The Flyaway Moon

Night falls. Nothing seems broken. Nothing has changed that anyone can see. 

Walls stand. A ceiling stretches across the branches of petrified trees. 

Bulbed lights leashed to rafters obediently switch places with the stars, the moon, 

and fall with the downcast eyes of betrayal upon the polished floor.

Old women in stiff soles the black robes laced upon their bare feet when they were young  

tilt buckets, bend to scrub the marble tiles - shallow tombs upon the dust where drums 

once beat when their bare feet ground the earth - and pretend to let no memories rise. 

Muttered whispers pour from their mouths.

The Triple-eyed-face, third eye turned inward, sits at the table peering, 

shuffling through his favorite thought. He collects a few hands, a few eyes, 

a few hearts, and tosses them in. When they're gone he draws a few more.

The old women collect in a corner, spinning. Hands keep spinning, spinning, 

reaching for the moon. It's just old women. No one notices.

Old men sit against walls of blackened out stars, blue smoke from pipes toked 

curls a tattoo across their palms. Another memory rises, another reach, another moon.

A bow is drawn, a string glides across the underbelly of a wave. The piano 

sails in from another continent. A reed descends solo footed onto the tiles. 

Young bodies, rigid in black cloth stitched against the looseness of their joy, stride

with well placed steps between the pools of light cast down upon the polished floor. 

This is a sophisticated dance. No one sings. 

The old men drape memories across the high heels, spiked kicks, slicked back hair 

and drop matches, smoldering, at their feet. All that's left of the old women 

are their spinning, spinning hands reeling in the moon.

She draws a mask across her eyes, approaches the table in one slow turn and sits down. 

Ombre tones in languid waves pour from her face. The Triple-eyed face, two eyes leering, 

deals the cards. One by on they land flat and floating, face up. 

The numbers are always the same. They never change. She knows that.

"Win or loose, there's no in between, numbers never lie," laughs the Triple-eyed-face. 

He laughs again and tosses a spade over his shoulder, "I win." 

Another grave is dug, another tile is laid in another hollow room.

Voices sing softly, sha na na

in a language no one knows.

Little hands stitch straight lines

in the fabric piled before them.

Who's to say, who's to see

the little hands are broken,

who's to listen to their song?

She rises, opens the window, reaches up, lifts the moon from the sky, turns 

and offers it to him. "A gift? Too mystic." says the Triple-eyed-face, 

third eye hinged against emotion. He reaches for her cards. 

She smiles, replaces the moon. It tilts and out comes pouring 

the mellowed howl of a pent up wind.

(note: finally edited and now titled The Hollow Room (2016)

Butterfly Logic

Someone told me once, "Whatever you are thinking when you see a butterfly is a good idea." He also said, "Sleep when you are tired. Eat when you are hungry. Work so others can play only if they are children."

I know many things. I know the first star you ever saw will always be your own lucky star. And I know if you work for wages, you will always need money and you will work till you die. A wage brings just enough to eat, a night's sleep under a roof, then you get up and work for another wage and another meal. That's the way of it.

As to that, you must keep secret from the wage payers. Once they find you, they never let you be. But, if you use butterfly logic, you can get away. Otherwise it's a struggle because the wage payers are good talkers and have everyone's ears.

I always dream free in case a butterfly comes by.


...

The Time Of One

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. Those who live here, even those who do not know much of anything, know the woodlands is the birthplace of the Bird Of Life. And, most everyone knows if they, themselves, were born in The Time Of One or The Time of Two.

Each dusk, a tiny bird lifts above the trees. It circles inland, then turns and flies directly towards the sea. It flies across the bare field, over the river and disappears into the white fog expanding the reaches of Island's outstretched fingers into the sky.

Each dawn, the tiny bird reappears through its foggy gateway from some unknown world beyond Island, perhaps beyond the sea itself, carrying in its beak one tiny seed. The little bird flies back over the river, across the fields, into the trees and buries its seed in the woodland's floor.

After many years of planting, one of the seeds, only one, begins to grow into a tree. When its crown reaches through the protective bower of the woodlands into the sun, seemingly overnight, the bird builds a nest on its highest branch.

The next morning when it returns from its mysterious flight, the little bird carries not a seed but a tiny white egg and places it in the nest. That same day, from out of the whiteness which is like the whiteness of the fog through which the egg appeared, another little bird is born. Thus begins The Time Of Two, The Days Of Song. For many years, the two birds sing and fly together through the woodlands.

One dusk, the two little birds fly side by side into the mists. In the dawn, only one returns, carrying a tiny seed in its beak. Those few who have seen this solitary flight swear that this seed is planted with a tear so small there can be no smaller tear.

This is Island, a continent surrounded by the sea. The sea holds Island much like earth holds the sea and, in turn, much like sky holds earth. Everything gives way to something. Yesterday gives way to today, the day of the smallest tear.

Dirty Water

0ops. Lost the text. Will fix again later

Dust and White Smoke

Before us sky and a river of white smoke. We were looking for something to follow.
We looked behind us, more sky. We couldn't follow the sky. It circled back on us wherever we went.

We followed the smoke single file, one behind the other, the one behind stepping in the footprints
of the one before so we wouldn't know we were lost. When night came
we stopped and squatted where we stood to protect our imprint in the dust.

After two days of this the smoke dispersed. After that we knew not in which direction we travelled. They were all the same, across the dust.

On the third day a cloud passed. We were by now walking so slowly we moved as one,
one shifting mound of dust.

On the fourth day a drop of rain fell from the third day's cloud. It caused not one ripple in the dust.
We waited. Not another drop fell.

On the fifth day we were possessed by a whirlwind, a dervish.
It disturbed our footprints but kept us moving through the dust.

On the sixth day a wall rose before us. We went no farther.

On the seventh day we circled the wall until the footprints of the one behind became
the footprints of the one before, a hoop. We stopped where we stood.
All that flowed was our blood. There was no white smoke.

On the eighth day we raised our eyes to the sky and stomped our feet on the ground.
The wall crumbled into dust.

On the ninth day someone called out, "A gate opens, a gate opens, a gate opens!" three times.
We entered the gate, eyes to the sky, watching for smoke. Our footsteps were unruly.
The one before left no footprints for the one behind to follow.

On the tenth day we saw it, the river of white smoke, and followed it with our eyes
back down to the inner city where we now stood.

On the eleventh day we walked in circles toward the source of the smoke towards the center of the city, towards a mound of black earth.

On the twelfth day we stopped where we stood and sat - nine circles, nine times nine deep - around
the mound of black earth.

On the thirteenth day we saw on the mound of black earth, a pile of grey ashes.
Atop it, one red burning coal. Upon the red burning coal, one tiny twig.

"The last burning twig!" Nine times nine voices fell - nine ripples deep - in the dust
around the mound of black earth. Still rising, the river of white smoke.

Laughing With Trees

If you throw your arms around a tree in the middle of a laugh

the tree will give you a mystical secret.

Few think to do this while laughing,

laughter is immediate transport to its own magical land.

Those who do, when questioned,

smile mysteriously and say, "I only remember laughing."

Tellers of Secrets

Tellers of secrets are sneaky.

They smile and look you right in the eye

while they pluck out your secret and tuck it under their wing.

They wait
for the worst possible moment to lift their wings to fly.

 Out drops your secret
to be seen
by everyone.

Tellers of secrets can't fly.

You know that.

 Dream stealers are even worse.

They are, at this moment, beyond discussion.

Bridging the Road

In my weariness, I followed the tracks of a road thinking it would be less tiring than the trail. Later, I noticed walking within the ruts was more exhausting since I was neither a snake nor did I have wheels.

I was relieved to come upon a river which flowed sleek and long and obliterated the damn ruts. It was a wide river with slow moving waters and no bridge. I sat down to watch.

Everywhere I had traveled, I had seen signs of others but I had met no one. Perhaps if I stayed in one place, this place, and waited someone would come along - someone who had been where I was going, someone who knew an easier way.

I became uneasy and backed away from the river's edge. I was not certain whether the river or the road carried the source of my concern and I was caught between them. I stood and turned to watch the road. It was familiar and familiarity evokes a comfort, of sorts.

In my weariness, I slipped and fell into the river that had no bed. Nothing floated on it. It could be called empty, even unfamiliar.

Now,  I am where I am going, wherever the river carries me.

...

Lullaby Of The Wing

For those who are as sleepy as I am, a lullaby...

Close your eyes now

you will know how

to find your way.

You don't have to

see your way through

the darkness to dream.

Go to sleep then

you will know when

to come back here.

Little traveler

you'll remember

each one of your dreams.

Drift away now

you will know how

to fly up high,

little feather
lifted ever

on the wing of dreams.

(chorus)
close your eyes

sleep's not far
close your eyes
to dream 

The History Of Moonstones

...and other earthly events.

When moon turned blue over the word "Lunatic!" 

and sun reigned oblivious to earth's dark side, 

dragon, in disgust over the word "Mythical!" 

left sky, went to ocean. 

There now drifts 

alone in sleep.

Moonstones were before that time.

Or, they could be dragon's tears,

molten droplets upon cold waters 

when dragon turned for one last look 

at the beautiful Luna 

over its left shoulder 

as it dove into the sea.

Or, they might be moon pebbles 

tossed by Luna 

to rouse her friend 

from the deep.

...