Sylph Songs

Bagette Street

2012-01-01T11:56:00.000-08:00

I want to walk down Bagette Street,

to feel my feet on the solid ground

that witnessed my mothers first wail of I Am,

a screaming uninvited guest

who made her appearance long after my Grandmother

had ceased to entertain any wish

to suckle or nurture another hungry infant.

I want to go to Baggette Street

to sit on the sagging stoop, warped from the weight of our history,

and listen for the faint whisper of a child...

Do the creaking boards hold memories of her laughter?

Did she ever shriek with unadulterated glee?

I know she wept a seeping spillage of tears

from a morterd well of sorrow

that never new a drought year, never dried up or emptied

no matter her wailing and her weeping.

I can see firey curls poking wildly above the porch rail,

as she pranced on the floor boards of her lonliness...

With dead bodies sharing space between handcrafted furniture

in the bowels of the basement

under her running and playing.

Her Father, the first mortician in the county to embalm,

drained blood from the lifeless and replaced it with liquids of preservation.

The same fingers that crafted wood and word.

He was a little Banty Rooster, his poetry and whimsy

published regularly in the town crier...

His furniture holding up the hundred years required to be an antique.

And he beat the ginger child for a violin lie

and a tween truth;

balanced on the boundaries of her innocense.

She gave up the violin and never trusted love again...

I want to go to Baggette Street;

birthplace of the womb

whose only living fruit

Is me.

Funny Isn't It?

2010-05-29T22:06:00.000-07:00

Funny isn’t it,
How your fingers have
scrawled and crawled
across the miles of mystery, where
Your hand has laid itself down
upon my trembling heart; and made its
soothing connections.
Its not just your words,
the music in your lyrics
the rhythm in your heartbeat
the sensing of your tears...
It’s the story of your years
the life between the lines
Resonating with memories
that are mine....
Washing away space and time,
fusing pain and
celebrating joy...
Dancing naked in the rain.

Elegant Bones

2009-06-20T22:04:00.000-07:00

In the end
we will be stripped down
to our elegant bones,
bare and naked as we entered,
without the burden of possessions or status.
Others will follow,
they will come and take our place
and the circles of life will continue
toward their infinite centers...
The ticking of the clocks on the walls
will not stop because we depart,
the changing of the seasons will remain faithful.
Outside the window the blue birds will return each spring
to fledge their progeny from the trees
we planted with the children when they were young.
Perhaps they will build tree houses
for their offspring in the strong branches that grew from our efforts,
and tell them how they buried sticks of faith
in the cold clean earth with the help of their Grandparents aging hands
in the fall
when they were small.

The Spilling of Stars

2009-05-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

After awhile
we learn to take love
into our own hands, don’t we?
Sooner or later we cease
foisting the responsibility for our fulfillment
onto another.
Having been fooled time and again
by the fickleness of lust,
the passing of passion, the fears of each others failures,
we return to the reliable and uncomplicated
solitary satisfaction; the knowing that we are forever really alone.
And that there are secrets that only our aloneness can hold.
Love is always,
and forever filled with complexity,
constantly changing gowns and masks
and demanding a transformation from us.
Love alternates between whisper and scream,
Come up higher .
And we release each other from the
impossible bondage of expectation.
What is as familiar or as safe as our own hand?
What else can contain the spilling of stars
from our personal galaxy...without risk?
Nothing quite like the haven of our own soft palm.

In Arms Still Warm

2009-03-19T21:52:00.001-07:00

I dreamt your flesh
draped across mine, cell to cell,
Like grass on the undulating earth.
Tiny blades of lust
crept along the carpet
tickling the forgotten into wakefulness
and I could hear my own moaning;
a hunger as plaintive as an African infant’s plight,
deprived of sustenance for far too long,
shrinking and shriveling, starving and wasting.
But I dreamt your hands entering into my skin
removing the dark aloneness.
I awoke with a start
lying in arms
still warm.

Something Old or Something New

2009-03-19T17:43:00.000-07:00

Was this sudden crush of pressure
something old or new;
this dread that descended on me
from the nucleus of contentment.
As unexpected as a rose in December,
The sudden seepage of fear’s tears
running down the cracks of yesterday.

Fear born under the lamplight of peace
started to climb the pole of reminiscence.
Ancient is that sting meted out with
a cold winds breath
its icy hands tight around the throat of today’s happiness.

Thorns against the torn flesh,
as tender as the first time
Something unexpected unearthed
this great wound of mine
searching, searching for a clue,
Is it something old or is it something new?

Midnight Fingers of December

2009-03-03T10:11:00.001-08:00

I stand naked

against the midnight fingers of December.

They should be frigid,

but instead are uncharacteristically balmy,

practicing their spring song across my waiting flesh.

Like a keyboard aching to spill music, skin senses creation

and I emerge slightly out of tune.

leaving the indoor warmth of winter.

Letting the night touch the black and white of me,

the flat and sharp of me with its moonless creeping....

and something springs and something sings.

What is it about the pores and keys that just lie waiting

for the hand of creation to slip against a slender ivory thought;

where they birth the finger's seed....

slightly out of tune

but singing their practice song for Spring across my flesh.

The Great Blue Heron's Song

2008-06-04T21:37:00.000-07:00

He arrives from the north,
with faithful regularity;
a sunrise glide, of
graceful, blue grey movement on the morning
decending on my thoughts.
Through the marsh and tall grass of unkempt beauty
he wades the ponds periphery
as light beams filter through the woods
falling across his frame.
Patience stands sentinel in stillness
along the banks
where he is always rewarded
with the morsels of land and water...
His long beak cradling fish and frog, as
wings spread and beat against the sky,
he turns to say goodbye and
as he came, so he goes
lifting his frame on high.

The Other Side of Now

2008-05-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

...why not be a bridge
fashioning yourself across the span
from wounded heart to wounded heart;
No moats or dams, walls or fences....
Why not lay yourself down for tread and travel,
an expanse of love for reaching safely
the other side of now.

Keeping Safe The Miracles of May

2008-04-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

I am falling
like a crooked smile
slipping downward at the corners
on a tired and painted clown.
Landing against the doorway
of doubt, creaking with invitation.
It is open a crack, this rickety door
waiting to devour dreams
slipping through on the tears of disbelief.
Hushed and quiet hope
mingles here with despair.
I cannot see the leaves of spring,
the flowering of wild seed
buried under a child’s impatience;
Bare with the hibernation of waiting.
Faith a cornice
of icicles clinging to the edges
of a house of belief.
Frozen in the winter of endless waiting,
pendants of translucent change;
the still and sacred secrets that
keep safe the miracles of May.

Celebrate Each child

2007-07-06T20:43:00.000-07:00

What if....
They had taken her home and held her up to the sun
Praising God for her arrival,
perhaps they did, but its doubtful
for it never felt that way to her.
What if....
They had set the moon on her crib at night
and sung her name to the stars,
would it have made a difference?
If they had tattooed her smile into their hearts
would she have felt like flesh of their flesh?
What makes a spirit choose as it does,
the people it comes to...
Magnets or radar?
Homing pigeon instincts or Divine force?
Why did she come to you
and why did you not hang her name in the stars,
praising God for her arrival,
cherishing His tiny gift ?
ANd if you had, would it have made a difference?

For Boss, with love

2007-06-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

He is a small maker of gentleness;
a guileless child chosen
as a keeper of innocence.
In a heritage of harshness,
his unique marrow lacks the cells
of unkind aggression.

His smooth tongue speaks softly without
barb or bite,
no stinging meanness wags it;
no raw edge of anger to thought or tooth.

This December child
in a winter world of stasis;
slumbering in a blanket of serenity without
the threads of discord hemming him in.
Having somehow tuned out the channels
carrying springs language of competition...
He wears a half moon smile and speaks
with a quiet, broken whisper.

The landscape of his gentle heart
dotted by daisies of charity
dancing amidst them on the stage of
his secret knowing....responding
to a tune most of us are never priveledged to hear.

Without pretense or pomposity
He sings his own melody,
no cruel notes, neither high nor low nor lurking in between...
Sweet, sweet harmony’s song
from a small boy both lost and found
in the unhurried lingering
upon the open landscape
of his own sweet sound.

Over & Over Again

2007-06-14T17:58:00.000-07:00

Over & Over Again

I could just lie down
and let you walk across me,
like a canvas
where You leave
streaks of Your unique purpose
on the lines and fissures
of my trusting flesh.
creating Your passions,
dipping Your brushes and flinging
Your mad mixes of colors wildly.
You are creating me aren’t You?
Over and over again,
You are creating Me.

Book & Cover

2007-05-22T19:33:00.001-07:00

Do you judge a
book by its cover,
its words, or
the words between the lines.

Who really is the author
of the fluttering pages
held casually in your hand;
Rumpled thoughts
turned into breathing beads of lyric..
A necklace of a poets fossilized memory.

Weary digits scratch out his
muse’s nudging....

But who really is this dark stranger,
who shares with you his light.

Accidental Gifts of Grace

2007-05-19T19:04:00.000-07:00

In a world
where so many have so little,
I am acutely aware
of how abundantly my tree flowers.
how sweet is the
scent of synch
that reaches deep into the roots of my soul....
This was not always so,
these are the accidental gifts of grace
that make us whole.

2007-04-15T12:02:00.000-07:00

Friends In High Places

2007-04-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

Friends in a frame...
Their dark hair now matching pale halos;
soft corn silk in the California sun.

Friends of my youth...
Here now in my aging.
We walked together thru the streets of turmoil and tribulation.
Their lantern illuminating
The corded love that filled my shoddy shoes with will.

I curled in the cathedral corner of terror,
and rocked the cradle of a wishful aching...
Rocked to the refrain of their closed circle;
from the center rose the sounds of worship and song;
melodies of praise that harmonized with my mourning.

When I wept black tears
of a midnight loneliness, my life broken,
its flowers scattered into petal and seed....
The white cloth of their belief
wiped the shame stained tears from my cheek with wings.

My friends, smiling at me now
across a continent of miles and years.
From the confines of a glossy photo
their lips curl in cherub smiles.....
They watch over me.
They follow every track and trail
and the corded love
deftly braided by the hand of fate knows no separation.

Let me linger here
in the creases of their eyes,
warmed by golden stones that lie under the pale strands...
The halos softened by years and sun.
My angels still.
Let me breathe in the life of laughter
that echos down the distant miles
in the exhaled wind of their breathless joy.

Friends who gave their goodness
in exchange for wounds.
My offering from the pockets of my dreams?
Just tattered poems from a shattered soul
and the rare pearls gathered from the way less traveled
thru the halls of human fracturing..

They made bandages of linen grace
and poultices of casseroles and chatter...
Up from the legs of their tables
Rose the pillars that held up the sky.

They look down at me now,
smiling on the blooming of their belief.

My creases of safety still,
Their watchful eyes.

p. lawrence

2007-01-11T17:05:00.000-08:00

Practicing It's Winter Song

2007-01-11T16:59:00.000-08:00

Pick me,
Pick me...
Over here,
amidst the muck and dregs
of leftover summer.
I bloom...
my petals snowy white,
emerging from a blazing yellow center.
I await your fingers.
Pick me,
Pick me
slip my lacy green stem
from hand to water,
touch my leafy soul and feel it quiver.
Pick me,
Pick me
Make my fall grandeur
the centerpiece of your table.
Pick me,
Pick me
I am the last bud to crawl out of the creases
of this wet earth,
brown and hard and cold
practicing its winter song
all around me.
Pick me
Pick me..........
Bring me home.

Splendor In The Afternoon

2006-09-22T13:40:00.000-07:00

Some chores are better than others to be sure. THis is one of the best....and I never thought, dreamed or fantasized of riding around on a tractor in Northeast Ohio, not ever, ever, ever. I'm a California girl, with sunshine in my soul till the end.... or so I thought. Of course its all I've ever really known. BUt my life is not really my own for I gave it back to that which gave it to me, and the second half is so much better being led than trying to do the leading. I don't have anywhere near such a need to know anymore, and its somehow ok to just let people and things, "be".

Of Dusk and Dreaming.......

2006-08-15T12:39:00.000-07:00

Trailing Dusk & A Disappearing Sun

2006-08-15T09:47:00.000-07:00

The outstretched eagerness of leaves
captures in its lace embrace,
the hem of sinking clouds
that lay themselves down
amidst the branches of life’s reaching.
Here there are no mountains rising
up out of the minutia of our
beaded moments.........
Here the sky & clouds dance upon
the carpet of emerald earth, entangled in twisting branches
as they rise and fall, undulating thru the tree tops;
making love in the trailing dusk
like a disappearing sun.
P. Lawrence
8/06

Thru The Memory and The Mist of Ages.....

2006-05-20T10:46:00.000-07:00

They sat
like lovebirds
fashioned of the same shade and feather,
memories soft and supple
winged their way between them,
on the nostalgia of their shared silence.
Two lovebirds hidden
by the great ferns mystery...
their naked secrets trapped
like treasures
in the lacy green unfolding of the years.
The quiet cathedral of memory and mist
holds their song...
deep in the throat of anticipation,
there on their perch they take their rest,
preparing for spring flight
thru the unknown perilous night.

2005-11-08T13:01:00.000-08:00

Something Wild & Wonderful

The Wailing Announcement arrives
When we feel the furthest away
from our next poem;
our next expression of eternal...
our legs open,
we are suddenly full.

Straining
to give birth to something
as fragile and tender
as a new moment
full of unique possibility.

Silence is filled with
the wailing announcement
something unknown slipping from my dark sea
on its arrival
for presentation to the light.

I swaddle this newborn thought
in gowns of warmth and word,
suckle this infant with the
breast of a mother's experience and vision.

When we feel furthest away
we are impregnated in secret
filled in silence,
quiet places in the soul, undisturbed
busied by fertile gestation...

Our legs open
we are full
laboring in love;
words flutter, wings spread
something new... something wild and wonderful
flys free of me.
posted by MysticGmekeepr

2005-10-06T19:15:00.000-07:00

Beneath The Same Sky

2005-10-06T19:14:00.000-07:00

Flesh of my flesh,
child become a hand that leads...
We walk today beneath the same large sky,
you on ancient cobblestones,
me on the weathered cracks in asphalt and cement.
You climb the Alps of ages
and scale heights not conceived of even in my imagination,
the limited terrain of my narrow experience.
My dreams are small where yours are
large and future focused.
No night offering or daytime fantasy
has ever led my feet to walk the terrain of foreign fields of flowers
beneath skies that are just an extension of my own
blanket of blue and cumulus wanderings...
The stunted wings of my imagination never flew so far.
While I weave my way thru
the heavy oppressive congestion
that has infringed on my streets and my hours
in the name of progress.....
You climb the steps of antiquity
and touch the face of history
etched upon each place your gaze falls....
And I wonder if anything from our brave new world
will last to become ancient and preserved..........
Somehow I doubt it.
Beneath the same sun
I walk behind but on the morning of a new horizon,
you run ahead into the embracing arms of what
has proved itself
by lasting.........

2005-09-25T18:54:00.000-07:00

The Measured Metered Lyric of Life’s Great Poem

2005-09-25T18:23:00.000-07:00

I am witness to the end stage of love.
What love ripens into...
There is a rhythm and a cadence
to their existence,
they are dancing still.
Bent frames and
Lost inches do not take away
the memory of steps .
Their loving and their yelling,
measured and metered into a smooth
direct route line.........life’s poetry,
dog-eared, and worn thin...
One aged heart to the other
the youth of their love,
long past beneath some thieving door.
Morphed along the way into travelers wandering about
in the rich soil of love’s wisdom...
Where senses no longer sense and
minds are no longer sharp with clarity and recall,
bodies bent, broken, and fading.....
dancing still
to the measured metered lyric of life’s great poem...

2005-09-08T09:17:00.000-07:00

She had a smile
that never quite reached her eyes;
always ending at the slightly turned up corners
painted on the edges of her mouth;
lovely crater home,
a hive of sweetness full of sting.
But still her smile
tattooed itself into my heart
and made me bleed with tenderness.
So captivated was I by her beauty;
the eloquent hollowness, the superb emptiness...
and I climbed the mountain to her soul
where vapor filled my fingers,
i had made the long and difficult trip
only to find it was not there.
She must have fallen from the stars to swiftly
to grab a spirit for her journey.
She imitated humans with no humanity as a guide,
only television shows viewed over and over
solo in the night
learning to perfect the illusion of a gentle eccentric nymph
leading me into her madness with a smile.
"Suzanne takes me down to her place by the River",
and I followed so easily, so unaware...
a smile that lite my world with empty eyes
Oh imagine when I awoke,
my surprise.

2005-08-05T21:02:00.000-07:00

Moon&Crystal

Women's Tears

2005-08-05T20:56:00.000-07:00

thru tears and rage
i wrestle fiercely with this
apparent injustice...
seeing with finite vision,
while groping for the infinite...
(we always wrestle with the angel
only to walk with Jacob's limp in the end)
Yes, I hurl the container
of my ballooning terror
against the walls of winter calm
watching the contents of me spill
before my eyes,
dripping down like grease-paint
ruining the canvas of naive innocense.
The masterpiece of all my hopes and fears
Emptied!
I greet friends and foe alike,
with a plastic smile for awhile....
My hollow heart having bled itself raw
alone in my silent chamber
having wept the ageless tears,
that only women hear.

2005-06-05T10:44:00.000-07:00

without shame

2005-06-04T19:45:00.000-07:00

without shame

The Girl In The Mirror's Glass

2005-06-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

I saw her there playing
in the mirror's glass...something
oddly familiar about her form and face..
i remember when she danced and sang
before they put her in Pandoras box.
I recognize the girl in the glass.
My double...my reflection,
my face, my ass.
This strange haunted mirror
shows me that child of long ago...now
embracing all these wondrous parts
and bringing together my whole...
nothing missing, nothing unclaimed
the dancing girl in the glass
who gathered all these pieces at last
plays freely now shaking her ass........
without shame.

2005-05-20T16:05:00.000-07:00

Sylph Simply Singing

Communities of Commonality

2005-05-20T15:43:00.000-07:00

driving down the freeway on the way to the mall, i look over at the hills below me and it always seem like this little microcosm of creation, the hustle and bustle of humanity going about it's business, the drudgery of dailies, stucco and tile , trees and toys, cars and lawn chairs, pools and patios, the baptisms and the funerals, and the marriages and divorces in between. We build and we dream, we humans, and its all washed away over time, just the gutted hillsides will give witness to our being.

We carve our lives
into the sides of hills
creating communities of commonality
the world over.
We roll over and rise from sleep,
wiping the night from our eyes.
We go to our jobs,
hassle with spouses and kids, care for our elderly,
pray for our sick.
We walk, and run and bike and sun.
We sweep away the collective cobwebs
of our human accumulation
tidying up our little worlds.
We mate and breed, we love and worship,
we kill, rob and deceive...
all in our little communities of commonality.
carved into the guts of god's green hills in spring.
We are a landscape of ants and angles
the world over.
We search for the meaningful
behind the random comings and goings
of existence...
but our view is thru a cloud of the meaningless,
obscuring our vision,
as murky and gray as our plodding.
While light and meaning
hide their face but shine.
And we water our lawns, we shop and play
go to churches and bars
as our days slip away...
Ants building edifices in
the guts of god's hills
above the yucca, oak and pine are paired,
and the angels dance unobserved,
for we're mostly unaware....
Our finger on the pulse of time
leaving some of who we are behind
hieroglyphics in the land.

The Crucifixion Waltz

2005-05-14T13:35:00.000-07:00

Lo and behold I am swaying, softly succumbing.
The wandering ghosts have arrived unbidden...
and didn't a friend just recently advice;
"Dance lightly with your goblins."?
Is this an opportunity to spin with grace,
or a stumbling block to trip and fall
thru time and space?
As I try to hold on to the periphery of a past
parading itself plaintively on todays dance floor.
But I always danced too closely didn't I?
Melding to flesh so easily,
molding my body to the curve and rhythm
of my partners loins...
believing it safe to be close on a dance floor.
And now this wandering ghost of yesterday
has its cheek tight against mine,
its hand pressed in the small of my back
bending me to its will,
and I'm moving without resistance
holding tightly to a ghosts arms
succumbing to a goblins charms.
Not even a fragile breath of air
sweeps a current between us now..
The past is here
and I am dancing once again to
the crucifixion waltz of reverie and death,
caught on the notes somewhere between a dirge and a hymn.
I see the silent drops of blood
pooling on the floor
as he twirls me round and round...
the stigmata weeps again for love,
and I dance gently with my ghost partner...
as softly sways my mind,
in and out of time.

2005-03-25T20:54:00.000-08:00

mystery & majesty

Complexity of Contridiction

2005-03-25T20:37:00.000-08:00

being willing to stand still
in the complexity of emotion....
buffetted, battered and blown;
striving for balance between
the fragile contradiction
of a woman and a wounded child.
Here, needs collide in mid air,
there explosion leaving fragments of desire
littered on the ground....
and i curl up against
the broken pieces of my life
and search some mystical black box for answers.
Still a child weaving herself into the onion skin breast
she creates with need and pen for rest.
Yet a woman who hears and heeds a sultry siren song:
a melody made of hands that make there way
skillfully into my glory place.
Standing still in the complexity of emotion
with its endless ebb and flow of contradictory needs;
past offering roots and soul,
the future with its bid for love.
The center of them both
is where i'll come to know,
and where I'll come to grow.
by being willing
to stand still
in the complexity of my contradictory emotions.
pam kent 4/29/98

2005-03-09T16:30:00.000-08:00

....There was no flaw,
no imperfection
in the seamless garment of connection
that wrapped itself gently
around my heart and Gypsy’s...
And warmed us both.

2005-03-09T15:57:00.000-08:00

my forever friend

2005-03-09T15:50:00.000-08:00

Gypsy’s Lessons (the gifts she left behind)
1) always have an open heart.
2) See something good in everyone.
3) Greet your loved ones with smiles and kisses.
4) Be a friend
5) always be kind
6) Be a free spirit
7) value loyalty and devotion highly
8) Love with all your being
9) PLAY, as you love...wholeheartedly!
10) Live every moment with dignity
11) Embrace your uniqueness
12) Dance as if no one is watching.
13) celebrate with joy
14) Be gracious to your guests
15) Stay forever young
16) Timing is everything.
17) Trust the Universe to bring you good
18) Go where you are led in faith
19) Bloom where you are planted
20) How to say goodbye....and when to let go.
21) How to see with the heart.

2005-02-16T20:45:00.000-08:00

...born of the Light

Margaret

2005-02-16T20:38:00.000-08:00

sitting there cocooned
in the seams of shared silence;
my sister, my friend....
While she was moving ever closer
to a boundary over which I could not cross.
Moving with the gentle flow
of each soft cadence of the
Cardinal’s voice...
He lifted bread to heaven
and passed it back as God,
blessed and ready to place on
outstretched tongues of the waiting faithful.
Her faith was deep and wide, my friends’,
I doubt she had great fear
for she would sense His presence,
As God drew her near.
She was going soon, leaving us behind,
to enter into the eye of grace...
Unfettered, uncluttered, a soul
utterly unadorned by pretense,
a simple, trusting, child of God.
She knew soon she would nap in His arms.
I felt her leaving
sensed her peace...
Closer now with each shallow breath
inching away ....
This sweet time traveler in a zone of God’s love
drifting on the sea of in-between with me.
My gentle, holy friend...for whom death is no end.............
Pam kent

2005-02-16T20:32:00.000-08:00

...love in many splendid ways

Intimacy

2005-02-16T20:30:00.000-08:00

rocking on the waves of this
duplicate dream...
surrogate ; substitute
fills me with his replica
I sway, I give way,
surrender to the surging sigh....and
He watches me, and he
fills his hands with a million
milky stars...and he watches me.

2005-02-16T20:21:00.000-08:00

open to joy

Contentment

2005-02-16T20:16:00.000-08:00

a simple life of contentment
can arrive out of nowhere
like an uninvited guest.....
and what do I wear,
and what do I serve in its honor.
So unfamiliar as to be almost unwelcome....
where is its sister chaos
and who am I
stranger in my familiar flesh?
who am I
breathing peace like air,
feeding on follicles of joy. p. kent

2005-02-16T20:12:00.000-08:00

pondering spring

Gifts

2005-02-16T20:06:00.000-08:00

Our Gifts
We are required to share our gift:
to leave the world with
an imprint of our being
that makes it somehow better.
But sharing our gift
does not necessarily imply
reward or compensation...
We don’t have to be known or even remembered.
Perhaps the lovelist traces left behind from a human life
are anonymous and
most certainly free.
P. kent

2005-02-10T08:26:00.000-08:00

poetry of play, passion, and peace

Zone of Love

2005-02-09T20:45:00.000-08:00

Time traveler in a zone of love.
An ancient soul
with a childlike spirit
dancing mask
persona upon persona,
layered in metaphor and mystery.
We are all dancing masks
briefly touching.
Electric flesh
awakening our remembrance
and our aching..
I have touched and been touched
braided deftly into
the fabric of other souls,
bonded to other hearts...tasted the
separate and unique gift of being
that is the other...once...
I was young and wild,
and without boundaries
bumping into others
in my darkness...but still we touched.
Now a crone with aging eyes
that see much clearer than
their counterparts in youth,
I don’t bump so often into
other hearts
as I know that sadness
can be soothed with silent acceptance,
both theirs and mine.
..I’m not the bearer
of the wand of change.
I am just a dancing persona swaying,
weaving in and out of others existence
a time traveler in a zone of love.
Gmekeepr