Sonnet for Denise

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Her third eye

hidden like blurred trees in drifting snow lie

beneath a halo of auburn hair

doe eyes she stands

with woolen design

upon her narrow line.

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Her open eye

indigo reflection of weeping sky

escapes the kidnapping , soft smudge she stares

in curiosity a mouth of crimson smears

a curving branch

upon eyes trance .

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a brow arched

her soul is risen .

Please listen till the end … It’s so very beautiful !

Birth

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I am everthing , all colors laying open like the blue sky softening into grey shadows of a thousand doves . I am dolphin , ocean , plant and the knot in my throat unravels like the path of that wind , making rustles so gorgeous that it unites my voice , the eternal song into a sob . I am traveling to the land of the living where every tear is wiped away and I will taste the goodness of the waters .

I died today in a fetal position . Just before , the rain came in my window and a fox laid down next to my bed . Did you know that the scent of birth and death are exactly the same … rivers and mushrooms , pomegranate and musk . What’s that strange music I hear , wonderful music , is it the voice of God , of nature , a differant civilization with no sentimental wails ? Gratefulness like sea anenomes of terrestrial flowers take away the lingering memories of why , why brokenness , devastation , cruelty , suffering , fear and hatred . All my pain is transformed and not transmitted in this new orbit . I’ll never hear another wrong note because the opera of eternity is perfection , harmony and melody a pure beauty with rain drops glistening on all of us … every one of us . We are everything . The red fruit bursting open with a fullness , a membranous chamber of juicy red pulp and white seeds . Our bleeding hearts , our rotting livers , the cells of our brains , the aches of our muscles – no more ! How many hearts with red blood in them are beating undercover of the woods . How many eyes and teeth are shining . One world leads to the next .

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The stillness of life’s memories is at once awful and sublime and every leaf seems to speak . I’m invited to come forth from behind the shadowy back to the table of the Great Creator . It is set with my grandmothers golden glass wine decanter gleaming where it once sat in front of her cut glass window only now there are two Suns , everything prettier in this light . And a bouquet of yellow from the forsethia bushes I once picked with my mother . And look , snow is falling and there is the Christmas tree I painted onto the wall one year because it was too cold to go out and chop one down to bring inside . Sitting , is my uncle , my poor uncle who hung himself in grandpas horse barn and he is wearing wet shoes and holding a lighted candle . He’s not mad , he has faith . What does faith mean ? We don’t know what madness is . . . they’re alone but certainly closer to the truth . Love goes hand in hand with suffering . The wide benevolent hand of the Divine is holding mine now . I remember the first time I heard the Beatles , ” I Want to Hold Your Hand ” . It was 1963 and I was 12 . Everything happened to me when I was 12 . We grow unevenly , partially , past , present , future , made up of cells , constellations , rocks , the sounds of roses , a mystic force growing , changing form and always life’s sparkling smile catching our eyes .

I see all my friends with open hands waving back and forth , back and forth . They suspect that I haven’t told them the whole story of my life but it really doesn’t matter anymore . I see Joe Cocker crying and singing , ” You Are So Beautiful ” and Rembrandt next to him painting his self-portrait with shaded eyes . And there’s Lawrence of Arabia too and my dad riding a bike that goes backwards and a new cloud rolling in from the stratosphere , birds in formation , white-tailed deer , mockingbirds and four different shaped leaves all on the same tree . We are on a revolutionary road together in this multiverse where I can glimpse the end of it ahead just before it turns into a rolling valley of larkspur with a strange window appearing where rain pecks at the glass like small curious hungry birds and within and beyond , a room that is beyond the great sea .” I blow kisses to the telephone polls because they look so lonely .” ( stockdalewolfe.com 1-13-15) The day is immense , expanding and shrinking at will and there , there is the lighthouse at the end of the world .

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I see my grandchild turning in his sleep . A wind wraps itself around his blanket and lays it down in the long grass that is green and soft – lays it down completely . There are ditches full of water and leaves , a world that curves away further than you can ever see and even what is left of daylight seems reluctant to leave . He sleeps until his little body , like the light , wakes on its own . Great Spirit , you have given me things that won’t get lost . Do you know how it feels to be loved by God ?

I see my childhood hiding spot that called to me like nothing else and I want to kneel in worship for the comfort it once gave me . But now I kneel in humbleness as I see to the very bottom of things , all things . Earths depths are 1800 phantoms . I am with the drowned sailors who crave the unknown . What glories do the whales pursue ? I know it is an emotional encounter to recognize the call of another you’ve never met and to hear the history you share in their song – the mournful alleluia sound of bagpipes in the deep . Do you know why they’re in the water … they want to live a long time .

I see the river , the mountain . It’s nice here . The fox lays next to my body now , an angelic being opens my gown and a thousand starlings fly out from it . . . a feather falls away to the earth over there and a child that was me picks it up , my mother is playing Beethoven on her piano and God , well God has taken away all my shame . . .

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Photos by Denise Thomasin Photography … ( my daughter )

Billy Joel – ” Goodnight my Angel “

The Narrators Journey

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He is in love with one woman and lives with another . He notices too much , feels everything not knowing just how to filter it fast enough . And his ( Alec ) memories , well , they were strange and wonderful , his mind like that of a Scythian goldfish document box where the origins of a culture gave rise to the Amazon legends and where thoughts of Francis existed . He told me he wondered if he had done the best thing in telling her she could be happy with Paulo . And then , she not only really listened but stayed with the photographer one cold night just before planet Mercury started moving backwards , it’s reverse motion , an illusion . This is a story about how good we as humans are at striving to know beyond what we can see . Love , beauty ,God … a pattern of flower petals thru the winter sky .

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She stunned herself in accepting Paulos plea and upon entering up his stairway , removing her hiking boots , she walked in a tentative way and approaching the main room she paused to consider it … statutes of the Buddha , birdcage from Thailand , heavy dark framed paintings on the pine walls , antique lamps , one of jade embellished with rubies , an ornately decorated mirror , round and as large as the rising full moon , unfinished photos and books on a desk carved with elephants , gleaming glass oil lamps and a very large picture window . She paused with a slight gasp as if it were challenging her to leap across a frozen creek .   ” Love is as warm as tears “, she thought remembering what Alec had told her , thinking about him as she walked barefoot on the cool floors of thread bare carpets .  Was this what she really wanted , this man , this house , this life with someone ? Life always moves towards greater order and the vibration that is creation is always a flickering back and forth . That on and off felt surprising to Francis , like watching a man shoveling the deep snow from his front walkway , wearing only a worn cotton silk suit coat and wing tips . Life doesn’t happen to us , rather , we create it from inside out and because this is a most powerful truth , it has behind it all the creative energy in the universe . So here she found herself in Paulos rooms , unknown to her as yet the bed , a life raft into turbulent waters . She didn’t believe in magic , but lived as if she did . But beware , the phantom planet Vulcan might be found to influence Mercurys orbit … yes , Mercury where the craters are named for artists … Shakespeare , Hemingway , John Lennon , Alvin Ailey and Kahlil Gibran too .

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Well , it seems to me that the best relationships , the ones that last , are rooted in friendship . You know , one day you look at a person and you see something more than you did the night before . Like that switch has been trembling somewhere . And the one who was just a friend is suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with . I hoped this for Francis … but wished she would take off that nomadic green dress she always wore with everything … green is a fugitive and unstable pigment . She could be willfull , irresistible , lovable , stubborn , extreme , quirky , obsessive and ultimately unpredictable . And Paulo , well he had many complexities in his world . He saw Francis more as a pilgrimage to experience rather than a woman , his desire to live with her , a gesture of action in a world in which he found more things artificial , wanting a sacred journey with her so that he could change his mediocrasy . She was like a heavenly horse to him , elegant in a pose of stately strength with a beautifully arched neck . If he could capture her with his camera in crisp detail with a slightly open mouth it might be the prized photo he longed for to set apart his vast portfolio . Blessed is the pure white snow for it moistens her face  … I must tell her to be careful . He saw fright on her brow that day when she entered his rooms after saying “maybe” to staying with him . He told me what he said to her , ” you don’t have to say anything and you don’t have to do anything ” and how this seemed to relax her and how he noticed in her an exquisite detachment from the surroundings as if she were floating in the waters of a lukewarm surf with 10 shades of turquoise ocean instead of the 10 degree of weather outside .

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There is a reality beyond the one we see and there seems to be a blurriness between all the qualities of Divine intention … compassion , love , innocence , humility and it is when you want nothing that everything can be yours . I hoped bliss currents would soon be moving thru my friends hearts . Already their friendships were a tremendous thing . You can’t make that up . Meanwhile , in the parallel universe where perfume sometimes turns into jewels , the scent of Francis’ vanilla hair is like smoke around Alec who sits in silence with thunder hidden inside , writing his book , sometimes glancing up and looking west around the river bend in that winter of winds where Gods eye is on every sparrow . Thinking of Alec , well , he is a gentleman , an outdoorsman , a writer , a lover of food and fine wine , of women , nature and people . He loves fresh crepes and cafe cremes in the hands of gorgeous women at sidewalk cafes , a lover of the simple richness of life . He was able to see how incredibly intricate the simplest things could be and knows that a person becomes more by experiencing something extraordinary .

Moving backwards it remains to be seen if poor Paulo is still in love with his young ex-wife or if all the light we cannot see will be able to illuminate itself in winter , this cold heaven of snow where Mercury floats above , an icon of creativity . It’s a wonderful life for sure . . .

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” And never have I felt so deeply at one and the same time so detached from myself and so present in the world “.     Albert Camus

Music score “Garden” by Sean Hayes … shared by Cyan Ryan at 21 Shades of Blue