15 June 2014

Friday was a mighty special day for lunatics like me.

13 June 2014

Full Moon Friday the 13th

11

The Night Beach

it seemed a fantasy, then

If I were still waters, though rain kept on falling, I know I would rise to the slow lip of spill.
Just trail your hand as you move through the shadows the branches above are so heavy with; fill
the pale cup you have formed with your palm and the magic that sifts through you willingly, while patterns form.
Still waters—rain—kept on falling—as madness increased in our hearing, and rose up to storm.
Love woken early, full Moon still on-shining, my mind in my hand, and your hand in my own,
this was the salt silent stretch of kind beach we had sought out forever, and only just known
last half-night, in our dreams. Here we are, met more gently than ever before, though we still cannot see.
I am invisible, shining not even the slightest in eyes trained where I cannot be.
Tarry sidelong, trailing hands in cold water; sift it with fingers that feel the tide turn.
The real rain must meet with the strange rain, demented by ghosts we all were where our lot ceased to learn.
Waters must flow on and on, like the ghosts in our veins, and our offspring, those reading us through.
If you had not turned the page, we might just as well—Cry out for death, and then die. Have you true
honest knowledge of sad little shadows beneath dying branches where lorn children seek shelter man
cannot damage, nor wrest hard away by bad magic, nor penetrate ever? I’m dead, yet I can—
stop this being from casting the hatefullest shadow—from touching the farthest-away turn of phrase—
if only I unlock my mind in the presence of kindness, and hear out what love’s prayer word says.

The night beach lies silent, a sweet stretch of Moon-glowed immaculate whiteness—on black basalt sand.
I lie alone as I never have, ever. You’ve always stayed close. We’re half ocean, half land.