This is the moment
the door opens and the clouds flurry past
a high wind of thought and the hot flash
passing, leaving a flower, open, damp with dew
the scent of your breath and I am longing
for the distant hills and where the pilgrims in a long line
escape through the passes,
and I am left behind to wait and watch
the vulture circling high overhead to swoop – –
the serpent rears back and strikes,
talon gripped now, both soar
and twist in the high cold wind of aether
the tide roars and I seek you out
with tongue and teeth and lips and you pull me
forward – –
your arms tight
like clear water
this is the moment
the door opens
and then just as swiftly
Portrait no. 9
has gone beyond the wall
and will tell us no more of dragon’s tails
magic of mages struggling of sages
and I imagine her out taptapping imaginary worlds into existence
on her golden typewriter fourfivesixseven
some like earth
some like heaven
Do you hear, Mr. Death, her songs?
The Jester’s Lament
Here! This is the essence
The king even will die sitting in the sunroom
And the flowers will sigh in the wind at the loss
Befriend the queen of lies who hides the sun.
Notch the arrow, aim high at the semblance of the Sage.
The storm will follow as the thunder claps and the lightning
cracks the sky and hides the valley in shadows.
Will you wear the crown of kind being?
But such a kind gesture was and is and will be just a jest.
Where is the jewel of believing?
Listen to her words, lest, lost in brief sorrow
and the words of those Wanderers, both here and now
cause you to wander and die
alone and unheard.