GOSSAMER & THE BRIDEWELL

Ask me not
how I love you:
I would fain count the blown
stripes of gossamer
stitching bud to bud
the grasses of our new-found
acres of summer.
Listen, instead,
to the aeolian descant
from these silken staves
counterpoint to the bass
of my heart
whereon you rest your head:
these silver songs
resilient and strong
are answer enough.

Bridewell

It seems there is beauty enough,
here where the quivering trees frame
rough-hewn rocks painted ochre and sage-green
by lichens and an elegant sliver
of bright green moss.
Below the spring silently seeps
into the scrying pool
where I seek your face
in place of mine.
Cup-caught in my hands
your image returns my smile …
and holds its secret.
You are not captured -
rather, your gentle hands
delved deep
[so says your smile]
and down among the dark-green
filaments fished and found
and saved my heart from
being drowned.

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Kailashana

16 years 11 months ago

Strange déjà vu here,

Strange déjà vu here, Mike... Reminded me of a poem I wrote in 2007... Strange bedfellows....these poems we write...or are they written through us? From Near and Afar how many years have you been so very near, …I could feel your breath, sense-bound, warm and hinting of forever like the daffodil’s raucous laughter in a Springtime melody, a summer rose’s pomegranate oration to a neophyte sun? how many times have I felt you, turned my head, glimpsed your shadow, hurrying away, fading like the swift end of a cold winter day? Oh, I have loved you so; from near and afar, only the petulant moon knows my solemn act, infatuated with a descant aloneness, why I had not come to know you, to call your name, to catch your Light … my Beloved, you are unkind, a dark stranger, my incidental sentimentality, angry red-headed child of deathless and bloodless destiny … …how could I have not walked in your presence? inside a film noir garden of my remembrance, white oleander petals floating in the air like snowflakes of a crumbling Tibetan mountain? … had I not tasted the salt of my tears once? … in the joy-filled dreams or our bridal bed aurrendered in ecstasy? … had I not listened to these misshapen hands of mine? wistful writing on these blank walls of this small, occasional and windowless room? …longing to know my name, inscribed in the bright burning flame of your most tender heart? … shall I open the door now? …. find myself, softly asleep in your embrace… …eternal, silent and nameless… Lovely poem, Mike... simply gorgeous and indescribably heartbreakingly, achingly sad somehow. ~A "No one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment of punishment." Article 5 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

meic

16 years 11 months ago

As always, Anna, your

As always, Anna, your response graces my page and my little pieces are honoured. But perhaps not sad, since any re-birth requires a death or a semblance of death. The thing is what we get is: unbeknown, unremembered, unforeseen. Unforeseen, then: the forebrain functions well; nerves rhythmically vibrate and generate an annulus of incandescent light before the eyes; senses fine-tuned, alert. Unremembered: only the wind's low wail - sibilance, a whistle through teeth; a blade of cold breath cuts clean. Yes, the wind fluting eerie and musical as the night creeps on. Unbeknown: the nerve-coils untwist, and the poisons in the blood slowly drain away. Mike "not all matterings of mind equal one violet" ~ e e cummings ~

faerybeki

16 years 11 months ago

Mike this is beautiful, I

Mike this is beautiful, I can sense the sadness too that Anna mentions and yet I am given such hope in the last part, where your heart is fished and saved from drowning, an exquiste balance of wistfullness and wonder! There's lessons here for me, to just be still and let love be what it is, what ever that may be! lol Loved it :) much love b xx

faerybeki

16 years 11 months ago

16 years 9 months ago

Lovely!

meic

16 years 9 months ago

Diolch yn fawr [thank you -

Diolch yn fawr [thank you - Welsh] Mike "not all matterings of mind equal one violet" ~ e e cummings ~