What a Wonderful World


They thought they had remembered the time of the performance – but alas , it was not even today ! No matter , Miren was here , alone on the empty stage and the universe was about to blossom forth  , her creative and benevolent impulses lying in that innocent heart . Awake , a prayer is danced and we see for the first time into the nature of our own being .




” I celebrate myself , and sing myself .” – Walt Whitman , ” Leaves of Grass ”

Thank you to Miren Beane and her parents , Robbie and Cassandra ….


Waipio Valley


Today , this day today

this still life of mine astray

a table trance of bowl and knife

the China cup with teabag edging

its water lucid yesterday

a roque rolling wave

from Kamaloas lost sea

where fish swarm from arched waters warm

abound the ancient valley with royal bodies furious .

hovering tween the terrible turmoil

birds circling with no control

a flying machine about to fall injurious .

my mind breaking its shell

a feather drops from the wind

this lush valley to live in .

the lover kissing my neck a holy shiver

over the face of creations water , the place God knows

Behold the mark of archangel Raziel .


Do you know how old the wind is

five hundred thousand years long so curious .

come upstairs with me my love

to the golden wall where a door now stands whether

it did not before , you should know

the place is holy close to Jehovah’s body .


Come upstairs with me , my love

to find my scarve for I hear

the beginning chant and I’m afraid , I fear

to be alone in this still life of mine

a sliced silhouette , a redemption sign

today , this day today .



Love poem # 3


The  north wearing earth on his hands

the sprouting of tenderness .

The south , her lips pink from new Amsterdam

does not rest her seduction .

Lips pink , a gossamer pregnant

birthing long nights to lovers

entwined with maroons monogram .


The mouth harp intoxicating

singing stirring abduction .

north and south huddled together upon a raft .

lips of yesterday

lips surging phantoms

lips pink like the silver city

travelled far by Abraham .


The north land fermenting

his breath rising above heavens wet locks

falling from her dark purple sky .

Behold the flute of Khrishna

seeding a box of emerald green chocolates

a chariot of kisses , cacao pulp kissing

their lips , their limbs , their bodies swelling mussels .


The north the greatest storyteller

breaching lips , whales of love .

The south , her lips small but touching enormous things .

Behold the raft with waves of oysters and clams

the pretty ones always messy

lips pink , the jukebox dancing

cigarette lighters clicking .


The darkness on the street with a voice

now to bear witness .

Love red , love rising ruby

like a vapor she goes temporarily blind

her mouth open .


For Dan

One Hundred Kisses


Francis’s heart went “boom” and the fifth falcon with diamond drops of rain glistening its wing left the copper roof , circled and flew from the east to the farthest east creating a shadow as it passed over the tombstones on Cemetary Road . ” Boom , boom ” , what caused this abrupt beat transforming them all as if they were drinking a portion ? The fox , the horse , the doe of the morning , the mink gazing and gazing , the skull of the Earth counting and counting the days , days of ballads , of jazz , rock-n-roll , of rhythm and blues , days of symphonies , soundtracks , days of songs . Listen , listen , there’s the hip-click to the off beat , that syncopated accent of the off beat … the Holy Stream of sound , the world about to burst open from its slumber of ignorance , of pain , apathy and destruction , a yearning in the land . The falcon flashing by trees that took a hundred years to grow , tearing across towns where men lived their whole lives . The mighty bird keeps right on going to the booming beat , drawn to the sound like crows are to shiny objects and children are to secret ceremonies of their own . He flys on his way to the distant Egyptian tombs where the heart is the source of human wisdom .


The sun is finally out , the lake has gentled again after the storm . The boy with the kiss on his forehead has whirled by on his bicycle , his hair blowing in the balmy spring air . It’s time for a feast Francis thinks , a season for tasting velvet nights and smelling the promise of dawn . She sits looking , looking over the hills about to bloom wildflowers , the strange boom of her heartbeat bringing up the past of childhood when she thought she could jump off the tree stump and land in the clouds . She remembers now hiding behind the louvered doors of her bedroom closet as a girl reading ” Betty and Veronica ” comic books , making paper dolls , hiding her orphaned objects in small silver boxes her dad had brought back from Detroit . These objects so precious , intimate souvenirs picked up from sidewalks and streets , becoming companions , mysterious yet ordinary things . Memories of her birthdays, her 13th just after President Kennedy was assassinated , when she was given a pink Zenith transistor radio , how she retreated to that safe closet and heard the Beatles ” I Want To Hold your Hand ” for the first time and how saturated her body felt with a simple joy and wonder and hope after all the destruction in her country , a huge room of confusion on the verge of an opening to something beautiful , something healing for an entire planet , her radio having incredible power as she listened to the lyrics of “She Loves You ” under the covers at night .


But for a nine year old boy living in a small northern hamlet it was another world . A mother telling him his father would not be living with them anymore . A memory of the day his father went into the bar , leaving him in the car with the top down as Jack happily sat in the drivers seat on his bluejeaned knees , just able to reach the big silver steering wheel , pretending he was going down hills and curves , traveling fast . Playing with the radio dials as he hears the beat of the country singers wafting from The Hard Times Bar and Grill where his father sits drinking beer . The day his mother told them about the divorce was his older sisters first day of junior high and it was his best moment when he said to her , ” please don’t cry , please , it’s your first day , wouldn’t you like to take your shoes off and wear your flip-flops “?  Things had changed , somebody lived here once but no more , should he act like nothing’s wrong ? And from that time on , Jack embraced change as if he were clutching onto his fathers soft flannel shirt . . . the beat of his life finding glory in the change of his many sufferings , changing course from boyhood , bad boy , drinking too much , divorce , heartache . Will you bring me happiness or will you bring me sorrow , a question he asked for a long time . . . and then , ” boom ” , a new street sign , a new road of peace like coming into an unknown and unexpected birthright . For years he had wished it . The once scarry beard shaved to reveal a clearly handsome face .


Here comes Jack looking for Francis now . Open the gateway . Here is the landscape he once thought only he walked on . . . the tree trunks filled with eyes . He loves seeing her on the grass or sitting on his sofa in gypsy frocks , or in his bed or walking down his driveway . And Francis , well , she hears something in his voice , the way it is said , a certain tone and her heart goes ” Boom ” and she knows it’s not only her heart that’s involved , but every creatures . ” I’m kissing you , I’m kissing you , boom boom , ohh I’m kissing you “.

” Francie , I’m hiding the ladder so you won’t leave ” Boom , boom .

And that last peregrine falcon on Jacks roof , well , she remains watching there at the top of the pinnacle under a white sky . She is like a chord change of breathtaking beauty , a sprig of white ginger caught in her wing feathers from that little Hawaiin figurine on Jacks dashboard , a golden crown of turmeric anointing her head .


” Oh my heart which I had from my mother , oh my heart which I had upon earth ” ( inscription found on tombstone on Cemetary Road ) . . . from Chapter 30 of The Book Of The Dead

Exit Music playing


Jack as himself

Francis as herself

SUPPORTING CAST : ( with graditude )

Hariod Brawn – contented ness.net

Michael – Embracing Forever

John Flanagan – johnpoetflanagan

Cyan Ryan – 21 Shades of Blue

J. D . Riso ( Julie ) – Wish I were Here ( LaVagabonde)

Vanessa – vanbytheriver

Christine Robinson – Before Sundown

Sue Dreamwalker – Dreamwalkers Sanctuary

Jo – Restlessjo

Inese – Inesemjphotography

samesizesoul – The Emptiness of Longing

Christy Birmingham – Poetic Parfait

Christina Strigas – Writing & Poetry

Chris – chrisnelson61

Diana Wallace Peach – Myths of the Mirror

Laurent Domergue – Laurent DOMERGUE

Tony Single – Crumble Cult

Aquileana – La Avelaia de Aquiles

Marga Teichman – Life as Improv

Tia – Unbolt

Mino – Mihran Kalaydjian

Holly – House of Heart

Ellen Stockdalewolfe – MOONSIDE

Tom – Tom Clausen

Amy ( Lady Pink Rose ) – Petals Unfolding

Pepperanne ( Pippa ) – field of thorns


Ashes and Snow – Feather to Fire

Olsen Olsen – Sigur Ros

Practical Arrangement – Sting

Imagine – John Lennon

Chateau Lobby #4 – Father John Misty


Ken Scott

Vivian Maier

Sorolta Ban

Aela Labbe

Denise Thomasin

Special thank you to WordPress ( blog design )

” If the doors of perception were cleansed , everything would be seen as it is – infinite “.  William Blake

Note from meg : this was my 100th post and the last and 6th in the series about Jack and Francis which began on Feb. 12 with Something Happened , Jack and Francis , Leelanau County , White Spots of a Fawn , Moons Wandering and finally , One Hundred Kisses ….Thankyou to all of my friends who made such kind comments and kept me going ( mentioned in the credits ) and to all who read and ” liked ” ….from my heart with love xxxmeg