Sunday, June 22, 2014

The Eternal Lovers

Orange flesh, fruit savoured, caramel silk, a kiss open to moon's milk. Orange caramel moon, and I ripe underneath. Waking to a unicorn's horn pointing north east.

Fly above the takers, the shouters, the touchers, the hate. Spread wings joyously, filling with richness, arching with fate.

Let him wear his splendid suit and I shall put on my silver shoes, and together we shall dance, into and into the beautiful, beautiful blue.

Friday, June 6, 2014

The Dream, The Life

This was a dream. Wasn't it? The woman was weaving her snowflaked hair, starring it into a white blanket, iced milk of the sky. She sat by the river, a river frozen in time, towering above her in a suspended curve. She sang quietly, soft songs for the waiting flood, with a voice that could crack the stasis and release the water. She sensed its silent beat in her chest and felt herself opening, less restricted, her heart able to be red and wild next to this cool blue. What did it mean?

An ice pop, languorously unfreezing in the mouth.

Heat closes like a fist around the ice.

An imagined kiss.

Drink of moonlight, and eyes of gold, of lapis and offerings to Isis, sacred colours of love.

'Let us dance,' said the the night as it fled with the stars hand in hand, and by dawn they were undressed, their laughter lighting the sky.

But this is here and I was there; there in my waking dreams I watched that woman and that waiting river, that arch of ice – what memories did it keep? I saw lovers and flowers, a pram, school books, parties, celebrations, arguments, pain and sadness, slammed doors, loneliness, a face with an expression of absence. And in that frozen waiting she felt more alive, for she knew nothing would happen, nothing could happen, and how glorious that was – to be relieved of hope.

A moment – like a spring awakening, a spring tide, an aliveness, and this imagining so fine, so deliciously delicate. Pure.

She was waiting by that frozen river, comforted by inanimation. And I woke and took the words, the shapes, the feelings. I inhabited both the river bank and here, this world of other rivers, or isn't it the same river but in different guises?

I have a list:

happy people

A list is not a life.

But words are a start.

Perhaps they are everything.

They are a wish.

And wishes are powerful.

And I have a heart.

This is a life. Isn't it? The woman is weaving her celestial hair, singing it into a blue blanket, a sublime opera of the sky. She sits by the river, a river stroking, softening alongside her in a lover's curve. She sings joyfully, celebration songs for the life giving waters, with a voice that resounds the openness and meets the river's. She speaks its names in her chest and feels herself opening, with more love, her heart able to be everything next to this blue. It is.