Wordless Wednesday
Dreams
Middens by Jarea
Kingsbrae 25.4
25 June 2017
Middens by Jarea
Garbage dumps they are to us,
filled with childhood treasures,
shaped flints, arrowheads, spear
tips, scrapers for deer hide,
so many castaway items.
Garbage dumps to us, maybe,
but for the Passamaquoddy
who first settled this area
and lived on this shore,
these precious middens
are anything but dumps.
They are guide posts,
lighthouses in the moonlight,
signposts to point the way
for wayfarers and wanderers,
at high tide, low tide,
and especially when the mudflats
bathe beneath sun and moon
and the channels twist and turn,
serpentine labyrinths in their wanderings.
Garbage: we dig up what they have left,
expose past lives to scientific theories,
and destroy their navigational knowledge,
the science they left behind.
An Angel at Jarea
Kingsbrae 25.3
25 June 2017
An Angel at Jarea
An angel moves through the room
in the silences between our chatter.
He fills the interstices of speech
with the wonder of feathers
enlightened by rainbows.
Tranquil his footsteps
as we sense his presence.
He places his hand on an arm,
his arm around our shoulders,
and now, commanding silence,
a finger on his lips.
We sit here
scared by our intimate inadequacies,
scarred by the fierceness of his immanence
as we sense the vacuum
of his soon-to-be absence.
Mist at Jarea
Kingsbrae 25.2
25 June 2017
Mist at Jarea
Moving in with the tide,
drawing gauze curtains
over the islands,
climbing, so silent,
pebbles and rocks
to arrive at our windows
and block out the sun.
The mist’s grey face
presses against the panes.
Long lost friends,
come back to haunt us,
loom out of our past.
They bear memories
born beyond the mist,
living now in, and for, this mist.
They come stalking us and tap
with long, cold wisps of fingers
at locked windows and doors,
bolted so they can’t get in.
Carpe Diem
Kingsbrae 21.2
21 June 2017
Carpe Diem
Leos love this longest day.
Their sunshine manes
just swell and ripple
with a lion’s pride.
They lick their lips with joy
at the thought of sun,
and yet more sun;
finger-licking good,
this ice-cream warmth
spilling over from sugar cones
that march past in their memories.
Carpe diem
seize the day, indeed:
for tomorrow brings less sun,
and every day thereafter
sunlight grows less and less
until the frosty stars appear,
Orion thrusts his stormy
sword above the horizon,
and snow men
with their yellow feet
stand stock steady
on the lawn.
Rain
Kingsbrae 20.4
20 June 2017
Rain
Hand in hand, we walk
beneath black umbrellas.
Grass beneath our feet is wet
and water seeps through
our shoes, soaking our socks.
Cold and numb in spite of the date
(the summer solstice draws near),
my ears strain against the pitter
-patter of falling rain to catch
the nearby robin’s song.
He has mislaid his voice
and I can no longer translate
his liquid notes into soul music
that might lighten mind and day.
Clouds gather and empty themselves
over our umbrella-covered heads.
In spite of damp and dark that rule,
thoughts abound and hop around,
like frogs in a summer pool, while
light bulbs explode in my brain.
Blockhouse
Kingsbrae 19.4
19 June 2017
Blockhouse
We have become comfortable together.
We sit, food untouched on the table,
and play catch-up with our lives.
I tell her about my writing problems
and she tells me about her hopes and
fears for the future now her partner’s
walked out and left her for a younger girl.
Later, I sit in the car while she walks
on the headland by the blockhouse.
Mist covers Passamaquoddy Bay.
There was a time when I thought
she might walk out into that mist
and fade away, but she was strong.
Now I watch her walk away and
know that she’s really here to stay.
Waves
Kingsbrae 19.2
19 June 2017
Waves
Some nights,
the stars leave
their constellations
to walk alone.
The planets, too,
grow tired of company
and shine in solitude.
Where now the Zodiac
and Plato’s Platonic
dance of the spheres?
Who knows why a man
will one day walk out of the house,
and never return?
Who knows why a woman
will abandon her children,
turn her back on her lover,
and look only at the wall?
I only know this: that the tide
is composed of multiple waves,
and that each one lives and dies,
alone on the beach.
Three Visitors
Kingsbrae 18.3
18 June 2017
Three Visitors
The first one knocked on my door,
called out my name, knocked again.
I got out of bed, opened the door,
looked out: but the corridor was empty.
The second one stood in the corner,
calling, calling … I tried to answer
but I couldn’t unseal my lips. “No,”
the visitor said. “No. Don’t go.”
Lips and throat dry, tongue tied,
I lay in my bed.
My third visitor was David,
and I knew he was dead.
Insomnia
Kingsbrae 18.2
18 June 2017
Insomnia
When the gate-keeper sleeps,
who will open the gate?
Dreamland lies before us
but the gate is closed.
Where now is the gate-keeper?
How many sheep must we count
before the gate-keeper comes?
What will we do if he doesn’t arrive?
Must we just stand here and wait?
The sheep grow weary before our eyes.
They age and become frail.
Who now will count the motionless flock?
Where is the gate-keeper? Who will open
the gate that leads to the land of dreams?
Who will open the gate?
rogermoorepoet 