?

Was it crushed velvet or a simulation,

like a Cubic Zirconia kind of Diamond?

And can a diamond be a friend

or can a CZ be one too?

So what if I feel.

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Was it a feeling  that I felt or a summation of feelings.

Feelings so elusive like water through ones fingers.

Fingers that rob and yet feed.

Fed by greed or by the perception of a job?

Does sustenance legitimize theft

when appreciation was only a fleeting consideration

of what I felt? A glimmer of what could have been?

Or more likely a clever ruse to conceal?

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Depression

Oh Very Young…. We love as we pass.

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Perpetual Autumn leaves must fall,  the inexorable push against the seasons affect us,  one and everyone.   From Terry Cloth to Mr. Clean,  we can fix most things if we really want.   Those memories like the multi-colored leaves of each season have not perished,  they have changed form like the lines on our faces.    We are not vexed by circumstance nor are we really cheated.   Our sentience,  our journeys, with the cascading highs and the lowest of lows,  these are milestones not millstones.   Interrogations of self-awareness,  floating like tinsel in song and in prose.

To my 1974 classmates.   The pretty blonde is older than us.   Be of good cheer! Bless you all!!!

We have traded the wind for flight.  We walk less suredly but we walk none-the-less.   The fingerprints of our lives,   immutable and distinguishable,  yet that is not the totality of our essence.   That is not what makes one unique because we are born constantly,  born in altered states.   We learn to be humane by embracing humanity,  learning the crush of mother nature,  yields to us gems of exquisite taste and discovery.

The laughter of a merry grandparent,  the inexplicable statements uttered from the lips of infants.    The boulder that is a footstool and the wash….  perpetuity of reconciled grace.   Goodness is a stanchion, a rock of it’s own.    Buttressed by the hum of a bee delivering nectar,  a butterfly exhibition or a savant,  relishing  chords before him or her.

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Even our sweat culled in diligence and purged by the vapors before,  the scene clears as we let go of preconceptions.   The delineations between self-aggrandizement and the muck and mire we consider self-gratifying.

The sheer beauty of a waterfall and all around it the greens of sustenance and rapturous good looks.    Fairies are born here and muses gush from Geisers to outerspace.   Indivisible worlds so feint,  yet thriving with the same energy like rippling muscles and gravity waves.

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We are bound to create or at least appreciate the dunder and the spate of good fortune that follows even the least fortunate.    Our awarenesses are platforms which we climb,  and amber a testimony of a moment in time.   We are time and outside of it.   Our brains synaptic marvels beyond the ken of most,  save for the shards of inspiration that are spiritual and sublime.    The Higgs particle in each of us embodies the spectacle of complexity and awesome sighs of a groaning mountain,  suffused with energy,  kissed by providential bursts of warmth.

In a soup kitchen lies the answers,  and beauty misinterpreted.    The old server with a smile on her face and the broken hand accepting a penance.   NOT a handout per se,  but charity upon charity,  hope balancing out inequity.

A time of cleansing, a spiritual parthenon way upon a hill.   The caste system stemming from a dandelion and the blowing tumbleweed that seems to have no function.   It is the burst of creation without cognizance and steel forged by the very same benevolence.   Be benevolent.

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Mary Pratt and all that.

Mary Pratt was a fine lass

who had all the accoutrements

one could desire.

To  a colt the dressage was a bit much,

the bows and pretense too.

But as the sands began to filter through

the aperture narrowed and began to coalesce.

It was time to reassess this whole emotional mess.

Now the clock struck ten P.M. far too soon

and clearing throats resounded,

this adventure to another day

another time.

Old Mary now still waits,

hurry horse,  no time yet to imagine.

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Humpty Dumpty fell on a pillow. My daughter’s rebirth.

Her loss was my story and collective guilt,  though I doubt it could have been written any other way.   The threads of our lives were  caught in a whirlwind spinning outward. With so many pages left unturned.

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Her life once existed as a mere thread, hinging upon other stories and other outcomes.    Fortunately grace was rendered in a quick thaw as the gathering cold was about to re-enter our lives.

The days now hung before us, as upon an icy fog;  it weighed us down and closed around us.   Shrouding secrets unknown and unbearable.  Now only memories challenged our dreams,  and painful new beginnings.    It was hard to know where we stood.

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No time to consider,  less time to love

Where did it go, these feelings and these thoughts.

The smell of a baby and the touch of compassion.

 

My daughter came and went into a smoldering sadness and by an act of Providence or natural destiny flowered into something special once again.   I remember her tears as much as her words and the knowledge that some things cannot be undone.

Regardless,  the convergence of our lives were manifest destiny and the whims of a mother could not permanently divide.

 

She grew to realize that the lies were silly and I didn’t need to infer,  rather Rachel was blessed both in name and in spirit.     Her experiences gave her light in the darkness and I doted upon her.   We filled in as many blanks as we could and the answers met expectations as seamlessly as possible.

And about that time,  was a movie that I had watched.  A father and daughter separated by adversity and reunited in love.   A father’s love is priceless.   This I know now but I also know that a gentle hand brings favor.

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The few moments I had in ‘88,   was like the black and white memories of an old show.  And at the moment of pitched blackness,  came the heralding of fulfillment.

 

Those few moments were like tiny seeds that fell deep into rich  soil and their maturity assured their health and their closure.  Both hers and then mine.

 

Life is sooooo good….