Breezes Across Webs Of Silken Rewards Passed By

March 2, 2010

Breezes across webs
of silken rewards passed by,
a breath,
a handshake
and a ‘bye’
without its luminous inflections.

A snowflake melts into a tear,
who then evaporates into a small fog
that rises and collects again in a unit;
not waiting,
not planning,
being sculpted through the bedroom
music of clouds as Love’s sacred geometry
embracing Form’s formless promise to
deliver sensation to touch.

A message engraved on the inside
of a bottle,
an ocean engraved on the inside
of an eye winking to itself.

Footsteps listening
to the leather creases laughing,
cotton shirts pulled loosely over fields of
crystalline scarecrows;
their hair is made of
worn out parrot feather dusters
and their shoo-away-songs
are brought forth from eagle’s breasts
resonating within their inward straw.

Lagoons of rose water,
peppermint breathing,
mosses at ease
and salamanders waking to the
sun dusting unearthed tomb-jars
far beneath smiling emotions
dreaming of cinnamon
and mother of pearl flaxseeds…

There are fireflies
setting their chorus to sound
love-wakes,
love-places
and love-rests.

Quiet standing in the frozen grass,
level earth,
reflections from where the blizzard
has kissed deeply running waters
to now be still,

Awe touching the moon,
the twin-colored snow maiden
in the round mirror
showing there is no time,
there is no noon.

Setting of one,
lamplight of five,
wick, fuel, glass, flame and thee.

Out the crows weave blow their cawing,
tree limbs bending
from their ink quill’s weight,
cawing love lights glistening,
all looking the same
because there is only One Crow.

How the awakening frogs sound!
The muddy quiver of a second birth
from winter depth studies,
the listening here and now,
the green skins in the dark,
the eyes’ sonnets in the black void belfry
turned to cinders
and glowing white hot
as snow someplace else.

Yellow umbrellas stacked as a bed,
breathing, deathless fairy
wreathed by deathless bees,
humming thee, thee, thee…

A palm print upon a window
two stories up,
a palm print upon a heart
that no building can reach,
a palm print upon a sensation
of betwixt life and death,
death and life nodding off.

Flowers sprouting from perfect eyes
bringing them to Holy Blindness,
flowers sprouting from perfect lives
bringing them to Holy Orphanages…

Streams of steaming magma
and ruby vultures waiting
for that stale prose to rise,

And from the chest
of a glistening galaxy,
it floats like a dead sun dug up
so to carve it out
for invisible keepsakes heart shaped
and indivisibly beyond truth and falseness,
to be passed through it and not fastened,
the soul cannot cry,
the soul cannot indefinitely store
what is commissioned to Time and Form.

A black dragon covered in white pearls,
curled at the base of that partaker’s blessings,
those ankles that hold God’s gifts of feet,
body and a quest who weeps
by the keeping of Buddha’s lotus garden,
this living now,
this Holy Mandala
of crisscrossed love-threads,
tuning, tuning, tuning…