Nocturne Lady

Singular or plural, I bounce from one to the next to find him.  Something strange told me I'd be out and about looking for someone who didn't want me.  But it hit me unaware.  I didn't know that I'd feel it or find it.  I didn't know I'd be on a hook and pulled out to sea.  I didn't know I was his trophy, until I was.  I didn't know because it just came along and took me.  Some invisible arrow struck me and I was over.  Done.  Finished.  Some invisible wave carried me away from solid shores.  I was out in the open and in the torrent.  No where to go but into the maelstrom.  Some raging sea of youth and hostility, lust and tragedy.  I became the joke to end all.  The lady, the elder, taken by fancy back into the realm of youth and greener days.  It's like living in a dream.  Nothing is real about it.  The grays still grow and the wrinkles deepen.  Time and sorrow pull apart an already heavy heart.  But she worked to keep it light these last few years.  She worked to go back in time.  Her midnight hour rang and she knew the world was over.  There was no such man waiting out in the battering wind and rain.  There was no love beyond this worldly realm.  It was all a dream and a light invocation of old emotions.  One day, back there, we were young and swimming and laughing and playing.  We were young and out in the sun.  Playing together like lovers do.  Those days and summers flew by like the forests from a window of a speeding car along the highway.  They are gone.  Today is like the slowing of the clock until it dies on the time.  We are all wine dying on the vine.  Like some poet said, eons ago from the dark theater, is everybody in?  What words he felt were immortal have since passed away.  Some hunter may find them buried beneath the dust and if they dig further they may discover my heart beating away the ticking time of the almost deceased clock on the wall.  A pulse so light and erratic, that it is mistaken for the rain on the metal rooftops.  Does she still have that tell tale heart?  Does she still wear it, bright red and bleeding, on her sleeve?  You can tell by her closing eyes what she felt and meant.  But those thoughts and loves and emotions are dying away.  Soon she will be just another yesterday.

Aurora on Ice

Holiday scenes flash blues and greens.  Across the sky, energy flows like the rainbow bridge.  Reflecting from the calm face of the lake, the sky reversed.  Stars stare up.  Silver smoky eyes wide enough to see themselves in the infinite dream.  The still lake holds all of heaven in its mirror face framed by crystal ice.  Yellow green aurora crackles and shifts.  It dances serpentine spirals in between the fallen snow and dainty stars.  It departs on fragments of ice and wind.  Steal the atmosphere.  This green flowing water branching out over the rough terrain.  The face of a place I know.  Snorri's words fall like snow down here.  Aurora Borealis field of stars awash in varying hues.  Bleeding colors over space and time.  Volcanic eruptions through lightning flashes.  Swing, Reykjavik.   Mountains sweet and old.

post haste

Out of the woods. We're not out of the woods yet. Night does not delete it's fall. We catch a glimpse of sunset. Only a slim silver crescent shines above the gray mountain. And, to the north, a large gray mass of cloud moves in. Like a blanket pulled over the last rays of day. It comes to cover the tiny crescent moon. We stand, as if transfixed, and witness this display of winter coming on. From Bridgeview to Bridge St., my heart moves through the forest. It travels the long roads and gavants through the holloways of the woodlands. Other women's men. Ghosts that line the side of the interstate. I fly by. They stand, unaware. I pick at the treasures on the ground and take them home. These things string memories of where I found them. They remain keepsakes in my fossil bag. I've known this land, with orange and red trees and dark skies for many a year. I dream of Woonsocket and a different space. But there is no ocean in the dense forest. Dream away. Long rivers. Dream away. Long roads. Even catching a thought passing out a car window is a dream. Brain waves caught those terrific songs of musicians. And the only one who hears is the crow in the green leaves. I've seen one before, watching me. He knows my face. He carries it with him through the only land I've known. I wonder if it will fade when I'm gone. When all of this will be a distant memory