Paragraph : Blue

image

The sky was blue on April 16 at one minute before noon . It was to be my debut onto Avenue Magdalena , one street over from Clover Drive , the pale blue singing me into life , a life we are all born to die , the blue pushing me through onto earths keyboard , the blue stealing my heart , the blue separating the land and the sea by only a membrane . I’ve been watching , always watching , looking into a hued haze of violet swirling my days in New Mexico now , vast this country , nostalgic , old , fragile , faint with dark blue veins connecting canyons , cottonwood , cattle , antelope , crevices , plateau , juniper , tumbleweed  and the breath of sage sighing like dust clouds , moving ghosts over dry land , land the color of my body . Nothing is hidden here , here where melodies of wind bring forth imagination as if tears dropping from blue , drop compassion upon these hills of ivory skulls and bones .

I have been alive for sixty-five years today , today with the blue sky a circle . Those holes blue , drawn by the clouds becoming navels , the dark purple of the night are my east and west , the rising and falling of my nipples erect and exposed , the north and the south are my womb and stomach swallowed by the moon . I wish I could have another baby . I wish I could dance the flamingo . I wish I could hold onto my mother once more or play the accordion ( the green one I always write about ) or live at an ashram or walk the Camino de Santiago or fly like birds do . But I am a ” poem painter “. I was born in the bosom of Mother Earth , in a place beyond the horizon , a place whose residents have an inclination for precipitating miracles , a place under the bright blue sky of 1951 . Who stole my heart ? I’m always looking so far for it . I wish I could have back the round black mole that was once burned off my cheek bone . It came with me , an onyx from somewhere before , the day the sky was blue .

image

Photos by D. Cook Photography

The Remains of Them

image

still

she turns to see him

in her room

asleep upon white ginger sweet

now as then it is too much

this fire God burns Nostalgia Street .

image

does he see her

only then

before the sunlight changed her skin

her bashful feet adorned complete

with veins of musks bewilderment

upon the ghostly night off-beat .

image

still

the forever in his mind returns

to her of him , to him of her

too much , too much remembered love excrete

nowhere to go , there is too much love

there is too much world round her hands petite .

image

does he see her

only then

before her hair wove tangles grey

of careless curl laid indiscreet

across her tired outstretched arm

where blue and sand still long to meet .

image

still

the larvae swarm beneath

the bleeding bottom of her lungs

she’s terrified the booming beat

will choke and lift her from the ground

to hide the sea in vaporous heat .

image

still

still I talk to you

even though you’re far from me

screaming nights harsh retreat

you on Orcas , the island of whales

me beneath  volcanos loud deceit .

note : photos from personal album of my previous journey

Silent Night ( when the violin prayed )

image

On my way home

he was standing there

at the edge of the room

of vision lore

a great mysterious appearing door

not known to exist before .

I shut my eyes tight

the sun struck the sepia shore

life held so safely

by curtains of doves

fluttering above

like echoes ” this is all for you ” more .

image

Her feet he held

bared on the quiet site

upon placed winged slippers of white

she was paralyzed, no sound

God , are you watching what we do ?

the graveyard appeared by a stream

the dragonfly skimming blue wings

ripples moved the shocked world

in weavings calm

and her feet left the ground

He was standing there

at the edge of the room

on my way home.

image

The light was naked , neon

the taste  , blood pudding

the smell of sugarcane and mud

the dilemma of drums

a forest filled with sleeping bugs .

He stood there

at the edge of the room

on my way home .

Speechless

image

The ” see far-away ” open window where she now writes from inside on Cemetery Road , northern Michigan ….her adventure beginning two years ago on a dirt path in the village Gita , Bulgaria , thinking she had everything to do with it while at the same moment ,  knowing she had nothing to do with it at all .

Two ( too , twice , double , pair , duet ) strangely wonder – filled curious years of gratitude with WordPress and so many rare , loving , astonishing and inspiring  friends . ” Such a beautiful ( her most used word ) crazy , glorious and confounding world ” Michael exclaimed , embracing forever .

image

image

image

Photos above and below from my personal album

image

image

image

Photo of two ducks by Cassandra Hartley

photo pair of ” Ted and Aisha in the alley ” by Jessica Wade

For my friends …two thousand ” thank you so deeply ” with love always , megxxx

p.s. ” the heart is an organ of fire ” ( ” The English Patient ” )

 

 

Spirit Flight 478

image

tonight

I saw you looking at me

it all changed

birds left broken

shells

under the nest

and the mink

out of its hole

in the world

seeded by aliens

devoured

the starlings lullaby .

image

I saw you

looking at me

but I don’t know

how to rise with you

the dessert rose

of cemetery road

in a jar on our table

decayed when you

gave the passepartout

to another

and I couldn’t get in

with the river

of my love

im not strong enough

against her current .

image

looking at me

I saw you

trying to spread dawn

from your jagged fracture

and I wanted

i really wanted

to touch you

but I heard the birds

scream

on the road above

respendent

in their escape .

credits : first two photos by my daughter , Denise Thomasin Photography

Paragraphs : Christy

image

I went to him quiet with a notion to jump in the lake and drown , a sonnet of redemption playing for miles and miles and miles upon my tired face , my first cry opening a flame which the glass of water he gave me could not extinguish . I went to him alone , alone like pregnant camels are when left unattended . After listening when I told him what happened , William read from the Quran , ” In the name of God , merciful to all , compassionate to each “. I was scared , telling a lie as to coming here , even more so not divorced yet , actually being in his apartment , the cushions aligned , fine carpets outspread , the goblets all gleaming in the window green reflecting over Garfield Park where I take my children swimming and where he had first embraced me under a tree . I was frightened by the news flashing over the screen of the murder / suicide report of Christy , who I had grown up with , found dead by her lawyer husband , her naked body entwined around her lovers in a bed on the east side of town . She had looked at me only two days ago as she was leaving and I stood to enter the psychologists door , her blue eyes watchful and violet with vulnerability yet something paradoxically courageous in her direct gaze , a watery gaze staring straight into mine creating with it a strange sense of motion , a tide like ebb with an epilogue so swift , withholding almost as much pleasure as it yielded . Her search for Neverland a pandemonium furious and fearful leading her … and leading me too . Feeling the thud of an elevator , I was scared of the thirteenth floor . Would I spend nights in heaven hanging with the dead ? Thunder turned into the calm deep voice of Will reciting again , breaking an opening thru the clouds hovering in my mind . ” He it was who spread out the earth and placed in it towering mountains and rivers . Of all fruits he planted therein two pairs . He causes night to envelope day . In these are wonders for a people who reflect “. I was scared , scared to even think about what had happened or what I was doing . Where was God , where was the promised land , the land of the human skeleton , a skeleton of white bone , the meat of dead bodies picked at by crows and wild dogs , a body of muscles , organs , ovaries , lungs , the sound of the human heartbeat , the sound of a kiss , the wind over the sea , the call of the whale , the humming of the flying creatures , the long glide of the water swan , the sunrise on Lake Pontchartrain , the plink of the tiny tracks of the Plover bird , the blue avatars ? Where did it all exist ? Did it live on the Golden Record in the sky , pulsing behind a veil in the cosmos or was it here on the dirt path behind the narrow street of naked judgement in my neighborhood , the path into the Nature Center where dew like pearls on the grassy moss and branches reminds me of my children’s tenderness , my love for them always heading ” straight into the shining sun “. The air speaks falling leaves surrounding Will and me as I leave him standing still with restraint , a heroic eagle in the city . I pass a holy shrub growing which many years later a friend would compose a poem about and I hear a voice coming from the bed where my friend lay dead , telling a tale like poetry from her shroud , a tale that can still be true even if it’s not accurate like the creation story happening in only seven days . I walk into my house but I remain scared , scared and helpless , my secret scared about the tiny breath inside of me that no one knows , turning and turning and turning . I write these words to you if in heaven we don’t meet . . .

image

Paragraphs : Francis

image

image

I am born to die . I write an endless country . It is the year 2015 and until yesterday I had followed that summer day of 1983 , the day when love found me , into a muggy silence . A silence like the poems of Ahmed Matar , banned by the Muslim world , seeking freedom and looking for the promised land , throats covered by thorns . That morning , the man I was married too , returning from his 60 hour a week night job , walked in the side door as usual , fell into the bed I had just risen from where dreams lingered and my babies whimpering still echoed , erasing both , and me , with his rancid body odor of sour milk . I opened all the windows , shutting the bedroom door . ” You are a God of seeing ” ( Genesis 16:13 ) . Nineteen eighty three , it was the year a terrible storm cut short a free concert in New York Cities Central Park , the same year Kiss appeared on MTV unmasked and the year of amazingly beautiful light flashes seen on Jupiters’ moon , Io .  I sat on the front stoop listening to the birds first chirpings when he walked towards me , a stranger , a neighbor from around the corner who I had never spoken too , walking smooth like flowing black lava escaping , something rupturing my senses , something quenching an awareness of the famine  of my married days , days of pulsing flames laid bare by visions of the Mermaid Cafe near the Caves of Matala , Crete that I only saw on the pages of the National Geographic . And so it was , it was this day , this certain day after the rains when he approached that I suddenly inhaled the wind thru the giant Oak tree in our front yard on Jefferson Street , the 800 block that had been my entire world . He sat on the warm brick as my little boys splashed in the walkway puddle . In peering at the sky out of shyness , I caught a glimpse of the treasure hunter holding open the sky of majestic language where Solomon sprinkles both saints and sinners with hyssop . And in that single moment , it all began . Beginning with a lonely abduction from unhappiness into shame , soundlessly along the fog line , the white line painted on the outside edge of the freeway where morning stars sing without a care for the darkness of night . The mist of August summing up the whole world . I heard the Oracle of Delphi , ” know thy self ” as a turbaned man sitting outside Hotel Kahn drinks dark tea from across the divide . I could hear the sound of seeds falling into the rabbits cage and my father asking , ” don’t we have to eat , we didn’t die yet “. The fish in Lake Michigan slumber , the Ojibwa arrow spins , smoking immense thru the landscape . It is a moving world . The wind feels insane flying my hair as he looks at me , ” hi , I know your Francie , my friend told me …I’m William “. The antennae on the nearest tower receives and transmits from Voyager 1 , ” there is never any going back “. My silence of 32 years has been drunk on the memory , wanting mercy . And in this waiting , my story begins as my own soul drifts into my view . I ask , how could it possibly help to plant a lie in the middle of my life ? If someone loves you so much you really like how they smell . I saw the flaming sky soon to burn my spirit to transformation but not before wrath , destruction and sorrow pierced its weeping wound into a strange birth . I write a death march down these pages , a long , lone dark black line .

” oh let the sun beat down upon my face

stars to fill my dream

i am a traveler of both time and space

to be where I have been ”

Robert Plant , Led Zeppelin : ” Kashmir ”

image

Credits : first two photos by Denise Thomasin Photography

end photo by David Talley Photography

Bridge to Detour

image

her soft lovely body

lays on blushing horizon

touching her as if

she were about to disappear

look , the bright moon

afraid of its own emptiness

the evening choking

over Whitefish Bay

two hundred miles of open waters

Lake Superiors graveyard

silver ships beyond the seas

no snow , no rain

no heat , only lands

refreshed by balmy breeze .

image

her soft lovely body

crossing over the bridge

east to Amsterdam , west

to Wamaia , north to Canada

south to Patagonia

looking for a tent show

in Point de la Batture

unable to yell

from Bay Mills outlook

where below the muskrat

comes up dead , his paws

closed tight

holding a little earth

for the Great Spirit to

make a new world .

image

her soft lovely body

sitting in the bathtub

arms wrapped around her knees

noone understanding

the future twisting the window crank of

broken dances or

the bizaar site

of the undertaker

riding upon a coffin

on the Great North Lake

emerging from thick fog white

or that jellyfish drifting purple

from across the Red Sea

out of place

like the boy appearing from the hole

in the knotty pine ceiling .

image

her soft lovely body

sings to berry laden bushes

he drops fruit

onto her opened night gown

staining blood

the stripped pine looking

like human skin

see the nail making

a stain in that tree

she has dirt under her nails

the freighter passes by

the osprey fish , windmills turn

a man with a day old beard drives by

drinking from a thermos .

image

see the grass growing in cracks

of deserted highway

did we trade wonder for reason

in the last moment .

let it be , let it be

her soft lovely body

gazing from Menominee Ridge

her soft lovely body

like a bud , like a bud

caught upon the erecting steel

of Mackinaw Bridge .

credits : Mackinaw Bridge photos by Dale De Vries Photography

Upper Michigan waterfalls by Daniel Cook

The Book of 1000 Beginnings : Sylvies Paragraph

image

Her name should have been Francie ( my mamas name ) . I made a huge mistake and gave my only daughter the wrong name . I don’t want my memory to fail me now , not now , not when my middle sister Juliet is so terribly broken with grief , afraid of everything that could be . Death always scared her , words like ” heaven ” do too . There are three of us , three daughters first and then my brothers . My mother knew how I expected her to one day live with me . She understood the culture of South America especially after seeing the movie , ” Like Water for Chocolate ” and becoming aware of the Spanish tradition dictating the youngest daughter care for her mother in old age . Her favorite scene was when the youngest sisters heat and passion transfers to her older sister , who overcome with lust , takes a shower outside only to be carried off naked by a revolutionary soldier on horseback . My older sisters were tough competition and we fought for how long she would stay with each of us and just how many movies she could watch . But I’m the smart one ( buying her a one way ticket so she would stay longer ) yes , me the so called smart sister despite the fact that I took ayahuasca in the deep forest with the shaman along a strange river in Columbia where Gabriel Garcia Marquez lived ( my mamas favorite writer ) . I told her that story again and again , embellishing it more and more whenever she asked , which was often . I earned a masters degree in neuroscience , with a career in the research department of a university  and my mama always delighted that by looking at me , one would never know these puzzling facts . So how did I make that mistake with my daughters name ? I forgot the visions in forgetting the romance of my mothers life . I forgot that her brain heard whispers from her soul and that the imprint of her cell was the same as mine . ” Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again , though lovers be lost love shall not , and death shall have no dominion   ” ( Dylan Thomas ). I won’t forget again , not now , not with the black eyes of my daughter looking at me with my mothers emotion , eyes , the artifacts of her grandmothers mystery .

image

For my youngest daughter

The Book of One Thousand Beginnings : Dana : Final Paragraph

image

I took a photograph of her , her mouth wide open when a bird hit the window , a messenger from across the species divide . It lies on the grass before me and my dead mother . A flying creature , knowing things I do not , a divine emissary . Do I share kinship with this one who mimics my speech , my sobs ? Just who is guided by this passerine bird to this room of death , this pale room of my mothers end . And what will they do with her remains , the Christ-like stillness of her body , a body of delicate white bones , a body dead with skin like that fish I once saw aglow , not yet cold , blue moving with fog across waters of the Great Lake . Flowers are everywhere in this place , messages , repeated words on cards , ribbons caught in the air of a musky smell from life’s underbelly . I remember my brother once shooting a songbird out of its nest with his Daisy B-B gun and wonder when will he be here . I want to embalm my misunderstood mother and this raven together and watch them be mummified in beeswax and honey . But I know it will not be allowed . In what corner of my mind are my dead mothers poems hidden ? I cannot capture everything or anything with words any more …

image

Personal note : I have been lost in my story , words and more words , editing and cutting until only the ending above remains . I can’t find the plot anymore . Writing has become the long , long dance with music that refuses to end , even without any lyrics … but alas , I’m rather tired of searching for that plot . . .

Thank you , each of my friends for following and for always encouraging with your kind comments and inspiring hearts …it matters so very much …