Like drizzled honey
the sun through the treetops
paints my face in golden warmth
my thoughts drift to you
and the tall ships in Beaufort Harbor
their sails aglow
etched in shadows
cast by their riggings
and the masts of adjacent ships
you commented how the patterns
reminded you
of abstract charcoal sketches
the artist in you
always interpreting your world
sunshine made radiant your gentle face
your emerald eyes fired to a sparkle
squinting in the rays
your smile
brighter than the sun that day
I stared captivated
watching your eyes dance
among the docks and ships
that unfolded like a still life before us
watching your coral lips
sculpt your words
wishing the moment
would last forever
not knowing
how soon it would not
could not
did not
this morning
my memories
amble sweetly
back through time
I find solace
in this cuddled sunlight
knowing it warms you
as you rest
peacefully
in the sun-drenched meadow
where last I closed
your beautiful emerald eyes
The bones of my wonder
of my stumbled tumbled dreams
are spilled from my soul box
in which I’ve collected
the scarred and damaged pieces
of my broken hopes
wonders trapped within
a box within more boxes
hope so deeply buried
helplessly interred
but — must not abandon wonder
must not abandon love
love is sealed within
the boxes of my wonder
locked inside my heart
lost in the rubble
of years of broken promise
yet — I will find it again
~ Lesley Duncan is the woman who wrote this beautiful song above. I personally hear it, not about romantic love, but humankind’s higher love for each other — the love that will foster and insure peace and understanding on the planet… wouldn’t that be truly amazing. It has never happened before globally. What a worthwhile miracle to pursue. Here below, Nick Lowe asks a simple but profound question, one that needs be asked. ~
“W hat do you mean”, Gwen implores, the strain obvious in her weary voice, “who has taken Derek — and why?” The thought overwhelms her. She feels the grip of exhausting panic.
Turning from Zack, she walks to the moonlit window, listening to the waves crash far below. Deflated, she stares resigned. Pinprick flickers sparkle the night sky. “What does it matter? That the stars we see are already dead is a given. I pray not so for Derek.”
Trying to understand the events that brought her to this place in time, her head is spinning. She feels fatigue deep in her bones.
“Too many mysteries to unravel right now,” mumbling to herself, “better in the morning.” Her left arm drops, right hand squeezes the mysterious note that has triggered her distress. She stumbles across the room, collapses on her bed, and begins to quietly cry.
an old man with a flower — sits on a bench
marveling at the petals — feeling drained
the dream faded of a would-be spaceman
mysteries of the universe — unexplained
his body bent by the weight of worry
he reflects in the stars — feels pained
wondering if everything he let get lost
was really worth what it was he gained
True wilderness
is an integral part of my soul
first etched into my essence
by my adoptive father in 1951
I was four-years-old
I discovered this bliss
deep in the Canadian forests
two weeks every year
immersed in the beauty of Ontario
exploring remote lakes
traversing wild streams
fishing
hiking
camping
totally off the grid
no phones
no TV
no electricity
it was glorious
but for me
my xanadu
lay at the end
of a long exciting journey
on water
from Lehman’s Landing
the little provisions station
where we put in our boat
to begin the journey
they also sold gas
kerosene
block ice
food staples
and basic medical supplies
this was the last outpost
that could be reached by car
after 3 hours from Espanola
on primitive Ontario forest road
mostly sand an gravel
hard packed into the Canadian soil
by years of loggers and fisherman
the water journey involved portaging
and careful hand-poling
I loved the adventure of it
as did my dad
portaging a chain of pristine lakes
poling through boulder strewn narrows
to reach a beloved destination
the small private island
my father co-owned
with a wonderful Canadian family
the Disanti’s
rising on that island
was in my eyes
a magical chateau
an amazing wilderness cabin
hand-built of self-cut logs
the home and hearth
that will forever
hold a precious part
of my fragile heart
inside its pine log walls
stacked
notched
and pegged walls
a huge wood-burning stove
black iron and bold
with imposing strong legs
powerfully flexed and arched
lifting the mass in steady grip
it was the warm heart
of the love-filled cabin
it cooked the fish we caught
and small game dad hunted
in the wild forests
just across the crystal clear
glacier cold lake
stoked with kindling
and hand-split logs
collected in the forests
thick across the lake
big black also generously
offered the enveloping caress
and impeccable comfort of its warmth
a small hand-hewn log
and sawdust ice house
was nestled conveniently out back
hand-built to sustain perishable foods
it was fresh stocked each week
large ice blocks
retrieved in a 6-hour round trip
to and from Lehman’s Landing
two hand-built log & plank docks
one each side of our island
made access and egress effortless
for these provision runs
which included food and fuel
in addition to the block ice
the granite island itself
a bit under an acre in size
was covered in tufts of scrub grass
bracken fern
black rock and warrior moss
and wild ground-cluster blueberries
also, the remaining stand of white pine
mostly felled to build the cabin
and a small lawn of Kentucky bluegrass
imported to grace the front porch
pure glacial drinking/cooking water
came right out of the lake
waking up to meet the sunrise
found the cozy cabin
falling into a Canadian morning chill
the sound of lake loons
echoing across the water
through the morning mist
the smell of bacon
eggs and potatoes
beginning to permeate
the warming cabin
were intoxicating
these are treasured memories
memories of the place
that endure
that live
and will forever live
in my heart
as does the precious memory
of my beloved adoptive father
who introduced me
as a child
to this wild
beautiful
exhilarating
paradise
The burst of cherry blossoms outside my window, always heralds an uplift in my mood. Their bright blooms bring a lightness to my spirit, that puts a smile in my heart. Their delicate countenance speaks to me of peace and gentle beauty, while the heady fragrance stirs thoughts and feelings of love.
They deliver me from the doldrums of winter into the joys of the unfolding spring, celebrating renewal and new possibility. The time of cherry blossoms is a sacred time of transcendence, to be honored and embraced with gratitude, for the blessing of rebirth. May this stricken world find rekindled hope.
sweet pink blossoms burst
red spring buds have spread their wings
my heart is reborn
Ottavo Rima As nightmares emerge in dark midnight hours
the weakest among us, withdraws and cowers
we forfeit our pride, and wilt like dead flowers
as the chill settles ‘round us we lose our nerve
it’s then our lesser self, we begin to serve
blackness deflates us, the night noise grates us,
our hidden ghost of guilt, haunts and berates us
we’re certain a gothic demon awaits us
but with a bit of courage, backbone and guts
we might find some peace in our breakfast grape-nuts
U nfurling linearity
accumulating into the future
tethered to a uniform past
paralyzed in the now
over and over
repeating in my head
these same odd words
this same strange vision
a visual drone
over and over
unfurling linearity
accumulating into the future
tethered to a uniform past
paralyzed in the now
always the same fevered dream
this inflexible fear
I am fallen paralyzed
unable to lift my head
then I see coming
ever coming
falling slowly
out of the mist
drifting down
always coming
menacingly
unsmiling
faces
coming down
I want to rise up
run at them
scream at them
shake them
but I cannot
I cannot
then a low drone
a haunting chorus of voices
I’m going
going mad I think
then I scream out
in my smothering nightmare
“I’m going mad
absolutely mad!”
suddenly
in voiced unison
“yes Asimo
you are going mad”
“Asimo” I shout back
“my name is not Asimo”
then comes again
the unified voice
a disembodied voice “oh, but we are all Asimo now”
“no” I cry out
“please go away
leave me alone
what do you want!”
“want?
why — you Asimo…
we want you”
“I think you’re all crazy”
in my dream
my head’s tilted back
angrily shouting
“no no Asimo, you are — thinking?
there’s no thinking —
just being comfortably tethered…
tethered to our uniform past
safe in our rigid now
unfurling into our linear future”
The old man sat quietly
day after day
hands resting on his knees
day after day
hardly moving
save to rouse
raise his hands
brush his brow
then adjust his cap
day after day
quietly
on the same park bench
at the pond
near the same tree
same willow
you could watch him come
mid-morning
see him leave
at dinner time
day after day
sitting there
hands on his knees
quietly
same bench
same tree
one evening
as he sat there
I left my office
walked across the street
into the park
I approached him
smiled
and sat down beside him
quietly
he said nothing
so we sat together
for a while
quietly
on the bench
by the tree
finally
I spoke up
why do you sit here
old man
sit here
everyday
day after day
here on this bench
watching the pond
so quietly
he tilts his head I’ve come here for years
he says softly
but how can that be
I say these office buildings
this park
they’re all new
how could you have come
to this park
for years
not to this park
he says not to this park
to this tree
me
and all my friends
came to willow pond
to this tree
this old willow
for years
day after day
why
I ask why to this tree
quiet smile we played cards
in its shade
he explains
we talked
laughed
we listened
at the pond
in its wonderful shade
day after day
this wonderful willow
where are your friends
I ask why are they not here
with you
on the bench
because
…he hesitates
they are gone
he says finally
quietly
gone
gone where
gone
is all he says
quietly
unmoving
hands on his knees all gone
oh
I say I see
do you
he replies
so why do you sit here
day after day
asking more
I’m listening
listening
I say listening for what
he sits quietly for a while
then
without changing his gaze
without raising his hands
from his knees
he says haltingly for our laughter
our beautiful laughter
I still hear it
hear them
here
on the breeze
in this willow
The old man sat quietly
day after day
hands resting on his knees
day after day
hardly moving …musing
save to rouse
raise his hands
brush his brow
then adjust his cap …catnap
day after day
quietly
on the same park bench
at the pond
near the same tree
same willow …below
you could watch him come
mid-morning …mourning
see him leave
at dinner time …resigned
day after day
sitting there
hands on his knees
quietly
same bench
same tree …he
one evening
as he sat there
I left my office
walked across the street
into the park …dark
I approached him
smiled
and sat down beside him
quietly …expectantly
he said nothing
so we sat together
for a while
quietly
on the bench
by the tree …comradery
finally
I spoke up …interrupt
why do you sit here
old man
sit here
everyday
day after day
here on this bench
watching the pond
so quietly…sullenly
he tilts his head I’ve come here for years
he says softly …calmly
but how can that be
I say these office buildings
this park
they’re all reasonably new
how could you have come
to this park
for years…unclear
not to this park
he says not to this park
to this tree…explicitly
me
and all my friends
came to willow pond
to this tree
this old willow
for years
day after day…pray
why
I ask why to this tree…quizzically
quiet smile we played cards
in its shade
he explains …pertains
we talked
laughed
we listened
at the pond
in its wonderful shade
day after day
this wonderful willow…mellow
where are your friends
I ask why are they not here
with you
on the bench…ma’mensch
because
…he hesitates they are gone
he says finally
quietly …sadly
gone
gone where…share
gone
is all he says
quietly
unmoving
hands on his knees all gone…withdrawn
oh
I say I see…sympathy
do you
he replies …scrutinize
so why do you sit here
day after day
I’m asking …basking
I’m listening…wishing
listening
I say listening for what…jump-cut
he sits quietly for a while
then
without changing his gaze
without raising his hands
from his knees
he says haltingly for our laughter
our beautiful laughter…everafter
I still hear it
hear them
here
on the breeze
in this willow…hello-hello
Original DDE™ surrealistic art: “Tall Ships” by: rob kistner © 4/11/24
