a light at thE end of a very long tunnel

I've managed to finish a rough 'sketch' of In the Gardens of Loveplay, my novel in the works. A brief introduction and the first two titled 'chapters' can be read here. A lot more is written than just this small portion, but much of it has been written out of turn (or order) and those parts wouldn't offer much more than uncontextualized snapshots. But I am posting my summary of chapter titles (subject to change, of course). I am also in the process of developing artwork for the project.

Anything you read within parenthesis are notes to myself, and not part of that portion's title.

Here is the Forward:

This is a story of Venice, but not the Venice you may have visited, or once lived, or dreamt of seeing. This is also a story of love. But what else would such a tale be about? It is a tale of conspiracies, jealousies, broken hearts and the binding of two souls, one to the other. Within these pages you will find a world strangely at peace, boats that float on air, and an angel in search of redemption.

"In the Gardens of Loveplay"

Introduction - What We Shall Find

1 - a Priori - A Glimpse of Heaven
2 - The Severing of Ties
3 - Conspiracy of Love
4 - For Love of a Good Wine

Interlude I - The Last Great War (Diary Excerpts, and Poem)

5 - The Confessional
6 - Early Summer
7 - Walking the Gardens
8 - Aldo I
9 - In the House of Her Sisters I
10 - In the House of the Winepresser
11 - In the House of the Gondolier I
12 - Summer
13 - Rome
14 - Aldo II
15 - Pia I

Interlude II - Leptus Magnus (Plus Poem "Dinner Among the Ruins")

16 - The Inn at Vesuvius
17 - Abandoning the Arbor
18 - Early Fall
19 - Pia II
20 - Dinner and a Kiss I
21 - Late Fall
22 - Aldo III
23 - In the House of the Gondolier II
24 - Winter I - Separate Tables
25 - Winter II - Similar Loves
26 - An Exchange of Gifts
27 - Lisbon
28 - Dinner and a Kiss II

Interlude III - The Dance  (A Poem in Four Parts)

29 - In the House of Her Sisters II
30 - In the House of the Gondolier III
31 - The Inn at Vesuvius
32 - Late Winter
33 -The Patron Saint of Lovers

Interlude IV - To Paris - Precursor to Spring

34 - Early Spring
35 - The Peregrination
36 - In the House of the Winepresser II
37 - Return to the Arbor
38 - The Lowering of Masks
39 - The Confessional II
40 - In the Garden of Loveplay  (Plus Poem)
41 - Walking the Garden II
42 - Dinner and  a Kiss III
43 - Aldo IV
44 - The Invitation (to marriage)
45 - Pia III

Interlude V - In the House of Her Sisters III  (Poem)

46 - Preparation and Separation
47 - In the House of the Gondolier III
48 - The Final Veil
49 - Carne Una
50 - There is But One Kiss  (Includes Poem)

Interlude VI - Carnivale

51 - The Floating Boats
52 - In the Gardens of Loveplay
53 - Till the Lanterns All Burned Down
54 - Subter Astralis Caelum

Interlude VII - Perfection in Romance (Includes Poem)

55 - Isabella

Epilogue - Selah

56 - Christien Vernay, from Father to Son
57 - Don't Dream It's Over

Everything is, for the most part, mapped out. There's still some reconciliation to be done, but those points will be minor. The greater task of plotting this eleven year-old monster out is, at long last, complete. Now begins the serious task of linking all the prose presently written with those portions which must fill in all the remaining gaps-- all the poetry is written, all that remains is prose. The artwork will take longer, but I only need a few key pieces to begin the process of publication.

As a side note, notice that there are nine sections including the Introduction and Epilogue. Nine is significant because it represents finality; the end of a matter, or the fulfillment or consummation of a matter. Interestingly enough (to me, at least) my arriving at this number, in this manner, was unintended. When I looked at the number of Interludes I saw seven, then wondered what the significance of nine would be adding the Introduction and Epilogue. The answer, I discovered, was both surprising and curiously apropos. 

None of these chapters (except one of the poems) will exceed ten pages of print, not including artwork, so right now I'm looking at between 350 and 500 pages.

and in the spirit of tEa...

Another 'Tea' poem from last summer... The notes below are from that day in July.


The Zebra Tree

We drank our tea 'neath the zebra tree
All eyes upon our riche aree
Amber creams amid darjeeling hues
The crackled skies and fields our views
We didn't mind what minds should think
Easing in our honeyed drink
Caring much less what eyes might see
There beneath the zebra tree
We spoke ~ Our eyes! What heralds we sang!
Two hearts a'thunder in pealings rang
Love and tea caring naught for eyes
Not lips kissing, nor delighted sighs
What need have we to e`er look up
When upon tea and love we choose to sup?


ELAshley
071910.044526.6
Revisions:
071910.045220.6
072010.094406.1
050511.021352.6
051711.051216.6 (punctuation/spelling)


Unable to do any work because of virus scanning, and unable to even play Hearts, I resorted to doodling. A 'zebra tree' (if there is such a thing), coupled with the soft pleasure of tea still on my tongue... what else could I have written of? This is the first real bit of poetry I've written in months.

And for the record, the italicized words 'riche aree' were meant only as 'holding' words until proper replacements could take their seat. They mean nothing in real world terms, but my intent was to convey a sense of 'rich ease' as in a 'luxuriant taking of' one's ease. I don't wish now to remove these words, and, as I figure it, if Carroll could get away with this device, why can't I?

an affair over tEa

An Affair Over Tea

I came for the tea,
Said I. And she
With eyes like kohl
In diamond lit dew
Smiled. Whereas we,
'neath our lush camellia tree,
Sojourn singly, the soul
Of this deep amber brew,
Bids us sit. The bowl,
To its subtle brim,
Where ripples swim
Sings, 'Drink deep of me.'

Our cup is empty
Said I. Then she
Lips blush like figs
Bright softly wet,
On this lets agree...
I'll fill you, if you fill me;
My soft petal to your stout sprig!
Our engagement now set,
'forget the din,' * quoth she
Then plunging ladle deep and up
Smoothly filled my empty cup
Singing, 'Drink deep of me.'

I came for thy tea!
Spoke I. And she
Cup shy to tongue
And a lilt to her gaze
Answer now, I challenge thee...
Lovest thou my heart more than tea?
For though we are yet young
Wilt thou love me all my days?
Stay thy cup! Thy troth unsung!
'Neath stars, moon, sun, camellia bowers
Pledge thou me thy love's endless hours?
Ne'er tiring to drink deeply of me?

Of thee, thy tea?
Asked I. And she 
'Yes' in her eyes,
Come drink of me
Of mine own heady brew!
You sing to me, and I'll to you
Of our live's desires 
'neath the circling sun!
And I smiled, filled with its fires 
I would that our cups never empty
That your lips soft and chastely
Ever desire to drink deep of me!

I came for the tea!
She said. And she,
A dapple of sun
On her soft silk brow,
Smiled, I would drink thee
Daily, nightly, bold and lightly
Oolong, White, Matcha, Pu'er
Hot, cool or chill,
Wherever you are
And her lips kissed the brim of her porcelain cup
Brow softly down, her eyes looking up
Come, drink only of me!
For an age of me!
Forever of me
Come, my love, let's tea!


ELAshley
062411.044007.6
Revisions:
091211.105641.1
102011.125103.6 [including last two stanzas]



Only me?
Then come, let's tea...

-----



* "Tea is drunk to forget the din of the world."

     --T'ien Yiheng

capulet

I've got a headache. The kind that shoots spears of lightning down the muscles of the neck and back-- it's a vice that seems to know but one direction. Headaches, for me, cause everything else to grind to a near standstill.

I wrote a poem once, while in the beginning throes of a migraine. As short as it is, it still took more than an hour to get right.

This time around my inspiration came not from the headache, but from a single word which caught my eye while scanning a random page of text... That word?


Capulet

Capulet sing
To the morning sun
Of all the things you haven't yet done
Ask him to stay
A little long 'neath the cover
Give you more time
Alone with your lover
Capulet sing

Capulet sing
To the dark starry night
Sing of the things you haven't got right
Ask them to shine
A little long in the sky
Give you and your lover
More time for goodbye
Capulet sing

Soft-throated murmurs
And sighs on the bed
Clasped and fervent
To the boy you have wed
Oh, Capulet sing
Of eyes deep and burnished
Tongues steeped in honey-sweet dew
Your lips on the curves
Of your dear Montague
Oh Capulet sing
Poison and daggers
Are terrible things

Sing and let go
Without fear or doubt
To your sweet Montague
Unstained and devout
Sing Juliet and maybe you'll see
A life beyond whispers
And cold rosary

Capulet sing
To the cold fates of love
Pray to the God who watches above
For Romeo rises
And Mercury too
Tumult and Tybalt
By the hand of your poor Montague
Oh, Capulet sing

Soft-throated murmurs
And sighs on the bed
Clasped and fervent
To the man you have wed
Oh, Capulet sing
Of dreams for the future
Of love, unembattled and true
Your lips on the breast
Of your dear Montague
Oh, Capulet sing
Capulet ring
Capulet love
Till the morning takes wing
Oh, Capulet love
Oh, Capulet sing
Daggers and poisons
Are terrible things


ELAshley
033111.110726.
.113625.1

rEtreating to the obscure art of pen and paper

From early afternoon to closing time yesterday, my office computer was running diagnostics, so I was left alone with nothing to do; nothing I could do in terms of work productivity, and I found myself falling back into well-worn reveries - wishing for an upcoming change to hurry. I reached for the keyboard thinking I'd come to this or another blog and write... until I realized again the computer was doing its own thing. I was shut out.

So I took out a pen and paper, immediately wondering how long it had been since I had done that, and began to write... What follows is the result of near two hours of drafts and revisions and I'm still not sure I like it.


We Came

We came to play
We came to sing our troths and vespers
At the closing of the day
We came to dance
We came to toast long love in whispers
At the closing of the day

But will it, my Love
Will that this night should last forever
That these few hours of sharing
Fit as sure as a glove
Take hold, my Love
Thrust through the burning heart of the sun
Don't let go, break away, cease from kissing me
Feel the tides of our love
Fit as tightly as a glove

We came to love
We came to drown in waters changed to wine
In the soft fall of night
We came to learn
We came to search each hill, leaf, and vine
in the soft call of night

But will it, my Love
Will that each touch should last forever
And our long years of sharing
Should defy the coming day
Take hold, my Love
Thrust through to the blinding light of the sun
Don't let go, break away, cease from rocking me
Feel the tides of our love
Fitting tight as a glove


ELAshley
110310.051521.6
Most Recent Revision:
110410.040459.6
110410.042707.6

tuesday's child a'quErying....

Where is the grace in aloneness?



It's everywhere you look, everything you set your hand heart mind voice soul to. That and much much more...

today is awesome poetry day... 'cause E said so

Here's a poem I stumbled upon by Gabriel Gadfly...


Beautiful Like...

STOP!
Right there.
I want to remember this image
for the rest of my life.
I want to remember the shape of
your thighs clamped tight around mine,
the shine of your tangled hair,
the sheen of the impassioned sweat
on your slender, outstretched arms,
and the gleam of the blade
on that really big knife you're holding.

Just Stop,
because I've got to tell you something:
you're beautiful.
And I don't mean run-of-the-mill
girl-next-door kind of beautiful
You are stunningly, terrifyingly,
shock-and-awe beautiful.
You are beautiful like
bullet tracers over Fallujah are beautiful,
beautiful like the thousand shapes and colors
swimming in your vision
after a too-soon flashbang
in a Baghdad bakery are beautiful.
Beautiful like the grenade at your feet
still has the pin is beautiful,
beautiful like the bullet that kissed your dog tags
and only went halfway through is beautiful,
beautiful like the bullet that kissed your throat
and went all the way through is beautiful.
Beautiful like the bright instruments of a British medic
in a field camp hospital clamping your veins,
and stitching your flesh, and saving your life are beautiful.
Beautiful like three bags of
Typo O negative blood are beautiful.

Stop
Right there.
I want to remember this image for the rest of my life,
like I'll remember the image
of you stepping out of a C-130 transport plane,
and realizing that when they told me
they never leave one behind,
they didn't mean they wouldn't leave a few pieces.
You are beautiful.
You are beautiful
like the edges of the broken pieces
of a celebratory wine bottle,
glittering like razor wire all across
the earthtone tablecloth are beautiful.
You are beautiful like the stares of people in Wal-mart
when the bang of a box sliding off a shelf
puts you screaming on the floor are beautiful.
You are beautiful like nightmares are beautiful.
You are beautiful like
“Honey, Mommy might be a little different when she gets back.”
“That's okay. I'll still love her, Daddy” is beautiful.

I'll still love you, baby.
We'll get you the help you need,
but you need to give me the knife.



It's absolutely beautiful... stunning imagery. I tend to write introspectively; desire, personal fear, reflection, metaphysics, sometimes of war, but again in terms of desire, fear, reflection etc. But Gabriel here, writes viscerally; he's pulled no punches. Got to admire him for that.

If I had to place one of mine next to his; not to contrast or compare my introspection with his clarity, but in addendum to clarity, I'd choose what follows below. We tend to see each moment of our lives as having absolute clarity, we see what we see and interpret as rightly as we know how the meaning of it all. One man sees the knife in his traumatized wife's hand with far more clarity than a man who's never seen the ravages of war-- personally or second-hand --while another man sees from a distance the high cost of war in purely clinical terms; of numbers and lives and flag draped coffins... Taps echoing across a field of white stone.

I've been in the military, but I've never seen war, let alone fired upon another person, enemy or otherwise. So I write introspectively... romantically. If anything war produces could ever be described as 'romantic.'

But if I had to place one of my own next to his? This would be it...


Resurrection

I draw the muslin over my head
Feel my breath mist beneath its weight
Trapped and drawn again inward
Last moment's breath
Called upon once more
Weaker now; bearing life still
        My brother lies near
        No mist beneath the muslin
        No breath revisited
        No life ~ weak or otherwise
        Only the sure knowledge that moments are fleeting

I pull the muslin down and away
Breathe in the cold chill of night
Fresh and unsullied air…
Open my eyes and see the heavens turn
Each breath new
Filled with life ~ strength
        My sister lies near
        Unmoving ‘neath the muslin opaque
        Oblivious of the passing of moments
        Oblivious to the sound of my heart's beating
        And the sure knowledge of the song it sings

Sing Brother!
Sing Sister!
Draw the curtain from your eyes
And let life ~ Fresh and unsullied
Beneath equally pristine skies
Fill your bodies once more
With hope and new breath
Let your wounds draw closed
Your limbs bind with sinew and bone unshattered
And let's walk once more ‘neath the stars of heaven
In the sure knowledge of life everlasting


ELAshley
020306.014802.1


Mr Gadfly understands the visceral human connection, I grasp the metaphysical. He sees the human toll, I see the spiritual. I'm sure he sees the metaphysical as well, but he chooses to rub our fine sensibilities in the hot coppery truth. And I wouldn't dream of faulting him for it. Bravo, Gabriel. Bravo.

disrEgard - what follows is meaningless without context

Aubade

Morning comes and the dream thins
Paint from heart world's canvas washes away
Sun's herald cries aloud, and our whims
Shall be forgotten come the light of day
I would that you might stay
Here in our gossamer bed
Where our souls lie safely wed
But the tapestry grows thin
Stay, my love. Stay

....

Auspicious our beginnings
How real the love of our dream

.....
092710.114302.6


Context will be made plain (clear) in time. For now, this is a snippet of notebook..

sensuality and haiku

Simple is best. Simplicity is the soul of grace. And the simplest pleasures are free. Take sex, for instance; assuming you're not paying for it in some form or fashion it is free. It is an exchange. It is more than simply give and take... give and "accept" is the greater form [for the semantically challenged, yes, there is a difference]. But what does all this mean? If my words don't lead to a responsible conclusion I've wasted my time.

I believe I find myself exploring the topics I do because they hide themselves from my own personal experiences; they rarely darken my door, or brighten as the case may be. Is it my fault my life has not lived up to my expectations? But this is a digression.

Sensuality. I love the feel of silk on my skin. I love the feel of no clothes on my skin. I love the feel of bare feet on plush grass or carpet. I love the sensation of clove in my mouth and rushing through my nostrils. And like countless others I love the sensation of being inside a woman. I would consider it the height of pleasure to simply slip inside and stay there... unmoving... just relishing in the enveloping heat, arms, and vision... the sound of unhurried breath, the scent of soft, clean, unperfumed, skin. Just to be inside and stay there for as long as desire and patience will allow.

And then there's this. Written this morning. For no particular reason at all...

Our love lies squandered
Souls spent swift in sweat and seed
Soft lips hot with breath

ELAshley
091610.092621.1

My Haiku... Eleven long years down the road from this gem...

Her eyes slid closed
Emeralds. Slowly and softly
And her form unclothed
T'was bathed with light. Softly
She smiled and posed
Her lids eased softly
Open. Then shut and dozed
Dreaming slowly. Softly
Her legs, lithe and hosed
My hands caressed softly
With desire prosed
In tender words. Softly
With moistened lips I 'trothed
Kissed her throat softly
Thighs parting she glowed
Mystery and pleasure. Softly
Her scented petals flowed
My tongue did taste her softly
She to me bestowed
The jewel of her love. Softly

Her lips. Her scent. Her taste. Her touch. Softly
On this deepest of nights proposed. Softly
The union of lips, scent, taste and touch. Softly
Her warm embrace held me enclosed. Softly
And I gave to her my soul,
Completely


ELAshley
060199
Latest Revision:
091610.111117.1


I wrote that when I was 39... a young man yet. Now I'm 50. Why am I still thinking the same things? Why do I still dwell on sensuality?

the promise of shared synchronistic stirs ?

"If It Should"

And if it should happen
that one day you play our song
when I am not there
know that I will hear it
because you are hearing it.
Know that I will not
turn my ears from you
when my chimes ring-
they are yours.
Know that I find instances of you
in distant songs
faint music
old books.
Know that I hear you when I drink
your soft voice
your brush of hair
your tongue full of eden.
And if it should happen
that one day I play our song
when you are not there
know that I will listen for you
as wind listens for doves.

--Michael Gravel


..::(e)::..

If it should indeed. I know this feeling all too well, and have even managed to capture some near-equally fitting imagery myself, but I must give credit to Mr. Gravel for capturing "it" so succinctly... so beautifully.

A sample of my own, you ask? Here... enjoy.

Souls are not bound, as are bodies
To a point of reference
On a geographical map
Nor should they be thought of
As bound by the laws that govern flesh
They are transcendent
Larger than human form
Which cannot hope to contain them
My soul lies beside you as you sleep
And it whispers to me in my dreams
Every wonderful detail
My soul’s arms ~ Such as they are
Hold you throughout the wheeling of stars
In a sky much like my own
We share proximity…

As I said... near-equally (in my own estimation). For the entire poem click here. My stirs, in this offering at least, are not as strong. Here's a link to something stronger... Resonance, and something immensely more satisfying here, The Dance. IT is this last one I feel the most affinity for; it most closely shadows my inner turmoils. It more truly reflects my heart.

something E chooses to remember...

In the Wild World

In the wild world
I would love you
without guilt
I would call you
trembling,
I would seduce you
with words,
eyes, hands, lips
careless as wind,
I would speak
all the names
of your hidden desires
and give them to you,
day after day
until you are breathless,
aching
and burning for my touch.

J.L. Stanley, 2006

a pueblo indian prayer

Hold on to what is good,
even if it's a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe,
even if it's a tree that stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do,
even if it's a long way from here.

Hold on to your life,
even if it's easier to let go.

Hold on to my hand,
even if I've gone away from you.

__

Beautiful

the wisdom of oscar wilde

...who, though the few quips below are indeed shaded in hues of wisdom, was not necessarily a wise man. [disclaimer]

"A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it."

Muslims die for a lie each and every day.

"Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."

No one is perfect, especially Christians. Sinners will never be perfect, nor forgiven.

"Self-denial is the shining sore on the leprous body of Christianity."

Christians don't follow Christianity. They follow a real and living person who can be known, loved, experienced, enthroned, and embodied... Much of what passes for Christianity is not Christianity. And, paraphrasing Mr. Wilde...

'a man is not necessarily Christian because he believes he is.'

a form to explore... on another day

Dodoitsu - a fixed folk song form of Japanese origin comprised of 26 syllables total in four lines of 7, 7, 7, 5 syllables respectively, unrhymed and non-metrical.

[oh, you!]

"The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources."

--Albert Einstein

Albert speaks volumes in only eleven words. Who said brevity is the soul of wit? Shakespeare? What about the sole of wisdom? If you can manage to keep your sources and inspirations hidden you maintain the veil of mystery you deliberately-- whether you realized it or not --affixed to the product of your hands. Or, as Montgomery Scott once said, "Oh, laddie, you've got a lot to learn if you want people to think of you as a miracle worker."

..::[e]::..

"Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever."

-—Mohandas Gandhi

Perfection of the Christian condition as expressed by a Hindu. He nailed (no pun intended) the following quote just as beautifully... "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

..::[e]::..

"Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything-— all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure --these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

--Steve Jobs

He may be dead tomorrow, so watch out! More iPads, and iWhatzits on the horizon! All kidding aside he speaks the truth. In the face of death, what does it matter if a big part of you thinks you're out of her league. Go talk to her anyway; be yourself, be honest. Only God knows the true value of your efforts, your honesty, and your self...

..::[e]::..

"The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy's will to be imposed on him."

--Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Wow! Did you read that!? Can you even guess at the magnitude of the truth in this? Democrats operate this way. They impose their will on America, but never allow America to impose its will upon them. My, how times have changed! Once, it was 'We the People' who imposed its will upon Washington, but now up is down and right is left. The saddest part in all this is the so-called 'Free Press'. Once champions of Freedom they've sold their birthright for a mess of pottage. Selling us all out in the process.

..::[e]::..

air and light and time and space

"–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

--Charles Bukowski

'to find new excuses for.....' what?

I like this guy. What I see in this? The only thing holding you back is yourself; your fears and insecurities that limit and stifle your creativity... Only YOU can prevent forest fires... And only you can stoke the fire in your heart. Inspiration may be the flint to your steel, but you must nurse and coax the spark of their marriage to life.

Amen, and amen.

it's always ourselves wE find in the sea...

I Stumbled across a poem by e.e. Cummings yesterday afternoon, and was struck by the last two lines...

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

For myself, this is as true a statement as there is. I have been fascinated by the sea for all of my life, having lived on or near it for the first twenty-seven years of my life. And, believe it or not, I've written quite a bit on my fascination. Here are but a few samples...

It was vast, the Great Hall,
The dancers a sea, and I a lighthouse
Casting a light across the undulant deep, wild and flowing
A warning to those who might think to stop…
     Dance on, I prayed, beware these shores; hard, merciless, unmoving
Dance as long as Fate allows

--from The Dance

Life is a dance, and the dance is a sea of humanity; no one dancer perfect, but the whole a thing of tremendous beauty.

He looked out over the edge of the dock, looking into eyes that danced crazily on the surface, its form but a vague shadow on the waters rough surface. Without a word it reached into its coat pocket and pulled out a large black gun. It lifted the gun to its temple, squeezed the trigger, and fell lifelessly into its reflection.

--from Thrice Upon a Shore

Three short short stories painting images of life and death at the edge of the sea.

When the waters finally settled and its surface grew calm, Crearachenala searched beneath the waves for Enohtoo's body. When she found him she cradled his mighty head upon her lap and wept.

For all the many years that Ocean's waters filled the basin that is Zon, Crearachenala returned, when the waters lay calm, to where he lay and brought with her the soft rains to sweeten the waters where he slept.

--from In the Light of a Dying Sun, Book One. The Cradle of Giants

Nature has a way, both elegant and powerful, of leveling the balances. Get in the way of the natural order of things and the results can be disastrous.

I've washed my room with golden light
Laid chilled wine ~ two glasses by
Threw open windows to let in the sea
Accompaniment for my lovers' sigh

--from Washing the Room

Eroticism is not the sole pervue of sight... Or taste, touch, scent... the pounding of surf too sings of eroticism.

Sing to me a familiar song
Lips brush mine ~ our breath a song
Like the gentle susurring sea

--from One-Hundred Years Entwining

The sound of surf is perfect for spiritual and physical centering. All you have to do is stand in the surf to know your place, and sleep beneath its song to know cleansing restorative rest.

I have been too long from her garden. I know she is violence, yet I am drawn to her. Though she be calm above, yet am I turmoil within, without her. She is my lover, and I hers. She longs for me to lay furrows across her back with any ship I can find, and looking back, watch her smooth my wake without enmity. She smiles to know I long for her, to ride her swells, to feel her breath on my face and taste the salt of her tears. I awake each morning with that longing, wondering if our paths again will converge. But she is patient, if not always forgiving; she knows my heart is not my own, and that all things return to her in time.

--from Long From Her Gardens

A biographic foray into the fascination I have for sea. I love her, but fear her... I am properly respectful.

She learned my name years ago and has not forgotten it, calling me by name, often whispering to me as I sleep, sighing, "Return to me, you have been away too long."

There's a lot to find at edge of the ocean, not the least of which is yourself. And speaking of which, have you ever heard the band Ivy? I could listen to the following song all day long and never get tired of it...






Edge of the Ocean

There's a place I dream about
Where the sun never goes out.
And the sky is deep and blue.
Won't you take me there with you.

Ohhh, we can begin again.
Shed our skin, let the sun shine in.
At the edge of the ocean
We can start over again.

There's a world I've always known
Somewhere far away from home.
When I close my eyes I see
All the space and mystery.

Ohhh, we can begin again.
Shed our skin, let the sun shine in.
At the edge of the ocean
We can start over again.

Enjoy your next trip to the beach. I will.

a new song to clEar the air

Here's something new to clear my spirit of last weekend's miasma. There is enough disease in my life already without allowing those events permanent residence in E's museum of recollections.

Sheer (She Loves Me)

Sheer. She is. She walks
Naked and the walls tumble down
Sheer. She moves. She smiles
My senses beginning to drown
And the tears in my eyes
Burning lines in the skies
Oh, how beautiful she is ~ to me
And I wonder how she
Ever came to love me
But I long ago stopped asking her why

Sheer. Her heart. Her love
Transparent her desire for me
Sheer. Her touch. Her kiss
There's nowhere else I'd rather be
Than right here in her bed
through the long years ahead
Oh, how beautiful she is ~ to me
And I wonder how she
Ever came to love me
But I've left all my wondering unsaid

Cause she loves me
And that's all I need to know
She loves me
All I ever need to know
Is that she loves me
Standing right here
Sheer

Sheer. Her eyes. Her look
I'm naked in all my designs
Sheer. Her hand. In mine
Soft neath the heavens entwine
Our lives love and laughter
All the dreams we run after
Oh, how beautiful she is ~ to me
And no more wond'ring how she
Ever came to love me
In her eyes I've found the answer

...And it's as simple as

She loves me
It's all I'll ever need know
She loves me
It's all that I'll ever need know
Cause she loves me
And that's all that I need to know
It's as simple as she loves me
Standing right here
Sheer


ELAshley
041210.101536.1
Immediate revisions:
041210.102530.1
041210.104126.1
041310.082334.1

I've got a melody with this one. I'll work out the chords at lunch.

One day, despite my previous declarations, I'll have to get around to recording some of this stuff.


Ciao for now, everyone. It's time to get to work.


Oh! I have no idea who that woman is. God willing, I'll know someday soon.

poetry found: sara tEasdale & tobin james mueller

Faults

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before, —
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.
Simply beautiful...

--Teasdale


Wake Up, Love

wake up, love
undress yourself from my skin
put on the sun and let our dreaming rest
come watch the world rise

wake up, love
and be unbalance on the edge with me
of our sagging, remembering bed
come slip on your shoes

wake up, love
and help me sort this tangle of belongings
our thoughts half in day, half still in night
come kiss me full of sustenance

wake up, love
and meet me at the opened door
before the scent of you leaves my hands and hair
come walk with me into this life

--Mueller

Simply beautiful...

dreamers, bEware!

Dreams

All people dream, but not equally.
Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind,
Wake in the morning to find it was vanity.

But the dreamers of the day are dangerous people,
For they dream their dreams with open eyes,
And make them come true.

D.H. Lawrence

shE makes me want again to take up my brushes...

Miss Audrey Kawasaki paints on wood... an amazing artist is she.

It's been more than twelve years since I picked up a brush. I went to work one day at a television station, picked up Photoshop, and my brushes have languished like Poe's House of Usher ever since. I picked up a pen in earnest about the same time and began to write poetry... few stories, because they require the patience of a saint and the determined insanity of a free climber. I have patience in spades but not the gritty determination. The desire is there. It hasn't left. Nor will it. My gift's muscles will wither and atrophy, but exercise will bring them back to life. Yet in order to pick those brushes up again, I've got to have something to say. I'm not even sketching anymore, so whatever voice I have it has been as celibate as I have, lo, these many years.

But miss Kawasaki makes me want again to take up my brushes, and in both wide and fine swathes give my dreams a measure of corporeal presence they've not enjoyed in a long while. Few artists inspire me, which is why I even bother mentioning miss Kawasaki...

My Brush, Dreams' Clarion

Lips a' blush
at the tip of a brush
rose madder and silky pearl
on wooden dreams unfurl
our lips brush
while intimacies blush
hands steady
colors wide, heady and thin
in
swathes, corporeally
stand and demand
~ yearning attention
dreams' intention all along

ELAshley
033110.034926.6

Sorry, didn't mean to wax lyrical. It happens.

I look at miss Kawasaki's work and I am amazed-- I wish for talent like hers --but I must remember that she lives with her talent every moment of her life. As do I. What I see as mundane (seeing it every moment of my life) others look and say "I am amazed!". As am I, at times, when I step back and look at what I've created. Did I really do that? I ask. What force directed my hand?. The easy answer is God.But truthfully, He gave me and miss Kawasaki extraordinary gifts, but we can choose to use them or bury them someplace dark where languishment and atrophy smother dreams. Sometimes our hands are directed. Sometimes not. Having a gift is no guarantee that all we do will stand apart. Standing apart is a struggle, ask people like Dennis B. He succeeds, but success is by no means assured. We must work for it.

It's time to go out into the back yard tonight and in the dark dig up my brushes and wanton inspirations and nurse them back to health.