Farewell my dear blogging family who I love . I hope to write poetry with Vincent Van Gogh on his ” Cafe Terrace at Night ” … P.S. – clue : my cowboy love seen just behind my shoulder will find me soon … and ” Jack and Francis ” will continue their journey into new territories of order and chaos , mystery and redemption and always Love . . .
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 ….
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 .
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
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
CAST :
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
MUSIC SCORE :
Ashes and Snow – Feather to Fire
Olsen Olsen – Sigur Ros
Practical Arrangement – Sting
Imagine – John Lennon
Chateau Lobby #4 – Father John Misty
PHOTOGRAPHY
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
