memory the ghosted shadow

memory the ghosted shadow of
first love and eyes
shimmering heat above this
silver-summered earth
godlike o’er Elysian plain
scattered with the shaded dead
a’haunting down to sea and stream
in a dream i see the
contours of your face
white flower in your hand
wandering through the
golden grass of memory


“I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns-O grass of graves…”  -Whitman

why have you

why have you
made yourself
can you not
feel the coming
all time
drains the light
falls the yellowed
leaf from Yggdrasil
waste not the
open eye of life
briefer than a
catching breath
before the darkest
depths reclaim
can’t you see
i’ll never
be the same?
is this self-assurance
all illusion?
the filament a
delusion of my
pierced heart?
the silence mocks and
coldly shuns all
hoping thought
wrought by golden
ages forever held
desperately within a
breast beat strong
dearly wondering if
i was wrong
oh twilight that
feels so long
will i see the dawn again?

In a dream

In a dream I found myself in a haunted house.  An old century manor, with creaky wooden floors and large glass windows.  I don’t know how I knew it was haunted, I only felt that it was so.  Suddenly a woman appeared before me on the floor.  She had golden hair, and skin as white as porcelain.  I felt a kind of electricity in the air, and knew I was in the presence of a ghost.  She was lying flat upon the wooden floor, but looked up at me with dark eyes.  We said something to each other then, but I don’t recall the content of those words.  I remember kneeling down and gently kissing her upon a snow-white neck.  She inclined her head to make room, and gazed off into the distance.  I still remember the way my lips felt upon her skin.  She was as smooth as a ceramic bowl, and cold.  Her flesh was not hard, but soft.  I think at that moment I felt we might possibly come to love one another, and my heart filled with emotion.

The next thing I remember is leaving the building and meeting its proprietor.  He was an older man, short, stout, and sporting a large moustache.  He vaguely reminded me of Stephen Jay Gould.  He seemed shocked that I had been in the building and asked me in amazement, “Did you not see the monster?”  To which I replied, “No, only a beautiful woman.”  He went on to explain that all previous visitors to the house had seen a terrible monster within, at which I glanced at one of the windows and did indeed see a terrifying image, a beast of incredible horror, which flickered away once I looked to other windows.

As you can imagine I was quite upset by this.  Questions flooded my mind.  Would I ever see my pale lady again?  Could I enter the house knowing that such a creature dwelt inside?  Was the lady and the beast two different creatures, or were they in fact two aspects of a single phantom?  This latter possibility made my skin shiver.  Had I unwittingly given my heart to a monster?

This dream was so vivid that I have not forgotten even the smell of the place.  I have had some misgivings as well.  Did I have the lady’s permission to kiss her?  I can’t recall what was said between us, but the way she gazed into the distance causes me to wonder if my kiss was something she even desired.  Who was she?  Why did I not ask her where she was from, or why she was there?  Could I have helped her transition to another form of existence?  What is the significance of kissing a dead person?  She seemed animated, and yet to touch she was as good as a corpse.  This I find quite disturbing and even hesitate to include here, and yet to you, my faithful reader, I have always shown the deepest recesses of my heart.  In the end I remain baffled by the images and visions that danced within my skull in the quiet hours of the night.  Perhaps you hold the key to unlock these mysteries.

a vision flickering

a vision flickering
o’er the ebony wave
glow with memory’d
light so rich and pure
i stare afraid to blink
along the passage of
time and desire
you are a fire
floating there above the
watery way
rimmed by glowing spheres
fireflies around a
brighter center
bid your ancient love to
enter and recall a
time before the fall
before the weakening of
our magic days
unafraid to embrace the
bold light of uncommon
space around the nearness of
our faces pressed so
close together
before the darkened time
descended from
another place
alien and cold upon the
threshold of our
i have not looked away

On love and Jesus

Those who say love should be “properly oriented” know little about love or its potential.  Augustine thought love should be oriented to the one unchangeable being, ie God, for all other things are subject to change and therefore lacking in perfection.  But he failed to realize that love demonstrates its true power in being directed at the changeable.

“He demonstrated his love in this: that while we were still sinners…”

But love was betrayed by those later writers who made a mockery of this demonstration by having Jesus “ascend into the clouds” while his disciples stood gaping at love raised to the level of an abstraction.  His followers were left to love Love.