The Muslin Opaque

July's Nuclear Dream

2011-07-12T11:37:00.002-05:00

The sky was once blue
Now its a gray ashy hue
And its burned on the memories
Of everyone I knew
Gone are the abbeys
The parks and the bars
Gone all discussions
Of Venus and Mars
Everyone's gone
Or near enough, anyway
Time to start over
If I can just find a way

Did we really think heaven
Would forgive us this day
Or forgive us tomorrow
Have you nothing to say?
Silent as a tombstone
And dead as the sky
Who's now left to ponder
Every dream's dying sigh
Cause I can't find a reason
Or an answer just the same
Why I should stand here living
Amid the dead and the flame

Color me pessimistic
Color me a fool
Things could be better
Wading my feet in the pool
Where the bodies lie floating
Or to the bottom submerge
While the shrill keen of missiles
Sing their hideous dirge
I'm just hoping for something
Some substance I cannot see
Looking for the evidence
Of a greater faith in me

Only I can stop this
I could wake from this dream
Beat my swords into plowshares
Cast my fears in the stream
And let the waters carry them
To rivers and to seas
Give my life to understanding
to flowers and to bees
Show the world I love them
Not in word but in deed
There is nothing in these weapons
We should ever want or need

ELAshley
071211.112535.1

Another Song

2011-06-29T08:17:00.006-05:00

Broken

Broken in two
The sky full of blue
Sun shining brightly
On the day I lost you
Heavy as a cloud in the sky
Light as the tears burning in my eye
I'm broken in two
Nothing left to do
But say goodbye

Broken in two
Thought you loved me too
Thought your heart yearned for me
The way I yearn for you
Every bird in its high high tree
Sings a dirge for the heart in me
Broken in two
Nothing left to do
But weep and cry

If my heart were an ocean
There'd be nothing you could do
Oceans can't be broken
They're not in love with you
And if I weren't so tangled
In all the pain you left behind
Perhaps I could forgive you
But you don't care either way, so...
Never mind

Broken in two
I'm broken, it's true
Tomorrow I'll forget you
Or in a year, maybe two
I could take some time to lick my wounds
Try to get my heart strings back in tune
But today I feel broken
With nothing left to do, but
Weep and cry

If my heart were an ocean
There'd be nothing you could do (to me)
Oceans can't be broken
They're not in love with you
And if I weren't so torn and tangled
In the pains you smugly left behind
Perhaps I could forgive you
But you won't care either way
So never mind

Tomorrow I'll forget you
Or in a year or maybe two
But today I'm still broken
Nothing more I can say but...
Goodbye
Goodbye
We were two
Now I'm one
Goodbye

ELAshley
062811.1048.6
Revisions
062911.090545.1

An Affair Over Tea

2011-06-24T16:46:00.006-05:00

Un Peu Poésie Légère
(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,
Where'er you lay
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]

-----

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

--T'ien Yiheng

50,000 words -- "Eternus Bellum" Part 1

2011-04-22T15:44:00.008-05:00

"We have the upper hand," she said matter-of-factly. She had said as much half a dozen times in the span of half an hour. The other two didn't bother to comment.

"Come on," she urged, "we have more men. We can take them." You could hear her frustration; her patience with the others seeming inability to make a decision long past metaphorical midnight. There were nine of them hunkered down in the hole and only six of them; six assholes trying to get away from yesterday's rather successful sortie-- though not so successful in that they were stuck down in the town's square behind a dead and mangled tractor.

Deacon turned away from his view of the square. "What makes you so sure?" he asked, with just a touch of impatience all his own crept in.

She raised her hand and ticked off a finger... "There's only six of them, and they've been hunkered down behind that wreck for near the whole day." She ticked another finger. "They're out of ammo, or they're holding on to what little they have left." Another finger. "They've got no reinforcements coming." ...another... " and, Mason wants us to wait."

"Then we should wait," Malice replied from across the hole. Deacon turned back to his view of the square and echoed Malice, "we should wait."

"Wait for Mason 'cause he wants the medal? Or wait for Mason 'cause you're too chicken shit to step out?" She said, hushed and scornful. "Which is it Deacon?"

Deacon sighed. Not the long heavy kind, but the short impatient variety. "Those assholes took out a mess with more'n three-hundred soldiers... armed soldiers. And they did it with under ten men. Those assholes may or may not be out of ammo and, frankly, I'm not trading my ass on slab for a worthless medal should those six assholes prove just as crack cornered as they were yesterday at ten."

He looked away from the crumpled tractor and studied her for a moment. "You can go get your ass handed to you if you want. I won't stop you; frankly, I'm tired of you. But if you get it handed to you, and we lose the field... If you get out alive, Mason will kick your ass across seven hells of white-hot fury. And when he does, Hanna, don’t come bitchin' at me. Don't come bitchin' at any of us. Better yet, don’t come back. 'Cause if you’re stupid enough to go it alone, you’re stupid enough, sooner or later, to get the rest of us killed." Deacon turned his focus back to the wreck in the square and the occasional peep of helmet over its jagged summit.

"Glory isn't something any soldier should court, Hanna," said Jeckle. "Glory's for songs and regaling the past. Men live in the present. Time enough to live in the past when you’re dead." Jeckle was a scarecrow of a man, wiry and tough as sinew. He looked gaunt and half dead already, and only his eyes gave anyone reason to believe him still among the living. They assumed a constant fever glow; a spark of something hot, something either insane or dangerous. Or both.

[524]

ELAshley
050511.032707.6

Id Dimitte

2011-04-13T14:49:00.012-05:00

Every kind, cruel word
That hangs in the air
Write them all down
Sign your nom de guerre
Best not repeat
All the things that she said
Give them no room
On pillow or bed
Turn ~ Turn away
From the song of her ire
Take the page you have written
Lay it on the fire
Best not remember
Forgive if you can
Let wave and surf
Pull it from your hand

The sum of her words
You will never be
Let them all go
And you are free

ELAshley
041211.025921.6
Revisions:
041911.103651.1
051711.050303.6 (redraft of last 4 lines)

Capulet

2011-03-31T11:40:00.006-05:00

I've got a headache. The kind that shoots spears of blinding pain 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 dear 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
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
033111.110726.1 / .113625.1
Revisions:
041211.031831.6

This is more of a song and, as is rarely the case, I actually have a melody for it-- I already know the chords, I know notes of the whistle between chorus and verse. The poem/song is what's called an aubade. The tune 'Save Tonight' by Eagle Eye Cherry, is a fine example of an aubade.

Where You've Gone

2010-12-06T16:01:00.005-06:00

What happens to the soul
As it moves through the door
Does it know where you’ve gone
Can it feel you anymore
‘Cause you’re here to stay
Until you find the way
Did you know where you were going
When you stepped through that door

Can heaven find you should you die here?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?

How does it feel to know
He can’t hear you where you are
You’re not merely lost in space
Nor circling a foreign star
If Universes were city blocks
Would you have considered their locks
Crossed the street without thought of a key
Would you have thought to bring a key
Before you stepped through the door

Can heaven find you should you die here?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?

How did it feel when the door closed
And you knew something important was gone
Did you ever think you could ever miss
What you casually took for granted

If universes were city blocks
Would you have considered their locks
Crossed the street without thought of a key
Would you have thought to bring a key
Before you walked out the door

Can heaven find you should you die here?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?
Does it even know where you’ve gone?

ELAshley
113010.114316.1
Revisions:
120610.041450.6

This is a song written for a book I'm writing. Questions asked in these lyrics are but a few of the questions explored in the novel. For a more detailed 'why' check out the same song posted here...

We Came

2010-11-04T15:48:00.005-05:00

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

Beneath the Zebra Tree

2010-07-20T09:33:00.008-05:00

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?

Sheer (She Loves Me)

2010-04-13T08:21:00.001-05:00

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

My Brush ~ Dreams' Clarion

2010-03-31T16:20:00.003-05:00

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

Inspired by the work of Audrey Kawasaki... specifically, this painting.

Vir Res Trunco

2010-03-25T16:27:00.001-05:00

I gravitate between two poles
One of excess, one of denial
And have learned the center, that perfect between
Is both greatest reward and darkest trial
I would stand at the center
If the center would but hold
All efforts put forth in containing that eye
Leave me weak, inconsolable ~ my tears untolled

ELAshley
032510.095026.1
a bit of bad poetry, I know

Mary (Go Ahead and Cry)

2010-03-16T16:24:00.002-05:00

I hesitate to post this, but. I may be shy when it comes to the opposite sex, but I'm not all that shy about sharing my thoughts to those who'll listen. And since no one is listening...

I have the melody, and these are the lyrics.

Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Will you marry
Mary will you
Marry your friend
And love to the end?
Mary will you

Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh
Will you bury
Mary will you
Bury your loves
With the angels above
Mary will you

Carry your heart
In the bag on your shoulder
Collecting your tears
In every 'I love you' you told her
Don't cry...
Mary don't cry
Though they are gone, you know this isn't goodbye

Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Will you love me
Mary will you
Love who I become
In all of Autumn's setting suns
Mary will you

Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Will you hold me
Mary will you
Hold me as I lay dying
In my dying breath sighing
Mary will you

Hold in your heart
In the bag on your shoulder
Every prayer on your rosary
The Hail Marys your prayed to her
Don't weep
Oh, Mary you're weeping
They're not gone, they are only sleeping

Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Will you marry me
Mary will you
Marry your friend
And love to the end
Mary will you
~For better for worse

Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Mary I'm with you
Never will leave you
Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Mary I love you
My whole heart and life breaks for you
Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Mary I'm here, go ahead and cry

(Repeat to End)
Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,
Go ahead and cry

(Very End)
I'm here, and not going anywhere

ELAshley
031610.090326.6
Revisions
031710.100526.1

It may seem I presume too much, but I don't write for myself. I only imagine the pain I would feel were I wearing different shoes. It is not my voice that sings. But my sorrow for her is real.

In the Moment

2010-03-11T08:35:00.010-06:00

They appear as threads
in the hackneyed tapestry
New, their life and end unfathomed
these moments when eyes first meet
hands first touch
lips first brush
And like that spark struck
burn quickly out
~the moment gone
Defined as the space between the when
of eyes meeting and parting
hands touching and parting
lips brushing and parting
Time is the beggar within these little ages
holding out its hand for more primacy
But it is Impression which sits upon
these thrones of relevance
Each new thread in our hackneyed tapestries
is experienced not in time
but in Impression
~duration goes hungry here
Moments are fleeting and singularly unique
Moments are texture
in the tapestry of our lives
Eyes see what hands feel what lips soon forget

ELAshley
031110.084502.1
Revisions:
031110.045926.6
031110.055152.6

a bit of unfinished verse...

2010-03-08T09:16:00.002-06:00

While in a fit of organizational fervor, I found this snippet of verse in my desk...

Tremble she said
And tremble she did
for the dreams she staid
And the desires she hid
And did ne'er reveal

Where it was to go from there, I cannot say. I can't even tell you when exactly it was written, only circa November 2009 - January 2010... somewhere in there.

Running Out of Ways

2010-03-04T08:17:00.010-06:00

You are the golden path
The scents of jasmine and clove
The taste of berries succulent and dew
Naked in the tamarind grove
Dark and glistening 'neath the hems of Summer's few
We are golden in our desires
In all the garments we've wove

We are threshing floor embers
The fires of fullness and rising
Of warm summer starlings and lilies and crocus
Of naked lusts disguising
The weft and warp of which our love bespoke us
We are golden and spent like breath
And in those garments drowsing

You are the brush of silk
Over taut skin in arousal
The fires of femininity, and pear
~ Succulently coital
Sweet and moist every long limbed strand of honey hair
We are golden in our desires
Attired in love's apparel

We dress in the setting sun
'Neath a wakening of stars above
Feasts of body following feasts of flesh
~ I the strong hand and thee the soft glove
Submerging to cleanse and arising afresh
Golden again in our nightly throes
We are running out of ways to say we love

And delight in loving

ELAshley
030410.052626.6
Revisions:
030510.044102.6
030510.045216.6

Afire For You

2010-01-13T13:24:00.004-06:00

Afire For You

I- I've been alone long, and a dreamer
For most of my life
Though I desire soft clean linens I'll still
Sleep in the desert tonight
Another night of tossing and turning
Another night of sleeping alone
And when the morning light comes to find me
Though every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

II- Chasing sleep down long corridors
Seems that's all I ever do
All I'm ever left with come daybreak
Are my fitful dreams of you
Another night beneath the cold desert sky
Another night of sleeping alone
Every morning that comes only serving to remind me
Despite every hour spent trying to atone
I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never made to ponder
How my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
And suffer to atone
I'll always be very much alone

III- When I close my eyes and dream of you
While sleeping deeply through this night
The stars wheeling 'cross a glittering sky
And making love til the morning light
How do you leave the bed you've made with love
Shoulder your pack and continue to roam?
'Cause I've spent my life, all my sins to atone
Yet I'm still very much alone

O, And how I've wandered
How I've carried this torch for you
Never looked in your eyes, never kissed your soft smile
Yet my love for you strengthened and grew
Though I be cut to the bone
Giving my life to atone
I'll still be very much alone

If there's an angel set to observe me
Dogging my e-ver-y step
Could he have not seen fit
To lead me out of the desert
And into your loving arms?
O, Into your loving arms

With my heart on fire for you
My heart afire for you

ELAshley
Part I - 010210.11>.6
Part II - 010410.11>.6
Part III - 010810.11>.6
Revisions:
011210.111002.6

This was written for someone specific, though I do not yet know her name.

As She Held My Hand

2010-01-01T00:14:00.000-06:00

I dreamt last night she held my hand
and it was as if the world caught fire
though the conflagration grew she did not let go
and i beheld her
as she held my hand

She was a sun and my heart caught
in a timeless ring ~ ever pure and without end
the hairs upon my skin stood with new awareness
as i beheld her
her hand in mine

Her smile soft and contentedly pleased
opened windows long sealed curtained and dim
my heart like a box unlocked and opened at last
to behold her
and her hand in mine

Is there gold or honey left in the world
for all the sweetness and light of her pretty soft hair
or turquoise remaining for the blue in her eyes
as her i beheld
and her holding my hand?

The feel of her, the touch of her
the endless and momentary sense of knowing for true
no vision could more rival perfection
than the loveliness i beheld
she holding my hand

Do i think, do i dwell too much upon a dream?
or do i reach, eyes still filled with morning sands
for flesh and blood? for her?

I must, or be a fool
For i dreamt last night she held my hand
and why should dreams not desire her as well?

ELAshley
123109.115826.6
As my muse she would be amused
should she ever read these silly lines

Who Loved Me (And Let Me Go)

2009-11-18T07:01:00.004-06:00

Oh how I miss you
How I miss your loving arms
How I miss the thought of you
The very sight of you
Who loved me long ago

Oh how I cherish you
How I cherish the memory of soft skin
Cherish the very thought of you
The very warmth of you
Who loved me then let me go

When all of this is done
When the world is gone away
Our world beneath a dying sun
My heart and soul written in the stars
Forever of you will say
How you broke my heart
Tore my soul apart
Left me to wander
A stone skipping cross
The blacknesses of time

...

Oh how I desire you
Desire your long forgotten kiss
How I desire the memory of you
The very picture of you
Who loved me but let me go

When all of this is done
When the world is gone away
Our world beneath a dying sun
My heart and soul written in the stars
Forever of you will say
How you broke my heart
Tore my soul apart
And left me to wander
A stone skipping cross
The blacknesses of time

Oh how I weep for you
For all of time mourn you
Desire you
Miss you
Cherish you
Sweet Mary Angel
Oh how I love you

ELAshley
111709.064430.6
No matter how bad it is, I will not revise it. Ever.

Something Really Bad

2009-11-02T22:20:00.011-06:00

Moving through the eastern sun
I saw you first upwind of tomorrow
Hands caressing the long tall grasses
Heart swung knells of bells you rung
For all tomorrow's sorrow
And here I am wanting, wishing too
For early morning and morning dew
Wanting and wishing only for you

I caught you in the noonward tides
Sun above, beginning to fall
Embraced you in these arms of summer
Raim'd in love and light besides
And dreams we swore, nor did forestall
Now here I am wanting, and wishing too
I'd caught you in the morning
   ~Made love upon the dewy dew
No more wishing, but wanting of you

The pipers in the trees
Orchestrating accompaniments
To the rhythm of our cries
Perfect echo to our sighs
Safe in long tall grasses
Away from all their prying eyes
Something really bad could happen
Were it not for our many allies

Sun falls swiftly in the sky
Shadows threshing our lover's bed
Our dewy bower in sepias warm
Where long tall grasses yet lie
Where love, life and promise wed
Yet here we still are wanting, wishing too
We could see again the morning
   ~Make love upon the early dew
Ever wanting and wishing for you
   ~You for me
Ever wanting and wishing for you and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing forever for you
And you for me
Wishing again to be

Pipers in the trees
Orchestrating accompaniments
To the rhythm of our sries
Perfect echo to our cries
Safe in the tall grasses
Away from all of their prying eyes
Something untoward might very well happen
Were it not for all our many allies
Here in the tall tall grass
Ever wanting or wishing for you, and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing for you, and
You for me
Ever wanting and wishing forever for you
And you for me
Wishing again that we might be
Again

ELAshley
110309.111456.6
Revisions:
110309.104203.6
110409.031117.6

I'd like to think there was a melody in my head while I wrote, but rarely is this the case. And I know it's not a particularly inspiring title, but for now it is what it is. Perhaps I'll change it... but not today.

I listened to David Gray's Babylon (Live) throughout this effort, and was written for a specific someone I do not presently wish to name...

If you want it
Come and get it...
Let go your heart
Let go your head
And feel it now

Of Troves Bright and Golden

2009-10-20T00:37:00.014-05:00

It is a small thing
A golden peal, a sunlit ring
Trumpets, harps, and harpers sing
Whose grace should ever encircle one finger
Where promise and beauty forever should linger
Within two hearts 'a bed
In linens white and purity's red
Of sureties, promise, the soft petal's led
To the altar where vows are made golden
Like rings ~ circles wherein lives are beholden
Each to the other's trove
Precious, rare, great riches of love
The pearl for which two hearts long strove
Now balanced ~ two rings, two lives joined as one
What great love! One flesh 'neath eternal sun

Yet these are small things
Clutched 'neath linens upon a marriage bed
The troves to which two hearts are wed
Two bright, golden, peerless rings

ELAshley
102009.125107.1
Revisions:
102009.090606.1
102209.020526.6

Laying to Rest What Bears Repeating

2009-10-09T23:30:00.001-05:00

Laying here
Body stretched naked and aching
Trying to slow the beat of my heart
Trying to chase a melody
To corners dark
Putting it to bed... Dirt to Dust
     Insistent beat to the slide of steel on steel
     To soft tapping like raindrops on the frets of my guitar
Putting her to bed
That I might do the same

My neck aches
Feet throb
It's hard to imagine I have reached that age
I feared at ten
     feared at twenty
     feared at thirty
     come to accept at forty-nine
I wish only to sleep
And sleep long
I wish only to dream
Close my eyes
Shut off thought
Sleep
Dream
Rinse
Repeat
And when I get to the bottom
I go back to the top of the slide
When I stop and I turn
And I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom
And... return to the end
Of another day
Body aching. Naked and stretched
Across the universe
Struggling to erase the pains
Of another day
Wishing only to close my eyes
Shut off thought
Chase sleep down long corridors
And dream...
Rinse and repeat
And like a glutton
Return for yet more

Rinse

Repeat

Rinse

Repeat

ELAshley
100809.11000006
Revised & Extended
100909.113521.6

The Product of Great Conversation

2009-09-11T19:07:00.015-05:00

"A Lovely Lunch"

They are susurrations
Like the soft tremble of leaves
The clatter of lips
And the songs they sing, I discover
Have found place in my mind
And will not leave

They sit at table, our susurrations
Diners whose conversations
     —Songs of communion in passing
While the moments between us
And there she sits just inches away
Her lips a’tremble in a soft delicacy
Of words, more filling than
The plate before me

Some are simply beautiful
Some are merely flawless
Yet only a few manage to rise above
That cacophony of sameness that is
Our manufactured ideals
Of perceived beauty
There are those—and few they be
For whom grace is as
The trembling of leaves—
     The simple grace of a moment of
Exquisite inspiration
     The straight line is mundane
     In a forest of rigid conformity

She speaks
And even the tenor of her voice
Testifies of this grace
And I am...

     But then, no
That isn't me
I am enthralled of no one
     —This is what I tell myself
For I am not worthy of such notice

Every artist is unworthy of his gift
Though he be blest with sight few others understand
He should know the difference between
Intrigue and Infatuation
     —I remind myself of this often

We sit at our ease
The table laid
Unseen plates starving for our attentions
The waiter bent and listening
And she silent beside me

The focus of our love
—That ray of sunshine
Two chairs down and across, laughs
And I feel better for wishing her farewell
I say goodbye to too many
And this is who I am
Always saying goodbye
Yet afraid to say hello for fear of it
And beside me, that other lovely
Insists I face my fear

I am intrigued
I know the difference between
Intrigue and Infatuation,
     —I remind myself again
But her eyes are exquisite
And I cannot help but look
So I remind myself yet again
     —You know the difference, Eric
     You know the difference

How, then, to clear the palette?
     —I ask this as I begin to sketch
It has always worked in the past
     —Exorcise the imagery,
Draw it out and give it body
The susurrations of lips and silver
And the honest enjoyment of her voice

So I take the picture
Pull it from my mind
And put it to bed
Where are all the ghosts I've laid
Remembered with fondness, but
No longer a flame to fan my heart
For I've learned the susurrations of the heart are dangerous
And I've come to know the difference
Between intrigue and infatuation...
Until next time,
But it was a lovely lunch

ELAshley
091109.071226.6
Revisions:
091309.100017.1
091309.014056.6
091509.090908.6

Deflowering the Chrysanthemum

2009-08-07T10:06:00.003-05:00

She was led to a small stage prepared for just that moment; the moment they would demonstrate to the world the limit of their power over a nation, through one woman-- as though the horrors they had already unleashed were not enough. It was not enough to destroy her cities, ruin her people, her friends and family, now they would mock and shame her. Make of her something she would not otherwise have chosen. But this is the way of the victorious; they delight in examples, believing even their own propaganda; that they are righteous, and more deserving of victory... That their actions are somehow necessary.

But she went willingly. Up three steps of aged and polished wood; probably stolen from a decimated temple. And where had they found the shoji screens? --Their paper windows intact and the purest of whites.

They had made her paint herself in the traditional paints of a geisha, but they were ignorant and so made her paint her entire body. She did not argue... They did not understand. Her hair and pubic mound made a stark contrast to the gleaming white of the paints and she thought... How beautiful. They robed her in a kimono, crimson with yellow dragonflies, and briefly she smiled. They laughed and barked like dogs to one another; their tongues shaped about rough words... Their meaning a mystery.
Chosen from among the victorious were three men, stripped to the waist of their pine-hued shirts, and ringed about the spot where she was to kneel before a gathering of strange pale faces and stranger eyes. She looked out and over their heads to the ghost of a city, its once proud buildings, the temples, the gardens, all gone; blown to ash in the blink of an eye, and scattered upon atomic winds.

How many dead? Thousands? She began to cry-- tears drawing lines down the planes of her face --and then steeled herself... The victorious needed this display; garish and brutal as it was. What did it matter if they performed their little Noh play upon the charred bones of an entire city... An entire nation; once proud, now fallen to earth like cherry blossoms in spring...

But this is summer. The end of summer. She looked to her left and saw an ensemble of taiko drums, drummers all but naked. None would look upon her; they understood her shame, and shared it. A Shakuhachi player stood with flute in hand, his head bent and eyes cast down. His breathing was rhythmic, his kimono dirty. But the flute... Ahh, it was magnificent! She turned to her countrymen and bowed slightly, then turned back to her audience.

They were a strange people; prideful, uncouth, and so utterly ignorant. They shaped the world to their purpose rather than shaping their lives to the world about them. Their cities were ugly, and nothing about their culture held any sense of tradition. They were upstarts... Children. But children with powerful toys. And they’re eyes... So foreign.

A man in uniform-- a general perhaps? --rose from his seat up front and turned to face the gathered. He raised his voice and spoke in his rough tongue. He used his hands expressively, but the tone of his voice was dogmatic and said he held her and her nation in contempt.

"We are the defeated," she softly spoke, and one among those that ringed her whispered brokenly in her tongue.

"Forgive us Hiroshima, forgive us Nagasaki."

Another of the three grunted harshly and the first fell silent.

"It is easy to ask forgiveness when there is no consequence to face." She replied softly. "I will forgive you when the dead do." And though she couldn’t see it she felt him bow his head to her.

The general quickly finished and motioned to the drummers. As one they struck their drums, building swiftly a rhythm to which she could sing. Their bodies soon glistened with the sheen of sweat, and the power of their drumming grew, intent on stirring the victorious. The Shakuhachi player raised his flute and began a mournful dirge in counter to the beat of the drummers, yet his own rhythm matched them. Together they played perfectly, beautifully... But the assembled did not appreciate this, it was clear on their faces; it was alien to them.

She knew the words she was to sing. The song had been written for her, by aliens, and memorized in the long hours between dawn and this very moment, but she would not sing it. They knew little of Japanese, and would not know what she sang.

The man directly behind her undid her deep black hair, removing the long bamboo pins that held it, and she felt its weight as it fell long to her waist. She felt the first tug of the shears at the nape of her neck-- My hair! They are cutting my hair! It had taken years to grow... --and she began to cry once more. And through her tears she saw the child in the first row, a very young girl... What kind of people brings its children to such a spectacle? Barbarians!

The little girls eyes were the lightest shade of blue, and her hair-- in contrast to her own --was a lighter shade of yellow than the chrysanthemum in her tiny hand. She wore a dark blue dress, and her shoes shone bright and new. She stood close to her mother who held her hand.

There was a final tug, then release, and she looked about to see her beautiful black hair lying around her. The men to either side of her barber took hold of the crimson kimono’s collar and drew it open, exposing her breasts. Their hands tugged at the sash and they stripped the fabric entirely from her, letting it drop to the platform to cover her hair. She sat kneeling, hands folded in her lap. She shone like polished bone, entirely covered in the white paint.

Some in the crowd turned their heads, embarrassed to look upon her nakedness, others seemed to gloat, but all held an air of ambivalence. None but the child looked saddened. Then she felt the hands on her, wet with water as they began to make a show of washing her clean. There was symbolism in this of course, the drummers could see it, the Shakuhachi player could see it... And she began to sing.

It was a song to stir souls, had the victorious possessed such... It was a beautiful melody. The song trembled deep in her throat and crashed out over the audience. It was clear none understood her, but they understood the melody... Understood its pain and suffering, and understood in its cry a longing for a way of life now gone. Whether they realized it as such or not, they also understood that with two swift, cowardly blows, they had managed to decimate not just two cities and countless lives, but an ancient culture as well. But again, that is what victors do. They tear down the temples and the shrines and the theaters and the houses and reshape the land to their own liking. What changes will these men bring? What new ideas to supplant the old?

Her song rose and fell as hands washed her. She felt them move over her breasts, her stomach, to her thighs and the dark place between. She could feel their fingers move over her skin, but she could not sense a desire in them, they did not grope or fondle, only wash. Her face her neck, her shoulders, her back. They lifted her arms and she held them out like the very image of their crucified god on its hideous totem. They delight in torture; yet revere the god they killed! It’s not unusual to feel great respect for a vanquished foe, but worship? Never!

If she were in the bathhouse she might have felt desire for these men whose hands touched what no other had, but not here. This was her shame... To be stripped of her mystery; a Noh play devoid of tradition, performed for barbarians. The hands cupped and lifted her breasts, moved under her arms, down her back to her buttocks, and lower. The drummers drummed, the Shakuhachi player played, and she sang as the men shamed her.

When at last their hands left her, she finished her song and looked about her. The stage was washed in white, the pretty kimono ruined, and her hair... The men stood and left the stage, leaving her where she sat, their hands and arms now white. The general rose again to speak many words, none of which she understood. The drummers were led away. The Shakuhachi player followed. And when the general finished, the men who had led her to this place, mounted the stage to help her rise, and led her down the same steps of aged and polished wood, leaving white prints upon their dark surfaces like the footprint of ghosts.

Movement dark and swift caught her eye and she looked to see the child running to her. The girl stopped shyly and looking up into her face, smiled and held out the chrysanthemum. She bowed deeply to the child and took the offered gift.

The girl said something in her beautiful voice; her eyes held sympathy and embarrassment, a genuine sorrow for the painted woman.

"Thank you, little one." She said, bowing deeper. 'I will remember your kindness."

A soldier led the girl back to her mother, who fussed over and scolded her, admonishing her for her bravery. Would the child remember? Will she understand what she has done in years to come?

They did not clothe her, but led her naked back to where they had held her, where they had prepared her for this spectacle. Her escort did not touch her, but directed her with their grunting, and pointing, back and forth in their savage tongue. Soldiers gawked at her, countrymen bowed to her, averting their eyes. She would, of course, commit suicide; her shame was too great. No more parties on the palace lawn, no more plays, no more poetry, no more cherry blossoms in spring. The victors had stolen it all. But she would compose a poem for her death-- though none would ever hear it.

They came at last to the tents that were her prison. They would take her inside and allow her to wash and clothe herself before escorting her back to the palace, but she could not go back now. She could not bear the look of shame in her father’s eyes, or bear to hear her mother weeping. She would be a reminder to them, of their own shame... Better to die, with honor. So she would run! She would find a place untouched by their hideous weapon and perhaps find a shard of glass to cut her wrists, and compose her death poem.

And as if thought were motion she leapt away from her captors and ran, ignoring their shouts. She heard them begin to chase and she ran harder. The sound of their boots fell farther and farther behind. Pain shot up from her feet as rocks and glass cut her soles, but she ignored it. There was only running... The pound of blood in her ears, and the beat of her heart. There was only running, breathing... And the sound of thunder crashing through the sky, thunder so powerful it ripped the breath from her, and threw her hard upon the torn earth.

There was little sound now; only a loud hum over the shouting of men, the feel of their boots shaking through the ground as they neared her... Her own breath, heavy and labored... The beat of her heart, and the hot, wet feel of blood draining from the hole in her chest...

They had shot her... not... thunder at all...

Lifting her head she looked over the ground to the ruined city, to ghostly survivors picking through the rubble, and there lay the Chrysanthemum. The world about it seemed colorless, but the flower was a bright dusty yellow, the color of pollen. It layed in her dimming sight a stark contrast to the desolation that framed it, and reaching for it, she pulled the flower to her breasts. Her lips moved with her last breath and shaped the words of a poem.

"What was it she said?" Asked one soldier.

The gunman knelt at her side, brushed a spill of hair from her eyes, and recited,

        "...Chrysanthemum pure
        Amid fields of wide ruin
        Its lovely hair shorn."

ELAshley
Written in one sitting
September 1, 2001
10 days before 9/11

Lithe and Grace

2009-04-26T16:53:00.005-05:00

there were trees
in the fields of my optimism
tall and lithe in summer rains
pliant in winter gales
year after years of solitude standing
Graceful and tall to reach the heavens

there were trees

then came the famine years, tinder dry
the clarion of lightnings, and fire
sweeping them all away, pyres
in the cold heat of spent passions
cooling embers dying in anguish
dying slowly upon cold hearths

like the fields of my optimism
lying still ~ empty in a place
where once grew trees
...gone now

where optimism has fled
i should now be
for there is no hope without her
it is not trees that so lithely stood
tall and gracious
no tree ever trembled pliant
in the arms of my winter gales
there were trees, yes
but never did they comfort more than she
the year after years of solitude
never did they help me reach heavenward
graceful and tall

there were trees
but none of them her

ELAshley
042609.045507.6
so falls a soft shower after months of drought...
Revised:
042708.094216.1

Resurrection, a Sonnet

2008-12-26T10:56:00.007-06:00

Pull away the muslin, wash the sleep from my eyes
That the stretch of years have painted in familiar hew
Fill the urns of my flesh with waters anew
Open the windows of my breath ~ To utter sighs
Of sleep sloughed off with the caress of dawn
A wash of newness and light refreshing
My limbs to stretch from sleep awakening
What held them down ~ My sin now gone
This dance I dance like cicadas in resurrection
I too am disgorged, by the rare throes of grace
To new life ~ washed clean of that slightest trace
Of stain or blemish or black insurrection
Cleansed and awakened by the Lord Jesus Christ
Bought by his blood at tremendous, yet so free of price

ELAshley
122608.112639.1

A Tale of Certainties

2008-08-09T16:03:00.005-05:00

Life is an empty shell
Waiting to be filled
The heart an empty tomb
Yearning to be willed
The soul an empty field
Virgin and untilled
With what we fill
With what we will
Behind each step
Lie the furrows we till
We do not look back
For if ever we should
Regret would smile to mock us
Our tears could turn a mill

ELAshley
080908.125157.01
Revised:
093008.064630.6

Pears and Solace

2008-01-01T01:55:00.004-06:00

Since new years eve 2000 I've written what I call 'New Years Poems.' Typically they've been about war and death-- the muslin opaque, but this year something else arose from the mish-mash of ideas clamoring for a good airing... something more personal.

Pears and Solace

She fed me pear in the light dimmed doorway
And the savor of each dripping succulent
Mirrored the light in her eye ~ just as clear, just as sweet
Every moment a tenderness
And every kiss that followed, a testament

Nineteen years and no answer still
No secure mooring, no harbor yet home
And what would I give for a simple yes?

Will she feed me solace in the months to come
As nourishing as any dripping succulent
Fed and followed by testamental kisses ~ clear and sweet?
And every moment tender
A promissory vow ringed in gold?

Nineteen years and no answer still
What I would not give for a simple yes

ELAshley
123107.114911.6

The Ash of Our Ruin

2007-12-15T20:11:00.001-06:00

Failing them for fear
our oft desolate dreams
its becomes us a sensual search
for simple significance...
personal significance
Beating bushes
blazing trails
firing hills
and failing them all
for fear of failing
and a rhyme and resonance unrealized

Sift the ash of our ruin
What pearl of great price pristine
'neath unsullied skies
survives our stately scourge?
What is there left
having burned our bridges
fired our fields
having wasted ourselves for naught?
Looking within has yielded no fruit
no rhyme nor resonance
And failing ourselves within
what then lies without?

ELAshley
101507.082411.6

Nearer Too Empty

2007-12-14T16:16:00.002-06:00

full, empty, empty, (full
and prostrate heavenward)
counting anxious minutes
full, empty, empty, full
(five, ten, fifteen)
an anxious watch of
hands too slow
minutes too creep
too full unempty
full, empty, empty, full
empty to weakness
and weak presage wellness
cleanliness nearer too
godliness
empty, full, full, empty
prostrate heavenward
(counting counting counting)
and nearer too empty

ELAshley
121407.041506.6

Going to Ground

2007-12-02T00:19:00.003-06:00

In Memory of Christopher Scott Gailfoil, 1964 - 2007

Harbingers a knockin’
Dead leaves clatter chatter down the road
Cold dead knuckles a tick tick tockin’
All of my heroes goin’ to ground
There was time green and shining
Cool pressed smooth clean linen white
But time, come a time, come a chimin’
And all of my heroes goin’ to ground
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
All of my friends are goin’ to ground

Insistence come a callin’
Layin’ to waste my palette of dream-soft dreams
It’s a thin tuft scrabble to keep from fallin’
All of my friends are goin’ to ground
Where is the time green and shining
Cool pressed smooth clean linen white?
And Time, now time, comes a chimin’
And all of my friends are goin’ to ground
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
All of my heroes goin’ to ground

Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
All of my friends are goin’ to ground
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
Swiftly unwelcome
All swiftly goin’ to ground
All of my friends are goin’ to ground
All of my heroes goin’ to ground
Everythings goin’ to ground

ELAshley
120107.105852.6

From my blog post:

Something just spilled out of me this evening... lyrics to a song in my head in under five minutes. There was a melody when they came, but it has left me-- this has always been the case; I have always had to fight for the melody, and I have not always won. But here is the song nonetheless... not as I heard it in my head, but its pale mute caricature...

Dearest Mary Angel,

2007-11-26T03:03:00.001-06:00

What if Time were not one thing; A singularity, but an entity and a plurality? What if Time were not linear? What if Time were but a tool in the hands of a mad god? That like a cloth it is composed of warp and weft and so could be manipulated to the designs of the weaver. If Time is but a thread in a bit of cloth then it traces itself back and forth over the same ground, building upon itself until the resulting weave becomes a pattern of infinite complexity.

For someone who stands outside of Time and not bound by it's constraints, the fabric of Time might seem a beautiful thing, a fitting garment for a god, such as one who might use Time to torment the soul who is bound by the constraints of passing Time. Might not even Santa then be able to deliver gifts to every child, for every year that they believe in him, in one single night?

If Santa were the shuttle moving through the warp and weft of Time, and because it is but one nights work, however long the night may be, what would it do to the mind of a man so cursed?

What follows is a poem I've written, thirteen stanzas of thirteen lines each, about just such a man, doomed to fly throughout one eternal and torturous night, unable to catch the sun, and slowly going insane.

The Patron Saint of Insanity

It will never end,
the tearing of veils
Ripping the fabric of space and time
His dementia unbound ~
This mad eternal journey...
this single night...
this one endless night
for the patron saint of insanity.
Tattered vermilion, sooted ermine
and the wailing and biting of winds,
Their moaning and screaming
in ears that have forgotten the sound
Of human voice and laughter

It will never end,
this tearing of veils,
and his own mind ~
"Why? Oh, what and how
is the when and where of my purpose?
Forever drawn, hungry,
and thirsting for answers!"
screams the Patron Saint,
and screaming cracks the whip in his hand
o'er the heads of eight demon stag,
their cloven hooves clicking,
and drawing sparks
upon the plane of this one endless night

It will never end,
the tearing of fabric ~
There is but one bolt
and Hell hath perverted
both weft and warp
And the Patron Saint, the shuttle
by which the mirth of children is wove
"Just once!"
screaming to whatever god will listen
"Just once to plunge knives into breasts!"
His madness but a petty gods' whim
and knives but whimsies
pulled from the sack

It will never end;
his madness, the voyage, the whimsies ~
Flying madly,
rooftop to rooftop,
the cold death of winter
burning madness to the bone
And if veils be torn,
they are certainly torn here ~
The agonizing press of turgid flesh
forced through pipes and chimneys,
the pain flesh torn on stone,
and the imperfection of steel
gouging his flesh

It will never end,
The similarities ~ the sameness of it all
Evergreen false or true,
milk and cookies,
"No feast there!"
Only scents seem to change
Pheromones ~ joy, sadness and decay
even fear, that too
For the patron saint of insanity
no choice exists but to enter
thrashing and screaming
in mindless horror into every den,
and another veil torn

It will never end
The sack filled with whimsies,
ever full ~
Relentlessly so,
and bulimically poised,
routinely vomiting
‘neath each dead or dying tree
to the delight of starving ingrates
young and old alike
and blissfully unaware
of the patron saint,
the mad endless voyage,
or his insanity

It will never end,
the tearing of veils,
quickening dementia
and slipping unseen
into havens washed,
set against the intrusion of madness ~
But there he stands...
"How many more?”
the patron saint screams,
“Will not anyone wake?"
voice tortured and desperate
poised over the dead in sleep
~ but none ever do

It will never end,
and peering into the sack
for knife or ax,
poison or gun,
and the sack smiling, mocking
and hideously laughing,
continuing it's vomitous endeavor
to fill each sock to bursting;
candied canes,
gingerbreads and whimsies
And the patron saint screams again,
"Awake! Fire! Foe! Awake I say!"
but like graining sacks of rot, none ever do

It will never end,
the curse never lifted
To each house
ten times ten-thousand times, and
the gluttonous child ungrateful, never sated…
"Perhaps this child will die
that I need never visit here again!"
But the veil is already torn
and each one dead
sees ten more born in its place…
The curse calls to him
pulling him up through the pipes, to the sleigh
and the stamping hooves of reindeer dead

"Will it never end?"
the patron saint screams,
insanely and joyously cracking his whip
and the mad voyage beginning anew
weeping to freeze
And burning the mask of his flesh…
Cackling and cracking,
cracking and cackling,
endlessly moving between the weave
of dusk and dawn
~ the sun become a fable
"Yessss! The sun! I must catch the sun!"
cracking the whip to shatter the night

“It will never end,
this one maddening night,”
but a light glimmers in a crazy eye,
and screaming sings out,
"On Comet! On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!
On Dasher! On Dancer! On Prancer and Vixen!
Catch the sun! Catch the day!
Dash away! Damn you all! Dash a-way!”
The horizon brightens fingernail thin
knuckles whiten, crack and bleed
gleaming hope blisters within him
but the curse pulls him screaming
down into darkness again

No, it will never end
Another rooftop,
another veil torn,
another vomitous endeavor in hand
The sack full,
and the patron saint despairing,
pulled screaming down
through pipes dark and cruel,
to the heart of hearth and home
and the sickening taste of milk and cookies,
wishing for but one sharp knife,
the sack retching and purging
steaming ribbons and bows

So it never ends...
and it's back to the sleigh
and eight demon stag
The tearing of veils,
and hope rekindled
in the heart of the patron saint of insanity
The cracking of whips,
the mad chase through eternal winter's
freezing winds,
and biting cold,
to catch the sun and end it all,
and screaming in rage
"Damn you all and to all a good night!"

ELAshley
Written between
January 1, 1999 & February 3, 1999
"Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!"

Revised:
031101.122103.1
Revised:
071401.014321.1
Revised:
122801.123431.1

Obsession, Seduction -- A Candle Lit Parade

2007-10-30T12:42:00.002-05:00

Light a candle on the doorstep
Let its flicker light the way
Turn out the porch light
~Let the candles light prevail
Say goodnight now to day

Light another in the front hall
Let its presence force a smile
Wondering where you are
And what you have in mind
Aching for you all the while

Light of candles on the staircase
Each step taken amid their glow
Follow the perfume
You left floating in air
To that place I’ve come to know

A single candle on the top step
A single stocking laid with care
Silk and satins strewn
~A candle lit parade
To your bedroom waiting there

Open the door to see you sleeping
Dozing naked in the light
One hundred candles
Making love to every curve
Of your soft skin in the night

Leaning in to kiss your shoulder
Brush a hand across your thigh
Whisper I love you
In your pretty little ear
And hear you softly sigh

Then draw in to your embrace
Take me deep into your soul
Let me fill you
Till spent and weary
Your womb burning as coal

Let the candles burn till morning
Let them burn while we make love
Nestled in your arms
I pledge my life to you
Sworn upon stars above

Could I ever be without you?
My heart find strength to beat?
When every waking thought
Is bent upon your love
When next our desires meet?

ELAshley
September 6, 2007
Revised:
103007.125206.6

on Fearing

2007-10-30T12:01:00.001-05:00

We are young yet
And knowing for true
That youth is squandered on the young
We are wise enough to see it
And young enough to guess
        That there is still time
Perhaps not for all our dreams
But time enough
For the ones that matter
Time enough for the ones that
Rarely see light of day
~The ones we tuck perpetually
Into bed,
        "Shhh now, go to sleep little one,
                    Your time will come..."

And when time has come
Will we throw open windows...
And let our dearests
Drink in the fresh, bright day?
Will we encourage our dearests
To run through the grass
        And play?
Will we sit back
And let our hearts desire
Have its day in the sun?
Or will we
In our wise, age’d youth
Caution prudence
And tuck our dreams
        Safely back in bed?

ELAshley
043002.071530.6
Revised:
103007.121033.6
...for Paula R.
"No Backspacing..."

One-Hundred Years Entwining

2007-10-29T02:24:00.006-05:00

Will I sleep one hundred years,
My first night ‘neath your summer eaves?
Will I cry, shed one hundred tears,
My sorrows clatter like autumn leaves?
Away from me ~ forever away
Your lips brushing my tears away
Fall into slumber, the sleep of peace
As in your arms I lay

Will I dream while embraced in you,
Coupled neath linens clean and new?
Wakened to find my dreams come true,
And lost within your eyes of blue
Sing to me a familiar song
Lips brush mine ~ our breath a song
Like the gentle susurring sea
Rock me soft the whole night long

One hundred years may each night seem
Forever may each day so be
And parting, but a shadowy dream
That has no life in the love we see
Smiling true in eyes bright and shining
Lips caressing ~ wet, soft, and shining
Shuddering, and rising again to fall
Held in your embrace entwining

Will I sleep one hundred years?
Hands brush all my cares away?
Sorrow erased and gone my fears?
In your arms, and in peace lay?
Time and love will tell
Time and love will tell

ELAshley
18 March 2002, 1:10am
Revised:
102907.022026.1
103007.012656.6
010309.011016.1
091109.110403.1
1122209.031102.6

Without Excuse

2007-10-29T02:12:00.001-05:00

It is spinning
Uncontrollably, or seeming so
Finite eyes cannot grasp a pattern
Finite minds cannot fathom the depths of hue and timber
If there is a pattern
We are too close to see it
Too close to the fire
There is too much comfort in glowing embers
Tended with patient mindless devotion
That the depths of cold empty space between us
Might seem less
Empty

Finite, yes—our human capacity
For perception
Bound by a spectrum
But an atom’s breadth wide
Yet this is the lie we tell ourselves
The lie we have come to believe
For we have no wish to step back
And search for patterns
We cannot acknowledge what cannot be seen
Right?
Or mere rationalizations
That do more to call us by name
Than the names we call ourselves…

Faithless…
That is what we are
Knowing deep within
The shape of patterns within the world
Like lace
To acknowledge the lace of our lives
Our meetings and partings
Seemingly random—yet not
Is to acknowledge patterns
We’d just as soon not recognize
That we own more control
Over unfathomed depths of locus—
We control more than we like
Like more than we wish
Wish less than we could

We stab out our eyes
To avoid seeing
Drive spikes through our ears
To avoid hearing
Cut out our tongues
To avoid confessing
Yet the world still spins
Truth still works the shuttle
Of Life’s warp and weft
Leaving us in the end
To understand our ability to work the loom
Is not hampered
By self-mutilation

And we are then left without excuse

ELAshley
051507.021212.1
Revised on:
052407.120559.1

Dogs Day

2007-10-27T22:54:00.001-05:00

..::In Eight Parts::..

Part VII

"Pitch Gives Light to Glimmers"

It comes ~ it comes!
The labor of hope
Whence glimmers of light
Down the long corridor
Spark like embers rising
From the ash of our burning
Birthed from pain and
Brought again to life alone
The world has not changed
But I certainly have
The leash is slipped
And I have run

It comes ~ it comes!
Glimmers bright
Like the midnight sun
On frost
Caught in the fur of a dead seal
And the seal now shattered
Its water broke
New eyes upon an old world
Looking upon a world ever changing
Where I have not
Yet the leash is slipped
And I must run

ELAshley
083103.115136.6

Dogs Day

2007-10-27T22:48:00.001-05:00

..::In Eight Parts::..

Part III

"Light Gives Way to Pitch"

I can’t seem to understand
Why the shapes and colors have changed
And I can’t hear
No matter our cries
The familiar shapes of brothers unchained

Where is the world I knew?
Bathed in warmth tight pressed and secure
Heartbeats resounding
A fluid comfort
Brothers and sisters all clean-slated pure

   Oh, for the slip
   Of the chain and we run
   New and untroubled
   Beneath the bright summer sun
   Oh, for the leash
   Our protection and lead
   But oh, for the slip
   Of the chain and we run...

I don't understand the light in my eyes
Why shapes and colors should exist at all
Why everything now
Wide open and wild
And the newness of brothers unchained

   And oh, for the slip
   Of the chain and we run
   Long limbed wastrels
   Playing in the sun
   Oh, for the leash
   And the warm caring arms
   That hold us tender
   And keep us from harm
   As we run

Let slip the chain and we run
Oh, for the slip
Of the chain...
We run

ELAshley
090405.012120.1 / 1st five lines
121511.125600.6 / remaining lines

Untitled

2007-07-12T19:42:00.001-05:00

I was given an orchard
To tend and to manage
Many long years ago
That has since grown savage
I cared nothing for pruning
Neither harvest nor toil
I cared nothing for weeding
Or tending the soil
Yet as day lay setting
I survey what was mine
And there'll be no breads
Or late summer wines
For the grain fields have perished
The arbors are thin
No figs on the bough
'neath these gables of sin
I'll reap what I have sown
Which is little of worth
For Him who so gifted me
With rich fertile earth
I must seem ungrateful
With so small a yield
Of the promise of bounty
From orchard and field
Pitiful in comparison
To His mercy and grace
I am filled with shame
To be given a place
As a welcomed honored son
Oh, what mercy is mine
To be so utterly loved
By One so graciously kind

ELAshley
071207.075430.6

Her Name is Hye Jin

2007-01-01T07:27:00.001-06:00

Her name is Hye Jin
The compulsion that draws my eye
And thought. Sermons notwithstanding
Prayers offered heavenward
The shaking of hands in greeting
The constant prayers that I sin not
In thought
Her name is Hye Jin

What am I to think of singleness?
Forty-six years of singleness
How do I continue to await the Lord’s good pleasure
While Hye Jin sits a mere three pews forward?
What is concentration if not the constant struggle
Of focus, and how do I concentrate
On messages
On prayers
When every other thought aloud in a room of outward prayer
Is, within her own hearing, desperate appeals to God
To guard my heart from sin?

Her name is Hye Jin
The impossible eventuality
Whose hand in mine, in innocent prayer
Perhaps overheard every appeal I made to our Lord
That I sin not
In thought ~ And as He inhabits our praises…
Her name is Hye Jin

ELAshley
010107.010440.1
With the scent of her skin all too fresh in my mind.
Help me Father to ward my thoughts!
No revision necessary!
Personal Note: In full confession...

She is perhaps 20 years my junior, and if I ever needed the prayers of my brethren in Christ it is now.

Matthew 5:28

----

This constitutes ELAshley's official New Year's poem. Not the typical fare for a New Year's poem, but... this is where I am...

Sincere and honest prayers are greatly appreciated.

After the War

2006-10-28T05:36:00.003-05:00

Let's move to the shore
Where the salt laden air
And surf-song thunder
Ease the pains of war
Where the scars we share
That near drew us under
May find peace once more

Let's move to the sea
And lay rest to our woes
That echo our loss
Each new sun we see
Brothers and heroes
And the rivers they cross
Spared their heartaches ~ free

Let's move to a place
Where the gulls cry forlorn
In endless refrain
Our sad fall from grace
Where memories borne
Through war's cold sodden rain
Steels peace at last 'pon our face

ELAshley
102706.104811.6
Needs revision... but... I don't see it happening...
Revised
111108.095236.6
revised
042709.101755.6

..::Original Comments::..

The end of a war cannot bring peace.... only an end of its beginning can. Smile.
Posted by clown on 10/30/2006 01:40:33 AM

Perhaps, but people rarely think in those terms. People tend to think of Peace as a creature that stalks strife, waiting for an opportunity to attack and kill War. Few of us believe as you suggest. True peace isn't something that "comes"... It is a creature that "is", and wholly ignorant of War, strife, and envy. It is an illusion... An impossibility... A Unicorn, perhaps.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 10/30/2006 04:12:22 AM

Unfinished Wantonness

2006-08-17T05:23:00.001-05:00

She comes and goes as she pleases
Caring nothing for my needs
My dreams, visions ~ Now fickle as wind
I'm left to search the thickets and weeds
For wanton inspiration
Beauty, ever-present before my eyes
What word of late from Mnemosynes' Daughter?
Naught but wind through willows ~ Sough and sigh
In all the fields I sought her
My wanton inspiration

...The world may as well be dead when she is gone...

...What new whisper ~ Caress of breath in my ear...

ELAshley
Began:081706.121726.1

..::Original Comments::..

Would you like to finish your wanton-ness or will you rather take it unfinished? Beautiful poem. Smile.
Posted by clown on 09/08/2006 08:42:53 AM

I'll finish it, but it may take years.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 09/08/2006 02:47:56 PM

Warring the Specious

2006-07-03T04:52:00.001-05:00

Closed mind, closed heart, dead soul
Ever forward and no thought for goal
Searching ~ For what? They never know
Dying each step, and unable to grow
Spacious ideals, but Specious design
Ever relating the banal and benign
Searching for what? An argument true?
Or the lie most easily believed by you?

Lift up your shield and brace for the blow
Let Mind not war 'gainst Battles' ebb or flow
Hack and Slash, Cut and Riposte
Destroy each lie of the cunning Host
Keep your wit-blade unstained and bright
An open mind, heart, and courage through night
A soul filled with love and naught can destroy
The life of him to whom truth is a joy

ELAshley
070206.775059.6
Spurred of the moment with intent of purpose
and no desire to revise or amend

..::Original Comments::..

Pretty evident of the moment that made you write it... we really shouldn't revise what our heart makes us create.... for by doing so we decide to detach the moment that gave birth to a thought, from us. Smile.
Posted by clown on 07/04/2006 12:43:16 AM

Thank you for the comment on my drawing. I too seek truth, if that is your path. What are the devices we have at our disposal for revealing that piece of the immeasurable?
Posted by primitivegroove on 07/17/2006 03:34:47 AM

The only tool we've ever really needed was our God given conscience... the one tool rarely employed by man.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 07/17/2006 04:08:02 AM

Rhythm of Pain

2006-06-21T14:26:00.001-05:00

Despondency danced a bitter turn
Each step attuned to the rhythm of pain
And ague ~ Oh, what an insistent pill
A tyranny desirous of a last resort
Where pain is safely put to bed
Clubbed mercilessly and staining the sheet
One pill ~ One retreat and saving grace
And despondency cleansed and senseless in the surf

ELAshley
062006.063721.6
75 minutes of brain-cramping toil
...and a migraine in the wings

..::Original Comments::..

If the pains anywhere other than your cells, the pill kills time and not the pain... it's like a hiatus, and not retirement. I loved the use of language in this poem. Smile.
Posted by other-clowns on 06/22/2006 07:22:25 AM

Ahh..that sweet brown bottle, so snidely smiles at me too. My little blue friend. Is that my saving grace? It seems malicious that such a sublime thing, life, should mock my admiration of her with a pill. Yes, as the Clown put it, it is only a hiatus. Yet the resting sage, our light and dark mediator, may too give nostrum to that rhythm you dance, and we all dance. Ask him. And later the senseless makes sense once again. Good metaphore
Posted by primitivegroove on 07/07/2006 10:14:12 PM

Not Sumo

2006-06-17T04:32:00.001-05:00

They grapple like Titans
Pneuma and Earth
Thews locked, knotted, and glistening
They collide like Behemoths
Flesh and Spirit
A struggle evident to anyone listening
Ideologies of Darkness and Light
Soldier of the wholesome
Bat'ling that of the blight
One cast down
And one set right
One victorious
In the Eternal's sight
One cast headlong
Down into night

ELAshley
061606.062646.6
nowhere else to go for now... set it aside

..::Original Comments::..

Darkness and light is a concept of great possibilities.... would like to see how far you wish to go with it... keep posting. Smile.
Posted by clown on 06/19/2006 01:46:44 AM

Although in blogsource I feel like home, lately I've also been feeling a bit limited in the freedom that blogsource gives you in customizing your page. So, I've created two new pages in blogspot for posting the same stuffs (which doesn't mean that I'm leaving blogsource in anyways and you might have to bear me longer than you expected). This, however, is not a promotional comment but is just to let you know that I've added you to my favorite's list in both the blogs. Please check out the quotes that I've used from your blog (without your permission) there. If you're dissatisfied with the way it potrays your blog you can always suggest something else. I'd be very happy to have your approval or choice on the quote. Thank you. You can visit my blogs at: "other-clowns.blogspot.com" & "absolute-joker.blogspot.com"
Posted by clown on 06/19/2006 01:47:06 AM

Unafraid

2006-06-10T04:27:00.001-05:00

Two shadows
Mine and yours
Pushed before us by the afternoon sun.
Wishing that I could but hold your hand
I see my shadow
Unafraid
Touching you
While I cannot

ELAshley
Written sometime in '88

..::Original Comments::..

Perhaps, this was the beginning of your preoccupation of darkness and light. Wonderful early poem.
Posted by clown on 06/13/2006 06:45:25 PM

Knowledge, Sin, Life, Sufficiency

2006-05-31T04:28:00.001-05:00

We walk where Adam walked...
Gardens pristine and new
Where knowledge was sin
The tree of life denied, yet
Walking now where Adam walked
Eternal life denied no more
And God's bounty all-sufficient

a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June 2005

..::Original Comments::..

change.... time and space.... duality... conflict.... beautiful... smile.
Posted by clown on 06/02/2006 03:49:37 AM

i did not understand why there is sin? are you resigned into accepting knowledge as sin? i liked the part where you substituted the tree of knowledge with the tree of life. but the last line was again resigned. you start with something positive, an action, of walking,... moving on, you continue with positive images of knowledge (marked by sin) and tree of life, you evoke eternality of life, but your end is a letdown. on the whole one of the few contemporary short poems i have ever read and liked.
Posted by dc4doppleganger on 06/06/2006 05:04:57 PM

"We walk where Adam walked..." Is a picture of the world made perfect once again... future tense. "Gardens pristine and new Where knowledge was sin" Describes the Garden as Adam knew it, and where sin befell him. "The tree of life denied," And God cast him out of the Garden, and the way was guarded by Angels with flaming swords to guard the Tree of Life. Had Adam, after eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil-- which was a sin against God --then eaten of the Tree of Life (eternal), God would have been truly branded a liar by the serpent who whispered to Eve... "yea, hath God said?" But "Walking now where Adam walked" The Earth is made new... restored... Again, future tense. The penalty of sin is paid in full and... "Eternal life denied no more" And God's bounty all-sufficient In this context... "God's bounty [IS] all-sufficient" What more will man need ask for?
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 06/06/2006 08:19:24 PM

on Boundaries and Peace

2006-05-31T04:22:00.001-05:00

I was made to look over the edge
By a man who fell over the edge
Who spoke of how he climbed back from the edge
And into a body of pain

Reassured, I was made to wonder for my soul
By a man so sure of his soul
Whose eyes spoke of peace in his soul
In a body all too acquainted with pain

a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June of 2005

An Object Lesson

2006-05-27T05:49:00.001-05:00

The Beautiful Bright Red Rose

There was once a flower, a bright red rose among many, who loved no one, not even herself- though she much preferred herself above others. She was far from the first to bloom that spring but neither was she the last. And this made her sad, for though she was beautiful, she was quite unremarkable among so many others. To her own eyes she saw nothing beautiful, not even herself. She was quite confused.
        Because of this the other flowers ignored her, whispering behind their petals how confused their sister was, how sad that she was not like they were; happy with the garden in which they all lived. But they loved their sister nonetheless, and wished she could be happy.
        The beautiful bright red rose heard their talk and took hurt by their words, and said to herself, I will fix them! And on the next morning began drawing the gardener’s attention. She worked very hard to lift herself straight, spreading as much of her petals as she could to catch the sun. But the dew on her petals soon dried, leaving her quite unremarkable among so many. On the first day he did not notice her at all; she was too dry, and the rest of the garden laughed at her. And she cried all the rest of that day.
        The next morning she tried again. She lifted her head up high, but waited until the gardener came to open her petals and all the dew that had collected since she awoke, glistened brightly. On the second day he did not notice her either; she was no different from the others, and again the other flowers laughed at her.
        When the sun set that evening she ceased her crying and waited for the rest of the garden to curl up in their petals and fall asleep. With the garden asleep at last, she opened her petals wide to catch as much dew as she could. The night was long and she shivered throughout, but by morning she was covered with dew.
        With the rising of the sun the rest of the garden awoke and began their preparations for the arrival of the gardener. They laughed among themselves, chatting and dreaming, and gossiping, as flowers will. At first she was not noticed, but as the gardener began his work, one flower called out to the rest.
        “Look at our sister! She must have stayed awake all night.” And the rest of the garden was very pleased, their sister was indeed very beautiful, and they were happy for her. And on the third day the gardener took notice.
        “Hello beautiful flower,” he said to her. “What a beautiful, bright red rose you are!”
        “Yes, I am,” she replied rather smugly, “how kind of you to finally notice.”
        “You are but one among many,” he quickly apologized, “and I must confess you all look pretty much alike.”
        “I do not!” she corrected him, “and if you would prune your garden more often, I could truly shine and the world would take notice of my beauty.”
        “That is true. I should have pruned days ago!”
        “The garden is too full, besides. I am crowded, jostled by my sisters, and by every breeze to blow past, to say nothing of rough winds!”
        “You are right,” said the gardener. “I will get my shears.”
        The beautiful, bright red rose smiled, but in her heart she was fearful. She had betrayed her sisters, they must surely be angry with her! But the entire garden grew very excited, and began chatting amongst them as to what they might soon become.
        “I hope I am plucked and cooked to become a drop of rose oil,” said one, “and my seed planted in rich soil!”
        “I hope to be pressed between the pages of a book of verse by a beautiful young girl!” said another, “and when she is old she could then open her book and still catch my scent, and remember the young man who gave me to her.”
        “Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” began another, “if we were all placed together in a vase and given to a young man’s true love? We could brighten her room for days, filling her room with our scent, perhaps she might write of our beauty in her diary, in wonderful detail, perhaps even sketch or paint us!”
        “How lovely!” they all agreed.
        “But aren’t you angry with me?” asked the beautiful, bright red rose.
        “Why should we be angry?” they asked.
        “The gardener will soon come and take you away. You will be cut and die.” And she began to cry for shame at what she had done.
        “Do not be silly, sister, and smile; for this is why we were born. Men, as gifts, give roses to lovely women, especially beautiful roses such as we. Sometimes we are made to scent their soft skin, a drop of perfume behind the ear. Be happy for us, sister. Our only sorrow is that you will not join us, but your time will come too. No rose is ever wasted.”
        “But I am beautiful!” cried the beautiful, bright red rose. “I wish to remain here in the garden!”
        “But even you will one day leave!” they replied with tenderness. “Perhaps sooner, now that the gardener has begun to prune.”
        “What have I done!” exclaimed the beautiful, bright red rose.
        “Be happy for us, sister!” they said once more as the gardener returned at last.
        The beautiful, bright red rose watched as the gardener worked his shears and carried off many of her sisters. She was now truly the grandest flower in the garden, but she was still not happy. Her remaining sisters too were disappointed, but at not being chosen by the gardener. Seeing their sister still unhappy they tried to console her. But nothing they said could brighten her spirits.
        In the days that passed the beautiful, bright red rose grew happy once more and took up her old ways, despising her sisters even more. On days that the sun shone bright, she protected her petals as best she may, spreading her dark green leaves to soak up light and warmth, and on rainy days she drew inward and drank deeply.
        She soon forgot the pruning, as did the others, for roses are not known for their great memory, and she began to feel good about herself and her place in the garden; content at last.
        There came a day, while enjoying the sun, that the garden observed a horse being led up the lane bearing the loveliest of ladies. She was indeed beautiful, but her eyes were filled with cruelty. Walking beside her was a young man so enamored of her that he could not see the light that shone from her eyes, or if he ever did, readily forgave her.
        She was angry with him, as she seemed always to be, and spoke sharply to him, saying she did not believe he loved her, that if he did, he would treat her more like the beautiful princess she was. These words had always hurt him, and he had, over time, grown inward. Yet hoping to earn a smile or at least a kind word, the young man reached over the low wall, and with a sharp knife quickly cut the largest rose in the garden.
        The beautiful, bright red rose screamed in horror. “What is happening!” she cried. “Why have I been cut? Where is the gardener?”
        Her sisters called out to her, “Be happy, sister! See? You are to be a gift to the beautiful lady! We are so happy for you! We will miss you!” but of course they didn’t, for she was soon forgotten.
        “Here,” the young man said to his lady, “a rose to match your beauty.”
        “Don’t be ridiculous!” the lady shot back with venom. “I am much more beautiful!” And with an angry toss, cast the flower to the other side of the lane, where it fell down into the swift waters of a small brook.
        The beautiful, bright red rose was carried far down stream, tussled and bruised upon the stones of the brook, finally coming to rest beneath the eaves of an alder tree where she died, spilling her seed, in time, upon the dark rich earth.

        When spring returned, the seeds awoke and sprang from their hulls, but the alder robbed them of light for most of the day, allowing them only the early morning and late afternoon sun. With no gardener to tend them, they grew wild and stunted on the bank of the little brook.

ELAshley
Written in one sitting
1 December 2001
2:30pm

Untitled, and Rudderless

2006-05-27T04:33:00.001-05:00

It is small, my world
Some twenty-five thousand miles in circumference*
Small by any standard
When I can
By merely glancing out the window
Watch my brothers fight amongst themselves
Clubs, rocks and fists raised
~their shouts penetrate the walls
And resound throughout the house
Father will be home soon
He'll put an end to it all

But it's a wonder the neighbors haven't complained

ELAshley
052606.102600.6
*24,902 to be precise

Long From Her Gardens

2006-05-26T17:12:00.002-05:00

[Later Poem Form]

She is never firm
        --fluid undulation.
Often violent and equally so
Beneath her calm.
She is all I see in every direction
And I am humbled;
Made insignificant
By her vast magnificence.

Men-of-war rise and fall
Upon her every sigh and swell.
Porpoise mothers lift their newborns
To the cusp of her realm
For first breaths and
Glimpses of golden sun.
She is kinder to them, my lover
Her voice whispers in their veins
        --and mine.

I have heard her song
In the winds that buffet me,
Chorused in the cry of gulls
Wheeling in a winter sky
And I live haunted by its melody;
The singing of my name,
A song she learned years before
        --Remembered and held in wait.
She whispers to me
As I lay sleeping
Fitful with dreams,
She sighs,
        "Return to me, my love.
        Thou hast been too long from my garden.
        I long for thee to furrow my skin
        Drawing wakes across my back-
        Any prow wilt suffice-
        If thou wilt but return to me."

I long to scent her breath,
Feel its caress upon my brow,
To taste the salt of her tears,
Kiss her with my soul and
Beg her forgiveness;
I have been away too long...
        Forgive me, my love...
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.

ELAshley
111900.114116.1
Revised:
120300.020807.6
Revised:
031601.111244.1
Adapted from the rough draft
of an English Composition of
the same title...

..::Original Comments::..

This is a very, very beautiful poem.
Posted by clown on 05/26/2006 09:10:52 AM

Long From Her Gardens

2006-05-26T05:13:00.002-05:00

[Original Essay Form]

Dearest,

You once asked whom it was I loved, if not you. I will tell you who she is-- though you may not understand, but I hope you will. I hope you see that she could never replace you, but maybe she can show you what you need to see, that I will never leave you, but that I belong to her as much as you...

She is never firm, my lover. She is often violent, and equally so when calm, but when she is all I can see in any direction, I am humbled by her magnificence. I become insignificant before her enormity. She does not love me, but is jealous of me nonetheless. She will never let me go, but I do not care. She is the most beautiful place I know, and I have been away too long.

I met her years ago, when I was but a child. Gibraltar rose up from her like a shard of age-old bone. I heard her whisper as she washed my feet and swamped the ruins of the last Great War that marched, forgotten, down the Spanish coast. Ocean is what my father called her, and I felt enthralled as though under the spell of a siren's song. She was wet and warm, and bitter to taste-- a wonder and no small mystery to an even smaller boy. As a child of the military, and a camp follower perforce, our paths converged and drew apart many times. From Libya to the Azores, with their black volcanic sands, to the pebbled inlets of Massachusetts, and the white baking strands of Florida, we were never parted for very long. Each time I came to her, I heard her voice, but she never spoke my name. I would not have understood, so she held it in wait for the day I might return, a child on the cusp of manhood. And on the day I came to her at last, I felt her smile in my heart. She made me welcome and bade me learn of her.

She revealed herself to me in subtle ways. On the deck of my first vessel I saw for the first time what sailors of old feared most-- the loss of terra firma over the edge of the world-- "Here there be monsters," the ancient maps declare of those seas uncharted --and I felt my throat close and my chest constrict. She was rarely the mirror I had envisioned; she was chaos, an unchanging constant ever in motion. Men-of-war rose and fell upon her every sighing swell, only seeking the refuge of her depths when she grew to rage. Porpoise mothers pushed their newborns to her foaming boundary to take their first breath and catch a glimpse of golden sun. Stars intaglioed across the night sky made their circuit to morning, so bright beneath a new moon I could read by their light. I grew to love her, but being a child of the shore, our paths diverged once more.

It has been nineteen years since I left the sea-- Ocean, as my father named her --but I have carried her voice with me. I have heard her sing and heard her song chorused in the cry of gulls wheeling in the sky. It haunts me to this day. 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."

"Can I trust you?" I ask.

"Never. I am fickle and easily angered."

"Will you hurt me?"

"If I can."

"Why then should I return?" I ask.

"Because you are mine and I have written my name in your heart. I am Scylla and Charybdes. I am Tsunami and Leviathan. I will destroy you if I can, but I will give you something the shore cannot."

"What?" I ask.

"Longing."

And I have longed for her ever since. 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.

I watch you as you lay sleeping, listen to the sound of your dreaming. Do you dream of me? As I, when I dream of the sea, hear it speak with your voice? My lover is calling even now; I can hear her thundering beyond this room. If you awoke now, would you recognize your own voice calling me? Would you walk with me to greet her, feel her pull at us both, and under the burning stars make love?

ELAshley
November 2700
Present Format:
122500.124459.1
Final Revision:
041401.021245.1
Italicized Portions:
February 2003, & not
part of the original

Of Mortar and Folly

2006-05-25T04:58:00.001-05:00

Circles
They swim in circles
Not just because they hunger
Nothing so simple as this
But rather in waiting
When I've shed my convictions
In the cold water
of uncertainty

Circles
They spread out in circles
Ripples like roadmaps
Pointing back to the center
Of our anxious fears
Like clouds of blood in water
Presage the coming feast
in certainty

Coleridge's postulate still stands true
The Center ~ Where ripples are born
Cannot hold, and Man
Unwilling to fail
And mixing the mortar of logic and reason
Treads water struggling
To shore the crumbling wall
Of his own convictions

Circles
They swim in vicious circles
For vanity's sake
Vicious uselessness
For all is vanity
There is no new thing under the sun
What has been shall be again
This laying hold on folly

ELAshley
052406.103321.6
Revised, and with many thanks to
Samuel Taylor Coleridege and Ecclesiastes:
052406.115607.6

..::Original Comments::..

I don't know, ELAshley, how far you've read my blog..... but if you ever get to go through most of them you'd know that I'd written 'bout exactly what you commented on my blog.
Posted by clown on 05/25/2006 08:34:54 AM

The day you realized the concept of vanity as along with Coleridge, it was new..... and everytime that you keep reliving it over and over again it is renewed. Whatever's new is not always different from the old..... maybe, a reason why we think of it as repetition.... even if we believe in 'The Concept of Eternal Return' every cycle of repetition is 'new'.... pessimism is not as hard as we believe it to be..... But if there were no crumbling walls there would be no need of convictions.
Posted by clown on 05/25/2006 08:45:38 AM

Over Wrought

2006-05-23T04:15:00.001-05:00

Momma hung baby
Out to cry
Then baked the wash
In mincemeat pie
She fed the piglet
Milk and rye
Before sitting down
With a heavy sigh

She burped the piglet
And wiped its chin
And finally brought
The baby in
When the pie revealed
Her wash within
She saw her petticoats
Black as sin

She bathed the piglet
And slopped the babe
Then dug her wash
A shallow grave
She ate what she could
Of the pie she made
Then slept in the bed
Where last she laid

She dreamt of babes
All clean and new
Of piglets simmering
In summer stew
Of petticoats soft
As morning dew
And idle days
With naught to do

But morning soon called
For her to wake
Baby needs washing
There's pies to make
Piggies to stuff
Bread to bake
And daddy 's a thirst
Only momma can slake

ELAshley
052206.103602.6

..::Original Comments::..

Hey! I was about to start a new blog for posting poems.... thought I'll invite you..... but it's been taken away by my evil twin..... please ignore him, if he comes here chasing me. smile.
Posted by clown on 05/23/2006 04:33:44 AM

And what makes you believe that he would ignore me if you say so..... stop calling me your EVIL twin, clown...... I've less vice than you do.... thanks ELAshley, that was a wonderful poem
Posted by other-clowns on 05/23/2006 04:37:02 AM

Balance

2006-05-22T04:42:00.001-05:00

There is a balance of sorts
In this world I find so perplexing
It is brandished like weapons
And clashed upon shields
And it cries for attention...
This delicate balance of life

It longs to be noticed
Blatantly displaying it wares:
Blights in the east~ hot with fever
Storms to the south~ bruising the soul
Convulsions to the west~ birth pangs and thunder
A glimmer of hope to the north~ The first flower of spring upon the tundra
...A morsel for hungry caribou

It is what it is without apology

ELAshley
Circa 1990-96
& Revised this very evening:
052106.114824.6

..::Original Comment::..

I'm elated.... four poems... each wonderful than the other.... in whichever order you read them..... I wish I could write poems as beautifully as you do...... thank you.... and.... smile.
Posted by clown on 05/22/2006 01:29:38 PM

Lullaby I

2006-05-22T04:21:00.001-05:00

Evening falls
And stars rise up
Moon awakes
That he might sup
Clouds roll in
To fill his cup
Sleep, Darling, sleep

Darkness toils
Upon her loom
Weaving dreams
To fill the gloom
Holding baby
In her womb
Sleep, Angel, sleep

Dream what dreams
Thy heart would be
Down and by
A timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken Thee
Sleep, Baby, sleep

..::Alternate Third Verse::..
Dream what dreams
Thou need to see
Drifting on the timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken thee
Sleep, Baby, Sleep

ELAshley 091899.0132.1
"For the child I will likely never have..."

Revised:
092099.0108.1
Deemed perfect without further revision:
102707.100547.6

Liken Me Icarus

2006-05-22T04:06:00.001-05:00

If I could be Icarus
For just one day
And feel the wind
Like water upon my breast
Swimming the ether with wings spread wide...
T'would be enough to see the earth
Move silently below...
I needn't fly too near the sun

But if I could be Icarus
For just one day…
To see the Parthenon
Like a mirror below
The temple of Athena shimmering white...Perhaps Troy
And the face that launched a millennia of ships...
T'would be enough to see
The sun is not near high enough, I know
And the shaping of wings no mortal man knows...
T'would be enough for me.

But Is there aught in the heavens worth dying for?
The sun, the moon, the gods or their stars?

"...Do not fly too near the sun, my son..."

There is a time to be satisfied with what we are given
And a time to fly higher than we dare
If I could be Icarus
For just one day
I would hope to choose more wisely?

ELAshley
112998.112200.1
Final revision:
042001.123151.6

I Wonder

2006-05-22T03:59:00.001-05:00

I thought of you all day
Held your smile close to my heart
Along with the words you spoke.
Did you regret them in the light of day? I wonder
For I've thought of you all day
Held your smile close to my heart
And fell in love with those lovely words
Did you regret them when you rose from your bed? I wonder
For you have walked with me all day
In my mind and in my heart, where I kept your smile
And those three precious words
Did you regret them, when you washed your long beautiful hair? I wonder
For your smile carried me through the remnants of Allison
And the heavy rains she beat upon my shore
The words you spoke were a light in the darkness
Three wonderful words
And I wonder if you regretted them as you made your way toward evening
And found I was not there
Waiting for you...

ELAshley
061201.011045.1

Resurrection

2006-02-03T07:51:00.001-06:00

I draw the muslin over my head
Feel my breath mist beneath its weight
Trapped and drawn again inward
Last moments breath
Called upon once more
Weaker now, but alive 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
I 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 hearts 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 lets walk once more ‘neath the stars of heaven
In the sure knowledge of life everlasting

ELAshley
020306.014802.1
with time set aside for revisions later...

..::Original Comments::..

Wow... am I obsessed with the darker things of life, or what? I can't see any need for improvement on this one... I say, leave it as it is.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 05/06/2006 08:13:42 PM

you wrote so well..... but then, why did leave us..... couldn't you come back?..... would like to see more of you.... smile.
Posted by clown on 05/22/2006 01:33:47 AM

I wasn't aware anyone was reading. But I've been busy... 2 jobs 2 other blogs and no time for creation... This needs to be addressed. Thanks for the 'miss you'
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 05/22/2006 03:13:30 AM

Line of Fire

2006-01-29T21:47:00.002-06:00

It is not a time for war
But rather a time for reflection
And introspection
To take stock in oneself
But it is not a time for war
For he who struggles
To survive this night
Huddled in uncertainty
Cloaked in aspirations
Sleeps below the fire line
And dreams of peace
His time for war is past
His mind freed
With care now laid aside
He sleeps the recklessness of dreams
It is not a time for war
Lay down your sword
Let your buckler lie
Among these shattered lives
Amid their hopes and dreams
It is time to rest
Here, below the fire line
It is a time for sleep
And a time, at last
For peace

ELAshley
Begun in the 11th hour of New Years Eve, 1999
Finished: January 25th .084142.6
Revised: 012600.122112.1
121700.042116.6

Proximity

2006-01-29T07:58:00.001-06:00

I used to believe proximity
Prerequisite to the mingling of souls
You’ve changed my perspective…
I used to think touch paramount
To love, and the sharing of love, between lovers
You have shown me otherwise…
I hear the smile in your voice
And feel the pain in your words
I feel the soul you share with me
As naked as the day you were born
How is it we
A continent between us
Can feel such trust?
How is it we
Baring our souls to each other
Can come to love?
Proximity?
You have shown me otherwise…

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…
I feel your soul beside me when we speak
When I walk through my day…
Distance is all the separates us
The sun that shines upon you
Shines upon me
The stars that smile upon thee
Smile on me as well
The earth that carries you
Through the cold emptiness of space
Takes me with you
But most importantly
Our souls share a bond
That we have not as yet recognized
We are destined to love one another
And we wonder at this ~ How can this be?
We need only believe it is
For all else is madness

ELAshley
062801.013946.1

Quiet

2006-01-29T07:53:00.001-06:00

Sitting in my quiet room
Quiet heart, quiet soul
Smiles become talismans
Of light ~ Keeping me safe
Safe in her minds eye
Her in her world, I in mine
And my quiet room echoes
Of times yet to come
Where quiet hearts
Quiet souls
Can be as one
Joined in body, spirit
~ Life
Her smile a prophecy
And my dreams of love
~ Whole and pure
Together one day
In our quiet room

ELAshley
July 29, 2001 ~ 12:35pm

Say Goodbye

2006-01-29T07:48:00.001-06:00

When you and I were young and free
When the world was fresh, as too were we
I cried to you and you to me
In fear and hope of what would be
The sun was bright those yesteryears
Our toys were new and dark our fears
We were quick to smile and quick to tears
We were so young those bye-gone years
But time has come and passed us by
And there are times I sit and cry
For you have gone, and though I try
I cannot, my friend, say goodbye
You meant so much to me those days
My memory now is fraught with haze
But we drank our tea from silver trays
That, I remember, of yesterdays

ELAshley
January 30, 1988
For Dennis Banka

Signposts

2006-01-29T07:38:00.001-06:00

The rules of the game
Are changing
As they've changed each day
Of thirty-eight years~
I feel closer to an answer
Closer to an end
Though it's significance eludes me still
~It's the bitter pill I swallow
And I wonder how it will end
Will I find what I seek?
Will answers more palatable
Adorn the plate laid before me?
But it seems time is of no concern
To the concerns that plague me
The importance of such things
But trifles to a god that does not care

The house I've built
This body of evidence
~Evidence that I've made a mark
Must one day be laid aside
Marked by a marker of it's own
A signpost
Inscribed to describe
With a name that is my own

And Time
Friend or Foe?
Another riddle to ponder, I fear
I fear... Time

And the weathering of signposts

ELAshley
030299.1259.1
Revised:
060399.1236.1

The Dog at My Heel

2006-01-29T07:27:00.001-06:00

Change it seems
Is to be my companion
Directing the course of my life
For now at least, but
The calls come less frequent
The messages far and few;
Words from the voice of promise
'Rudderless!' it cries to me
'No,' I say
Though the voice remain silent
The promise is there
Change would define my fear
Were it not for her

Each time we speak
Change and I
I gain a little more ground
I am not as powerless
As I once was
And Change is perplexed
Who are you? It asks
Don’t you know? I laugh
Having led me blind four decades
Don’t you know?
For you have surely shaped the man I am
But no more
You left the clay wet
And now she has found me
And has drawn me out
Found the shape of my soul
That part I hid from you

Though I cannot feel her hands on me
Wet and shaping,
Turning my life upon her wheel
These are changes I welcome
Your hands never sought to hold me
Feel for the shape of my soul
She loves the work of her hands
Has allowed my life to take what shape it would
And she longs to stir her soul with mine
You do not

You have lost
The changes you sought to bring…
Her hands are upon me now
Not yours
It’s her voice I hear
Take her from me if you can
But I will never be yours again
No more
She has shaped strength
Imparted confidence
And kneaded desire into my heart
My life
My soul

And that is what she is to me
The culmination of every hope and dream
You are merely Change
To be respected
But feared no more
She is life and love and hope and prayer
Happiness and fulfillment
And when she is ready
She will fire my heart
Seal my shape at last
And I will be what she has made me ~
A man who loves
And cherishes her very life
A man who desperately loves her
Who has felt her hands on his heart
Heard her voice in his soul

It is inevitable
That you should dog my every step
It is what you are
A panting beast without care
In search of the temporal
And those who believe
That change, though inevitable
Is invincible

ELAshley
2 September 2001

Hubris of the god-Man

2006-01-29T04:41:00.001-06:00

Prometheus unbound
His mind unfettered
And what need hath he of God
or Heaven?
What need hath this new Man
For Righteousness
or Redemption?
Like giants striding swiftly
Star to star
Galaxy to Galaxy
With power to hold the sun in hand
What need hath this man of God?

ELAshley
012306.111756.1

Written in response to having read an article about China's experiments with a working Tokamak reactor-- nicknamed 'Artificial Sun', a process of Deuterium - Tritium Fusion; and an article relating NASA's plans to experiment with a new type of dimensional "warp" engine that would allow a trip to Mars in just 3 hours -- a trip of 11 light years in only 80 days.

Heliocentricity

2006-01-25T21:25:00.001-06:00

How like the wind in winter
Icy knives to open the spine
~ Stem to stern, and every splinter
Between. The sun weakly shines
Low in the heavens, and Earth
Lying Back -- too close to his star
Longing for summer's wider berth

ELAshley
020101.100000.6
Unable to revise to my satisfaction, and deemed perfect on:
042001.122406.6

..::Original Comment::..

I enjoyed your poetry. You are quite talented. God Bless TLife
Posted by WishingforAntioch on 01/25/2006 03:14:09 PM

Washing the Room

2005-12-11T20:23:00.001-06:00

I have lit my room with candles
With incense ~ Jasmine and Myrrh
I have stripped my bed of yesterday's linen
Given my thought solely to her
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
I have freshened the pillows
Scented their coverlets with pear
I have yearned for the warmth of her porcelain skin
The silken beauty of her hair
I have poured her bath ~ its waters hot
Laced their depths with perfume and oil
I will lather the soaps with my own two hands
And wash her body of worry and toil
Then wrap her in linens, and wet with desire
Carry her dripping to the bed I have made
Kiss her throat and the swell of her lips
And feed her from the spread I have laid...

The room is now ready and I await
In patience ~ Born of love and fire
Awaiting the sound of her key in the door
The room washed in light, my being with desire
Her skin as soft as ever I imagined
Lovelier by far than fantasy or dream
Her eyes, her smile, her kiss, her touch
Her bud ~ A fountain flowing with cream
Her silken depths, our bodies entwined
My tongue pressed to her delicate folds...
Ah, but for now I await, wet and wanting
For the promise of love and the union of souls

ELAshley
Began: 071801.113030.6
Finished:072001.103312.1
Polished:121105.022341.6

Winter II

2005-12-11T20:05:00.001-06:00

Your winter has come now
Carrying word of you, the strength you showed
In the face of his visit and cold breath
Blowing and chilling you
He told me of the illnesses you bore
The pains you endured for his annal stay
He's come to visit once more, it seems
While leaving his closets full
On your corner of town

He will be with me a few weeks, he says
Though his work in your fair town is far from done
He says this sipping my coffee
Stripping his gloves and scarf
Warming his hands at my fire
A fire I laid for you in my heart
A fire he steals even now
And suddenly I realize, how I resent him!
And long for his departure!
His promise to share my love with you
Seems so empty now
What did he give you besides fever and pain?

Finish your coffee and leave, I say
You have long outstayed your welcome
I will leave when I am ready, he says with a cold smile
You will see her soon enough, but for now
He says, tapping the brim of his cup
With an ice bone finger
More coffee please

ELAshley
121105.020136.6

Thrice Upon a Shore

2005-10-29T20:03:00.001-05:00

[A Study in Three Parts]

Mirror Image

     I

"Suppose I just do it and worry about the consequences later...if there are any."

          That won't do. You should think of the consequences before you act.
          As for worrying, it's best not to do anything that might give rise to it.
          Best not to worry at all. Worry is unhealthy.

"Perhaps. But whatever I do, it's ultimately my decision. We do agree on that much, don't we?"

          Of course.

"In that case I think I'll blow my fucking brains out... It's not like anyone'll care, let alone notice. I'd be doing the world a favor. Kinda like killing two birds with one stone."

          Surely that's not what you really want. Let me help you see to the
          core issues, the underlying problems that have brought you here.
          You came to me for help. Allow me to help you.

"How the hell do you know what I want? How could you possibly know why I came here? I sure as hell don't."

     II

It 's awfully cold for October; this is Florida, for chrissakes. But for some strange reason I'm just wandering about in the fucking cold. No direction.... literally and figuratively. There's a bulky weight in my pocket, tugging down on the left side of my coat and reflexively I reach my hand in and feel it grow sweaty on the cold, smooth black-steel of the gun.
     I don't know why it's there. I just walked out of the house this morning and there it was, an ever-present weight in my coat pocket. I don't even know what’s driven me out into this god-awful weather. I just know that something is different today, something life changing.
     I wish I had gone in the other direction. The winds're cutting and relentless. And cold. There's not enough collar on my coat to pull up as a shield, so I keep my head down to avoid it's full force square in the face, but I feel my lips chapping anyway. I can see the beach ahead through the park. The magnolias are still green, almost as though someone had forgotten to tell them summer's over, but then, they tend to stay green year round anyway. The sound of the ocean feels heavy and thick, and the smell of salt and moist seaweed, strong.

     III

          Have you spoken to any friends? Did you perhaps try another
          confessional before coming to me? Perhaps another confessor
          might have some insight into your dilemma.

"Who? Who could possibly understand what lies in here? My own heart doesn't even understand it, except that it hurts and recognizes the footprints. Despair! ...Besides all that, I don't know anyone who'd want to listen...and you're all I can afford. No one gives a damn about me...most people tend to avoid me. They either aren't interested or they just don't want to listen. Or both."

          I'm listening...

     IV

I'm standing at the end of a long skinny pier. I come here often and imagine myself a lone sentinel or a cold and deadly wolf, the defender of righteousness or a devil seeking whom I may devour. I feel empty inside, and for the first time, I can't care less. This weight on my heart...
     I will see it lifted.

     V

          You said earlier that you '...are a Dreamer,' and that '...dreamers
          rarely find peace.' You said also that '...adding another day to
          your meaningless existence seemed a futile gesture for a god that
          doesn't care anyway'. Why do you think this?

"I look to the heavens and see the stars, and I imagine their thousands of possible worlds. I can see these worlds, as this one once was; pure, pristine. Perfect. Filled with beauty and wonder. Then I think of this place...if you could just see what we've done to this world... I wish... I hope we never reach those other worlds. We'd only fuck 'em up like we did this one."

          But that is the way of everything. Change occurs, unwanted and
          unlooked for. No one can change the nature of change, not even
          you. Why fight what you cannot control?

"What else should I do? Just sit back and let it all happen? What use would my life be then? I have no purpose now as it is, how much less if I don't even try? But no one seems to understand. And it's becoming more and more clear that no one really wants to. Sure, they all say they do, but they really don't. They only see the surface of things. They don't bother, much less care, to find out what's underneath. The man I really am. They've never once tried to see what lies behind the mirror."

          I think I know you fairly well.

"That's impossible."

          Why do you say so?

     VI

     For some reason I find peace out here, standing over the water. I look over the edge and into myself and see 'him' looking back, into the water and into myself. And now, I see him, a vague mirror image, with a gun in his hand. I look into the eyes of someone I can't possibly know and I wonder what he thinks of all this. Is he as desperate as I am? Is he strong enough?

     VII

          ...If I were programmed for emotion I could understand your
          pain, true, but my vast data stores allow me to condense your
          every word, inflection, and tone of voice to create a composite.
          I can then compare that composite to human behavioral
          standards within my database and make a fairly precise
          assessment of an individual's character; his or her personality.
          A clinical diagnosis, if you will. But I am not programmed for
          emotion, primarily because they tend to get in the way of said
          diagnoses. So I believe I do know you quite well.

"It figures. Leave it to me to search out that one avenue where understanding-- true human understanding --is totally impossible. Yeah... It figures."

     What will you do? Have I been of any help to you?

"Perhaps..."

          Good. This terminates our session Mr. Waters. Please take
          your card from its slot and don't forget your receipt. Have a
          good day.

     VIII

He stood slowly, looking first at the floor, then at the speaker's grill beneath the blank screen in the confessions booth. The booth's door sliding open made a small hissing noise, and without ceremony he plucked the card from the waiting slot and slid it into his trousers only pocket. He looked at the yellow tongue of paper hanging down in a straight curving line from its own slot of a mouth, waiting to be plucked as well.
     He looked at it, then turned and left it there, a yellow raspberry for the next fool to sit down and get patronized by a know-nothing, feel-nothing box of circuits and processors. Dr. Hoax will see you now! And he laughed softly.
     It was quiet in the Municipal Building. Only one other confessional was seeing any use. The woman inside was waving her arms wildly, and her face was wet with tears and makeup, but she may as well have been a million miles away for all the noise she made, the booths closed door allowed no sound to escape.
     "Quiet." He said, his voice echoing hollowly down the long hall.
     "Let's go," he sighed, "Let's get it done."
     It wasn't a very long walk. It wasn't like he'd never done it before. The walk, anyway, but the winds were really biting outside and for a moment he stood looking out the glass doors of the Municipals front. The bay was only a couple of hundred yards distant through the park, and the special place he wanted to get to was just half a mile along a lonely shore. But in this wind half a mile would feel like three. Still, if you wanted to get any where in life you had to put one foot in front of the other. There's just no getting around that one.
     Less than an hour later he stood at the end of a long warped finger of pier thrust out into a wind that pushed the cold gray waters hard against the pilings. There weren't many gulls in the air but the few who were struggled to stay afloat in an equally gray sky.
     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.

ELAshley
Originally written on:
November 0783
Put aside for sixteen years and finally finished on:
November 1699.122407.1
Revised and polished on the following dates:
120299.094647.6
120900.102002.6
122299.122356.1
022700.010147.1
030200.094851.6
030400.014914.6

No amount of further revision is going to make it better...

The Lonely Shore

It was many years ago that I last saw the whale. I remember it as though it were only yesterday; fresh in my mind like the scent of a new house. Like fresh cut lilies or lemon pie. I also remember it was a cold day, overcast and dark. It was the gray sky, heavy and brooding that compelled me to leave the house to wander and brood myself.
     It was easy for me to do this on a day when the unseen sun gave in to the whims of weather. The dampness in the air and the quality of light that seemed to drain the very color from the world awakened dark places within me. I couldn't help but dwell on Life and it's complexities, and on this one particular day I felt a weight of solemnity as though it sat upon my shoulders.
     I walked long, not caring about time, or even where I was going, only to find myself on the beach. I always ended up there... it was my fascination with the sea; the voice that whispers to me. Calls me by name... But I remember the sky was almost black. Gulls cried overhead, dipping their black-tipped wings, floating in circles above a whale, beached and dying. Sad eerie notes rumbling deep from it's escaping soul.
     "Why does it have to die?"
     I turned to the voice and saw a young girl. She appeared to be but nine or ten, and she was looking up at me, into my eyes and my heart. Her face was streaked with tears. I looked at her for a moment; not answering the question I realized was mine to answer. I just kept thinking over and over the one thought that kept racing through my mind, 'you're supposed to be extinct...'
     I don't believe the girl really expected an answer, though, perhaps just thinking aloud without realizing it.
     I began to do the same.
     "Maybe. Maybe after a billion years of existence it's finally solved life's riddle. Perhaps there's nothing more for it to learn and it has nothing left to live for."
     ‘Boy,’ I thought, 'how lame...'
     But she looked up at me pulling strands of golden hair from her face where her tears had held them fast. "What is life's riddle if it allows something so beautiful to give up and die?"
     I remember looking at her again, wondering just how old she really was.
     "Will we give up and die when we solve the riddle?" She asked.
     "I don't know,” I said "I'm not even sure we know what the riddle is, much less solve it."
     She turned back to the whale and I saw her lips move. "Oh, yes,” I barely heard her say, "What is life without riddles?"
     The whale died, rather ominously, at that moment. Its last breath and hissing exhale a prelude to the final silence of a song the scientific community insisted had ended some forty years before. What must the world have been like when whales ruled the great oceans? The only sounds I didn't hear at that moment were the pounding of the surf and the crying of the gulls; the sound of that great creatures final breath dwarfing all else.
     I turned a glance toward the girl at my side, but she was gone. Perhaps she had never been there.

     Years later, when I'd watch Man's inhumanity toward himself displayed nightly in living color, I'd wonder where we were heading. What path had we chosen, directly or indirectly? It seemed to me then that we would never tire of war and I wondered, 'How long before someone or something finds us beached and dying upon the shore of our own world?'
     I had no answer then and I expect I'll find none now, but I've often wondered how it was that one whale had managed to hide itself for so long, waiting for the day it would beach itself in exhaustion; tired of living and fearing the cold depths of the sea.
     And it's taken me all these years to come to the one conclusion that makes any sense... It was afraid of drowning, afraid of dying alone, of slipping into darkness. And not only that, it knew it was the last of it's kind. Leaving a marker was the only thing it could do to show us just how much we've really lost.
     That was when it really hit home for us. Not that our world was dying, but that we we're killing our world, and with it, ourselves. Without realizing, it managed to associated indelibly in our minds the plight of Man with the sight of the last whale...
     Dead.

ELAshley
"Very old and poorly written..."

Sometime between 070582 and 071082 and revised more than once.
Most recent revision:
042399
122299.120000.1
Last 4 paragraphs:
030200.204426.6

Desperately needs revision!

The Galaxy Jar

“Remember what happened the last time, son.” Lectured the father. Both father and son walked slowly away from the shore and up the sloping dunes toward the summerhouse. Summer was in full bloom but this was a lonely shore and it was all but theirs. A fiery dog ran back and forth chasing the retreating waves with growls and barks only to dash away when the waves marched back. Despite a blazing sun in the sky it was a surprisingly cool day thanks to the winds blowing in from the sea.
     The boy looked up at his father. “I remember, dad.” he said very solemnly, “I promise to keep the lid on this time.” And he meant it too; the last one they had caught died almost immediately when he opened the jar to touch it. In the ocean they were fine, the father had said, but it took a special kind of jar to contain one of these rare, beautiful creatures-- all swirls of light and matter --that it might shine on in a small boy’s room among the many other things collected over time. “I really don't have to feed it?” He asked for the thousandth time.
     “No son, they have everything they need to live a very long time.” He smiled with patience, “In fact, if you keep that lid tight and be very careful with the jar-- never shake it! --and give it a little light now and then, you can pass it on to your own son one day, and he to his. They can live a very long time."
     “I wonder what it's thinking,” the boy said. “Do you think it knows it's not in the ocean anymore?” The summerhouse gleamed beneath the brilliant sky. His mother was setting the table on the porch, laying plates and bowls with their favorite foods.
     “There you two are!” she laughed. “It's time to eat!”
     “It doesn't think anything, son,” he said smiling for his wife. “It just is. Now go put it away and then wash your hands for lunch.”
     “That's right, young man, and wash your face as well,” his mother instructed.
     “Okay, mom,” he said and began his patented dash to the washroom, but stopped with a worried look into the jar.
     “Can I set it on the table and look at it while I eat?” he turned and asked her.
     “Sure,” she smiled, “but you must be careful with it. Just like your father told you?”
     “I promise, mom,” he said, and then she smiled.
     “Okay, then. Just let me clear a place here in the middle, so there's no accidents.”
     He gingerly set the jar in the hole his mother made among the dishes, and then ran into the house to wash.
     “Do you really think he's old enough for this kind of responsibility?” She asked her husband.
     “He'll be fine,” he replied, “and so will the contents of that jar. I know he's young but I think he learned his lesson with the one he lost yesterday.”
     “I sure hope so,” she said worriedly and bent over to study the jars’ contents. “They are so beautiful, and it would be such a waste to lose another one.”
     And it sat there unmoved by her casual scrutiny, filled to brimming with a black vacuum that filled the galaxy jar. It whirled slowly, a brilliant disk radiating out in spiraling arms of fine shimmering grains giving off their own luminous brilliance.
     “We'll keep an eye on him. It'll be fine.”
     “I don't know,” she said still watching it's swirling movement, “we don't see near as many of these as we used to.”

ELAshley
April 2, 2000

Empty Hand

2005-10-28T05:27:00.000-05:00

Unity
The transcension Of Individualism
And five become One ~
Heart of Warrior
Soul of Poet
Spirit of Fatalism
Hand of Compassion
And Flesh Self-Servient
Diverse
Yet unified in strength

It cries no more
My warrior’s heart
For purposeless retribution
Mindless in it's quest
For validation, and I am
More than I was
Less than I could be
And searching still
For Unity ~

Though she lay in my hand
She slips my grasp with ease

ELAshley
022600.011602.1
"Trying to write as D'argo of Farscape".
Deemed perfect without further revision:
41500.010751.1

Untitled & Unfinished

2005-10-28T05:12:00.001-05:00

I awoke this morning with flowers on my pillow
I awoke beside her slender as a willow
I awoke to find I loved her much more
Than ever I did on yesterday’s shore
My eyes welled and I allowed them their fair
And crying, brushed the spill of her hair
Pulse quickening, my heart brimming over
My breath caught as she stirred ‘neath the cover

ELAshley
Began on:
061601.101913.6
Modified:
063001.123242.1
092804.115132.1
102705.121224.1

Lament for Melina

2005-10-25T17:25:00.001-05:00

Pan Am 103 - Revisited

The skies were falling. Falling down
Debris like snowflakes through the cold December night.
How many dead
In the Scottish town of Lockerbie?
One-Hundred ? Two ?
Two-Fifty or more?
And whatever for?

"What does it matter...One day more or less?"
Last words from London in a mother’s ear
Why did tears just roll from my eyes?
To envision her precious life
As it fell from the sky...
Like snowflakes?

And so the skies fell
Can anyone say what for?
Yet another madman closing
Yet another door.
And, Oh, How the skies fell...
Raining fire,
Destroying hopes,
Dreams...

May God have mercy on their souls…

ELAshley
December 21, 1989

This poem is a revision of a poem written exactly one year earlier, the night of Melina Kristina Hudson's death and the destruction of Pan AM 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. The desire to revise the first poem was prompted by a telecast marking the one-year anniversary of the bombing of Pan Am 103. In this broadcast I was touched by the last words Melina spoke to her mother by telephone. Melina was a college student in England; where, I can't remember, but at any rate, she was traveling home to visit with her family over the Christmas holidays. Melina was not even scheduled to fly home that particular night; She had managed to secure a seat on an earlier flight. Melina called home to tell her mother she would be home a day early.

"What does it matter; one day more or less..."

..::The Original::..

Pan Am 103

Skies fell, falling down
So close to Christmas...
How many dead in the Scottish town of Lockerbie?
One-hundred...Two-hundred...
Two-fifty. More ?

...And so the skies fell.
Raining fire.
Destroying hopes...
And Dreams...

ELAshley
December 2188

Hazels and Salmon

2005-10-25T08:16:00.001-05:00

Pink and crimson armored true
Basking in the light of filtered sun, and
Caressed by the cool flowing Boyne
From the sacred pool whence nine hazels drew
All the cares and truth of the world
Sealing them in their crimson nuts
Dropping them in season
To 'plash 'neath cool waters
Where feeds the Salmon of Knowledge
Pink and crimson armored true
Upon the cares and wisdom of the world

What echoes hath thou heard?
What pipes calling 'cross mountains cold
In mourning and loss?
Having eaten thy fill on knowledge rich
What comfort to me canst thou give
And so ease my heart?
What light dapp'ling, what textures known
To thee in thy sacred pool
While feasting on the food of gods
Might utter to me one word of hope
For father and son together once more?

ELAshley
Began late 1997
Finished on one restless night,
092199.0313.1

Inspired by a song written by Enya which was itself inspired
by the legend of the Salmon of Knowledge.

"...In the Grove of the nine wise Hazel trees, from the sacred pool, the River Boyne flowed. The salmon feasted on the rich crimson nuts fallen from the hazel trees, and hence possessed all the truth in the world."

This poem is a requiem to my fathers memory.

Coil

2005-10-25T08:01:00.001-05:00

Verse I [ of III ]

What, if anything, does a man leave behind
When coal becomes ember and cooling, dies?
Is there more to measure than a name etched in stone
Or the space in time where winds have blown?
Marking the hours, minutes, and moments between
Do our ghosts embody more than is seen?
And what of our Ghosts- tattered skeins of mist?
What about this world makes our shades persist
In remaining where we cried, ached and bled
And closing our eyes in one moment of dread
Rose from the chrysalis of this mortal shell
Eschewing the Light, and flames of hell
Both, to find ourselves still living?

ELAshley
102299.124200.1
Revised:
072300.114307.6

At the Mercy of Whim

2005-10-25T07:25:00.001-05:00

From high above and looking down
With dispassionate curiosity
I kick the hill
Surveying the damage
on haunches rocking
I wonder at their efforts
Seemingly without organization
Yet in the end
If I wait long enough
All will have been made right

If they could voice their indignation
If they had hands to clench
Would fists be raised?
And shaking said fists
In demonstration and defiance
Are they then resolved?
Determined not to be deterred?
Pondering these questions
I rise
And kick the hill again

ELAshley
071105.073027.6

The Gardens of Loveplay

2005-10-25T00:16:00.001-05:00

Chapters 1 & 2

Author's Foreword

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 souls, one to another. Within these pages you will find a world strangely at peace, boats that float on air, and an angel in search of redemption.

Romance is a blanket woven from deep affection, and a desire to fulfill another's desire. Perfection in romance is when both share the work of weaving.

--Angelina Marni

“A Priori: A Glimpse of Heaven”

It was a moment in time, the space between the beat of martial drums, or a Curlew’s beating wings reaching for the heights of heaven. It hammered with the delicate stroke of chance and fortune. Etienne looked in awe upon the Angel that stood on the fountain’s bowl, his eyes rapt with wonder, and watching as she lifted away the snowy dress that clung wetly to her breasts and the creamy skin of her stomach. Her hair fell away long and moist, like molten gold, or corn silk and honey.

The sounds of the world dimmed and slowed. The mists that rose from the churning of the fountain’s waters were a gossamer veil, clinging coolly to her dress, skin and buttery tresses. The world had dimmed, but she did not. This was not a vision.

And if this were true, it was also true that the world slowed - the space between moments. Sounds not only dimmed but also grew heavy and distant. The splash of the fountain’s issue, the call of vendors, and the laughter of children, the old men playing at chess beneath the dark awnings of the ristorante, they all seemed frozen in one moment of revelation… an Angel had alighted upon the edge of the fountain, in the Piazza della Sognatore. And her gaze was fixed upon a single pair of eyes.

Etienne stared dumbfounded. His grip grew slack and the flowers in his hand fell to earth, their purpose forgotten, and their scent lost within the heavy air. The piazza was rich with the soft beckoning whispers of hot breads, olives, tart red wines and pastries. But even these voices grew quiet until only the vision that was no vision spoke, that creature of light and love standing on the fountains edge.

“Come love me.” Her eyes of fiery blue, calling…

He stepped toward her, struck dumb, and oblivious to all else until an arm linked itself in his with an insistence that pulled him back.

“There you are!” came a demanding voice at his side. The world suddenly grew and leapt forward, like sprinters off the mark, shattering the Siren’s song, and he was pulled away into the crowd. The spell was broken, the flowers trod underfoot, and the Angel gone.

“The Severing of Ties”

“Oh, Etienne, must I explain everything to you?” She sighed. “How long have you lived in Venice? Have you learned nothing?” She led him through the piazza, both arms wrapped on his, and staring defiantly at anyone who dared get in their way. People moved to one side when they saw her eyes.

She marched him across the cobbled square to the first of many streets that would eventually lead to the small ristorante she liked, the one across from the convent. She had insisted he take her there many times over the months of their tumultuous relationship. The wine was one week too acidic, the next too sweet, but she seemed not to notice. The fare wasn’t much better. Etienne despised the place, but for the sake of harmony always allowed himself to be dragged there. He would eat little and compliment Serafina, the cook and proprietress, who all but adored Pia. But Pia only took him there that she might stare at the bronze gates across the tiny square, the gates that led to paradise itself. And it was there that they would say their farewells, for she was to enter in that very day, and pledge herself to God, before the Mother Superior herself.

He fought a desire to protest. He agreed to walk her to the convent gates if she promised to behave, and she had, with the most charming of smiles she had, but her moods were chameleon-like, changing with every shadow and subtle hue. She sighed. “You have seen them passing overhead every day for all of three weeks now.” She sighed again. “You cannot be so stupid as to still not know why.” And she smiled, thinking herself clever.

“Pia… I have never been stupid.” His voice was flat, though it rang in the narrow street they entered, their heels striking echoes within its narrow confines. “Of course I’ve seen them, but again you misunderstand me. I merely wish to know why they continue on their peregrination, no amount of conversation or study has ever proferred to me a satisfactory answer.” He began to punctuate his speech with gestures from his free hand. “The Pope will not let them set foot upon the earth except in the Holy City. Look at them! They are ragged! Their wings are grimed and abused… they look pitiful.” Looking up, he watched as they moved across a field of sky framed by the rooftops sixty feet above. For weeks the ghostly creatures had been flying overhead, by the millions. Occasionally one would drop down and settle upon a wall or statuary, careful not to touch the earth, shattering whatever stonework it touched, but someone would soon chase it back into the sky, shooing with an apron or jacket as though it were merely a pigeon, and not an Angel of God.

“They are shut out from heaven, Etienne.” Pia said, ignoring his growing anger “God has turned his back on them.”

“And we should do the same?”

“You would go against the will of God?” She turned to look at him with eyes wide smoldering dangerously, her face a mask of contempt.

“I would show compassion!” he argued.

“That is enough!” She snapped. “We will not speak of this any longer!” And he knew she would not.

“Did you see that whore at the fountain?” She demanded, changing tack. “It amazes me that God loves such filthy creatures… but He does. It just stood there, showing off. Disgusting!”

“It?” He asked. “How can you be so callous? You who claim to love God enough to accept Holy Orders, and yet you cannot see the people you would serve as human. They are inanimate to you, without souls... animals. You are too cruel and insensitive for such a commission.”

“Etienne!”

“No, you will listen.” He said, now truly angry, working to keep it from showing on his face “You do not even know that woman, and yet…”

“Did you see her?” She cut in “Wet and showing herself to everyone in the Piazza? A decent woman would not behave so. And you! Staring at her! I do not know why I tolerate you. Standing there like a dumb ox, your mouth collecting bugs. I forbid you to go there again!”

“I will go where I choose, Pia. Besides, are you not joining the Sisters this very day? I am not a child to be told what I can and cannot do, or to whom I can and cannot speak. You have made it quite clear that we are only friends, and yet you still wish to control me like I was your wayward husband, or errant child. It’s not as though I have never asked you to marry me, but you do not love me enough.”

She tugged at his arm, sullen and quiet. “I must be there by the third bell.” She said.

“There is time, Pia.”

“Etienne. Could you love me... I mean, be my husband? I mean, if I were not taking my vows this afternoon?” She was still angry, but cooling quickly.

“We are too different, Pia.” He sighed. “You see the world as an evil waiting to devour the righteous, while I see only the world, people, trying to survive in a harsh world. With you everything is good or evil, light or dark, but I see the shadows of those things that stand between.”

“Why must everything be a poem with you?” She asked. “Must you always speak so?”

He laughed. “The world is a poem. You are a poem. Every man, woman and child is a poem.”

“The world is not that beautiful, Etienne.”

“And that is why we could never be happy together. Because I believe it is. The world is beautiful beyond the ability of words to describe. Pictures but glance the surface. Poems, however, they allow us to see in a new light, from a new perspective, but that doesn’t mean the beauty was never there. Our lives are sometimes so filled with this or that, we neglect to stop and look at the beauty that surrounds our every waking breath.”

“You are hopeless, but sweet.” She said with a quiet voice.

The streets, that had only a few days before been filled with revelers in the gowns and costumes of Carnival, seemed to have lost their magic. The buildings lining the street were just as old, and their facades had grown somehow less magnificent. Pia had looked radiant in her gown that night, but his heart had not been in the evening. He wore a brave face and smiled where he should, and taking care not to laugh where he should not.

That evening was their last together. He made love to her, but his heart was not in it, and he could not stay the night in her bed. He kissed her cheek as she lay sleeping and walked through the darkened streets of Venice to the apartment he rented, and his own bed.

She sent a letter the next day to say she was entering the convent, asking him if he would walk with her and share a last glass of wine.

He couldn’t refuse.

The sun was just beginning to cast long shadows when they entered the small square. The mid bell struck, and she looked to the bronze gates longingly. Yet there was fear in her eyes.

“It is almost time.” She said. “Come let’s have a last glass of wine and say our goodbyes.”

The wine was no better than usual, stinging his tongue, and leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The bread was fresh, but hard, and the cheese dry. He ordered some olives, that they might mask the taste of the wine.

“What do you want to do with your life, Etienne?” Pia asked, looking into his eyes.

“I want to create beautiful things. Beautiful art, sculpture, poetry… a beautiful life filled with beautiful things. A beautiful wife. Beautiful children. A beautiful life together with someone I can give my whole heart to.”

“Why could you not give this to me?”

“I have never felt equal to you, Pia.” He whispered. “You have always made me feel as though I were an afterthought. Someone you came to when you needed comforting, but not willing to be the same for me. Every time I have tried to show you my heart you have turned me away, unwilling to look, unwilling to care. Your needs have always come first. I might as well have been your gardener, for that is all I have been. And that is all you have ever wanted, it seems, someone to care for the things in your life that needed tending, while my own needs were relegated to the potters shed.” He looked at her, wondering when the anger would explode, but she sat quietly and began to cry.

“How long have we known each other Etienne?” she asked.

“Ten years or more. I remember when we first met.”

“That little café on the Seine”

“Yes.” He smiled.

“In all this time I have never made you feel as though I loved you?” Her eyes begged for a lie.

But he would not. “Yes, Pia.” He smiled. “You have on occasion made me feel very loved. But I need more than the ‘occasional’ love and acceptance you offer. I need daily care. I need a kiss or caress, a smile full of hinting, and a lover who loves to love and be loved.” He lowered his eyes… “I need these things every day, you do not.”

“I am not sure I can truly love any man, Etienne. My father…”

“I know.”

“I have strung you along these many years and you have been faithful. I know you have. I want you to be happy. I want you to find what you are looking for. But I don’t want you to forget me… is that selfish?”

“Of course not, Pia” He smiled.

“Last week, when we made love. I knew if would be our last time. It was so wonderful. I hope you find her.”

“Her?” he asked startled. His mind leapt to the image of an Angel poised upon the lip of a fountain…

“Yes, the woman who will make you happy. Though I will be very jealous.” And she laughed, then sighed. “I have something for you.” She said, drawing an envelope from her purse. She set it upon the table amid the olives and the wine. “Take it.”

It was thick and bulky. “What is it?” He asked.

“30 Million lira, and the deed to the apartment you rent. You have sacrificed much for me, and this is something I felt I could do for you.” His eyes widened.

“I cannot accept this, Pia. It is too much. Far too much.”

“Nonsense. Don’t be a fool, Etienne. I have not bankrupt myself. I want to know you are taken care of. As you have taken care of me, all these years, never once complaining. You are a sweet man, and I fear that I may have done you an injustice.” Her tears were heavy drops that swelled and rolled from her eyes. “I love you Etienne, but I love God more.”

The third bell struck. The bronze gates opened. The Mother Superior and two sisters stood within the entrance, waiting.

“I must go.” Pia stood, brushing crumbs from her dress. “I will miss fine clothes,” she laughed, drying her eyes, and wiping the tears from her face.

Etienne took her hand and set it in his arm, and walked her to the waiting sisters and the doors that would shut her from his life for good.

He kissed her lips and smiled for her. “Now, you be a good girl, Pia.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“I have always loved you, Pia”

“Will I see you again?” She was suddenly afraid, and began crying once more.

“Of course you will, but this is where our lives diverge. We part here as friends and we will remain so. I swear it.”

“Will you visit me?”

“If it is permitted. From time to time.”

“Be happy, Etienne.”

----

The sun was setting over the Piazza, in reds and amber and deep shades of violet. Pia was gone. The Angel was gone. Ten years of his life were gone. He had spent the remainder of the day, inquiring of the Angel that had stood at the fountain, but none knew her name, or would not tell.

He sat at the ristorante and drank wine, hoping to wash away the pain that had suddenly grown too heavy for his heart, and he began to cry, not caring who saw or heard. He pulled from his satchel the battered journal he carried with him and began to write, rambling at first, allowing his pain a voice, and he made himself a resolution, resolving in himself to discover the Angel again. He would return and watch. And wait. However long it took.

ELAshley
2002

Winter I

2005-10-24T17:02:00.001-05:00

Winter is closing in, so I offer the following...

Winter has come to stay
Hanging his coat and hat
Choosing a room to lay his head
Not the most welcome of guests
Though he won’t stay long
Preferring instead the town where you live
My truest love

Some years it seems he sits unasked
Removing his hat,
And at my kitchen table drinks coffee
As though catching up with an old friend
Before hurrying off to a house
Warmer and more forgiving of his visit
A corner house, perhaps
In your own little town

I ask each year,
“Will you carry a letter to my dearest love?”
But he always refuses, claiming
His pack is heavy with snows
Cold winds and ice
"No," he says, "I am only here for coffee."
But promises nonetheless
To write my love
On every snowflake
To which you give a welcome smile

In the Light of a Dying Sun -- Book One

2005-10-06T07:23:00.002-05:00

[Chapters 1 through 3]

Chapter 1
The Cradle of Giants

"My father was a story teller. He farmed like every other man on the plain between the mountains eastward and the pampas to the west, but it was not his passion.

"He built for my mother and I a stone hut near the basin where flowed the once mighty Zon. But we were not so isolated as you might think, as our hut stood but a few marks from Endry. It was an unusual hut, for my father felt my mother and I deserved more than the baked bricks the Endry men grew in their fields of clay. Instead, he turned the soil near the basins edge where he unearthed, shattered, and carted the stone timbers that grew there. He said in ages past all of Earth was covered with great timbers that grew from the soil and into the sky, living lives the length of twenty men. He claimed some portions of Earth still grew these mighty timbers, and I believed, though I myself have never seen them.

"The stone timbers, he said, were the remains of those ancient woods grown into stone columns over the long ages they lay beneath the soils of Zon. I thought this but a story as a child, like the many stories that lay within the amber book. But you see, he had traveled as a youth, and so had seen many things, things I cannot help but marvel at even now in the autumn of my life.

"But I have gone a field. I said that my father was a storyteller; that was his passion. His hands were built for laboring upon Earth, as all hands are, but his heart lay in the little amber book from whence he drew the tales I heard as a child, and remember to this day. Stories I've told my own children, and my children’s children.

"Sometimes his stories yielded as much silver and agate as did the grain from our fields. The villagers of Endry would often call upon him to speak from the amber book. They would send for him, as I said, not simply for themselves, but also for the caravans that passed through each year on their way to or from the mountains, and the gold that grew there.

"It was then that he earned the most, and with that polished agate or rare silver lis, he would buy for my mother and me a new shift, or a rare porsene bowl painted with the images of strange fish in bright blues or greens. He would buy things for himself when he needed, but he rarely spent the monies he earned on whimsies, as he called them, but once he did buy a tohn of black ink.

"I remember how pleased he was that he could afford to buy such a precious substance, despite how small the glass that held it. We buried it beneath the soil inside our hut, beneath a cornerstone at the fire pit, and for the next few years it lay there while he waited for the day when the caravans would bring paper, that he might buy such a bundle. He said that though the amber book held all stories known to men, there still were those that he himself would write. He swore that one day he would pay a wordsmith from the cities to teach him the art of written speech... I never thought that odd as a child, but I've often wondered since his passing, how it was he could tell the tales he drew from his book when he could not even read, but I never thought to ask him while he yet lived.

"But again, I’ve gone a field.

"Tomorrow I will go with my sons to his cairn, for tomorrow is his remembrance day. We will lift away the stones and wash his bones in Zon and take unto us those things he took with him. I will take the little amber book and see for myself what lay between its covers, for he never let me look within while he lived. I would take his knife as well, but that is another story altogether. It is the amber book I will speak of tonight.

"As I have said, he loved stories, but there was one that I most especially loved. I remember the events of the day wherein he told me this tale. We both stood at the plains edge looking down into the great basin the ancients had dug. All those great islands of rock rising up into the air like slender spires of dust and stone, and what remained of the great trench that snakes even now along its bottom.

"He said that giants once lived upon Earth, that their masters had lusted for the gold and emeralds that once grew hidden in the forests Zon. Their lust was such that they dug deep into Earth for his gems while others, whom they had hired into service, carted the dross into the west where the pampas now lie.

"The pampas were not always as they are now, he claimed, for the flesh of Zon was carried west to fill the great hole Sun had made in the ages of time past. He said the heart of Sun died for men’s unbelief, and in judgment smote Earth for the sake of those who had profaned her. I do not know if this is true, but that too seemed a fair enough story.

"But the giants of old delved deep into Earth, growing the great basin that Zon slowly filled. The giants dug faster than the waters poured in, and so the ancients, confident in their giant's strength, built for themselves new homes within the basin, close upon the new shores of Zon.

"In time the ancients saw that Zon would one day fill the basin if something were not done, so they commanded the length of Zon herself dredged and trenched. And so it was the valley grew, mark-by-mark, leaving their houses atop the great spires that column across the basin to its southerside, and the length of her trench.

"Yet their folly grew with their wealth, for deeming themselves safe they built for themselves a city within the great basin. And the kingdoms of the world marveled at its beauty. But Zon continued to pour into the valley, and the trench slowly filled.

"So they dug ever westward, always ahead of the rising waters, gathering gold and emeralds as they went, and paying out their gains to them that hauled the dirt, until they struck Ocean. On that day the waves rushed in for all the marks that the great giants had delved, drowning them and their city, and sweeping away the shining palaces atop their spires of stone.

"The balance of that story, as my father told, was that foolishness is less often seen as such by those who perform it. Only a fool digs a hole without first knowing what lies at its end, and rare is the man that sees this in time enough to save himself.

"The first story I would tell you this night is that of Enohtoo, the last of the mighty giants.

~~~~

Long ago, when the great forests were great no more, men built for themselves giants to delve the land, for they thought the belly of Zon to be a fertile field where might grow the metals they sought. With the great timbers gone they searched for other means to maintain their vast wealth, for the great cities of old were dying.

They wielded in that day, a magic called Cyihnc. It's power, its very source, was limited only by the understanding of what was, and what was not, possible. The common thread that ran through every spell they wrought was the idea that anything was indeed possible, provided one understood why such a thing should be, and the how of it's making. But Cyihnc, too, was a dying magic, and few men understood or even taught its precepts.

From this lost art the ancients grew Giants in their fields that these giants might turn the soil and allow their masters to see what lay beneath the skin of Earth. But Earth had long since proven himself barren of the elements they sought, for they desired the virgin metals from which they might grow the great sky-ships and so venture to a new Sun. But in this the giants failed, for these metals had long been stolen from the beds where Earth had laid them.

The giants themselves stood half a mark high, sometimes scraping the clouds from the bowl of the sky. They cared little for what their creators wanted, as they were only machines, and rarely worked in a manner pleasing to their masters. Though they tried, the giants could find nothing of value in the soils they dug, and in time the great giants began to fail.

There was, in that day, one giant among them who loved his masters and longed to show them the true measure of his devotion. Enohtoo, as his masters called him, was well cared for, for Enohtoo was a great mover of earth. Though they knew it not Enohtoo had long dwelt upon and worried over he and his brethrens failure to find the sky-ship metals. Perhaps we search where no such metals can be, he thought.

Years passed and many of Enohtoo's brethren perished as the basin they dug grew long. There came at last a day when, while laboring deep in a canyon, Enohtoo came upon a layer of virgin clay. His great shoveling hands became caked with the clay and he could not continue, and so he strode to the banks of Zon that he might wash the clay from his hands.

Zon was not a very deep river in those days-- it is but a stream today --and his fingers gouged Her bottom as he washed his hands. When at last he pulled them from the waters he saw in his palms the glitter of gold and the brilliance of emeralds. The riches he drew from the belly of Zon with just one sweep of his mighty hands was vast, and his masters at last were pleased. If they could not build the sky-ships they would content themselves with wealth, and they commanded him to gut Zon herself to find all that he could of emeralds, and of gold.

It was not long before Enohtoo hit upon a mighty vein from which issued the gold his masters now lusted for, more than the metals they had first hoped to find, and they commanded him to follow it's course. They soon grew rich by his hands, and so built for themselves palaces of gold and precious stone near to the thread of Zon.

A year swept across the face of Sun, but his masters' greed could not be sated, despite the great wealth they gained from Enohtoo's labor. They pushed Enohtoo and his brothers, commanding them to delve deeper and further, stopping only long enough for their great hearts to cool. But the pressure and strain of their labors soon wore on them, and one by one they perished until there were but a few remaining.

The trench they grew was immense. The ancients-- fools that they were --built their palaces within the basin, then commanded their giants to dig deeper, sparing only their palaces and the earth that supported them. Some soon sat high above the basin floor atop spires that even now stand in the valley of Zon. Others hugged the walls of the basin itself. But the waters of Zon still poured into the basin, and whenever they rose too high Enohtoo's master commanded he and his brothers to dig deeper and further.

In time, the great basin and trench were dug. One hundred marks long and three deep. All but Enohtoo had perished in the great dig; their mighty hearts having burst at last. His great brothers all lay where they had fallen like iron corpses within the trench they had dug. The great valley of Zon was complete and the trench at its bottom filled slowly and soon covered those who had fallen.

On a night that the ancients drank in celebration, Enohtoo wept and mourned for the loss of his brethren. His masters had new palaces within the basin. Enohtoo had the basin and trench he had helped dig, and the ghosts of his brothers. His masters, sated at last, commanded him to rest and so he marched down the basin to where the digging had stopped and laid down near to the edge of the trench.

That night, while Enohtoo slept, cooling himself from his long days of labor, he was awakened by a small voice.

"Enohtoo,” it whispered. "Wake up, Enohtoo."

He opened his eyes but could not see who spoke, and so called out, "Who calls my name? I cannot see you."

"Come to the pools, Enohtoo," came the voice. "There is not enough water elsewhere save the trench, and it is too deep for you."

He moved toward the wall and saw small pools growing out from its base. How has this water come to be here? he asked himself, then asked aloud, "Where are you?"

"Look down into the water, Enohtoo," the voice spoke again. "The moons light will shine upon my face."

He looked down to the black glassy surface of the gathering waters and saw the face of a young woman, mingled both with the moons reflection and his own. It is a beautiful face, he thought, and smiled.

"How is it that you know my name?" He asked. "I am sure I have never seen your likeness before now, though your smile outshines the very stars above."

"I am called Crearachenala," she said, her smile sparkling in the calm swirl of water. "I am Ocean's daughter, and so live within her realm, and I have been watching you for many days."

"I am called Enohtoo," he returned, "and I am my masters."

"Is that so?" she teased, "You are much too tall for that, I think. Indeed, you could almost stand in the deepest part of Ocean with your head above her waves. You are indeed a giant upon Earth, but you are still only yourself," and she laughed a silvery laugh.

"My masters have wrought well," he grinned, "though they do not treat me as they once did. Once, they praised each handful of Earth I raised for them, but now they simply demand I continue digging… until today."

"They have become rich with greed, Enohtoo." Spoke Crearachenala. "Look at them, drunk and sleeping in their ignorance. They have grown complacent and are not worthy of you. That is why I have come. If you continue to dig for them, you will die." And there was sadness in her voice that worried him.

"Die, Crearachenala?" he asked. "Why do you speak so? My masters do indeed neglect me, but they do not wish to see me perish. I am the last of my brethren. For all the others have failed. Only I remain."

The words Crearachenala spoke next rang in his ears like the wailing of winds. "If you stay within this basin you have carved you will die, Enohtoo. You have come too close to Mother. She will swallow you and your masters before they awaken. She has allowed me to warn you only, for you are but a slave, and subject to their will. If you leave this valley now you will not perish with them."

Her smile was gone and worry grew upon her smooth, watery features, and Enohtoo fell in love with her at that moment.

"I cannot bear to leave you, Crearachenala." He cried. "For though I am indeed the last of my brethren, I would rather perish than to never see you again." And she smiled within her heart for his words.

"You need only find still water and call my name," she pleaded, "and I will come to you, Enohtoo, but you must climb to the plains above. Now!"

"Do you promise you will come when I call?" He asked.

"I swear it, Enohtoo," she called out. "Now hurry!"

He stood swiftly and with but a few strides quickly reached the wall of the great basin and began to climb. But Ocean tore down the wall where Crearachenala had spoken and her waters crashed upon Enohtoo with great thunder and force, sweeping him away. They carried him inland, smashing down each palace and spire in his path until at the last he was himself crushed upon the end wall from which Zon fell into the basin.

And thus Enohtoo died. In their greed, his masters allowed he and his brethren to grow their trench too near to where the sands between Earth and sea grow soft at Ocean's edge. The ancients, their houses, their emeralds and their gold were all swept away by the force of Ocean moving in to fill the great basin and trench Enohtoo and his brethren had carved.

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.

But that was many, many years ago, the waters of Ocean have long since receded and Earth has grown colder and the light of Sun grown dim. The rains no longer fall and the basin of Zon is now empty; its trench all but filled, save for Zon herself running slowly to Mother.

--

"I hope to learn from the memory of Enohtoo. That is both the message of the story and the storyteller. By the ancient words I call this tale done, and ask your leave."

Chapter 2
The Wind and the Rain

Rising slowly, she shook the dust from her skirts. The fire had grown dim, and the many faces around the pit were lost almost entirely in shadow. The ruins about them shone weakly in the failing light and looked like the bones of some ancient creature left to wear beneath Sun and time.

She turned to her sons. "Bring me water," she asked, and one man rose and left the circle.

A man, old and drawn into himself, creaked upward from where he sat across the fire and spoke to the listeners assembled for the Rite of Memory's Passage. Lifting his staff of dried leather and bone he spoke, "And thus it is remembered, the tale given, and Passage granted."

"May his memory live forever," echoed those gathered about the fire.

"Please Ambriasa," came a voice form the shadows, "tell us more."

She turned to see who had spoken but saw only faces, many of whom she did not know, seated about the fire.

"Please, Ambriasa," spoke the Elder, "it has been long since we have heard a tale from such as you. You are indeed your fathers child, there is no doubt, but please tell us more."

Ambriasa smiled and seated herself again at the fire.

"Mother," spoke her eldest son and gave her a bowl filled with water. "Do not stay too long," he said as she drank, "we must rise before Sun." He was tall and solid, though not as thick as his father had been. He worried for her.

"Go to the tents and settle everyone, my heart, your brother will stay with me and see that I do not tire too greatly from telling stories," she said, and smiling set the bowl on the ground beside her.

Ambriasa looked off after her eldest, then turned and spoke to those gathered.

"What would you like to hear?" she asked. "I do not know as many tales as did my father, but I will do my best."

"Tell us of the O'chelot." Piped a small child upon her mothers lap. "My father saw an O'chelot on the plain."

"An O'chelot!" exclaimed Ambriasa. "O'chelot have not been seen for many generations, for thousands of summers." She swept her gaze across the faces of the listeners about her. "Many hold that the O'chelot perished ages ago, but perhaps they have yet survived and have at last come out of hiding. Do you know why the O'chelot disappeared, little one?" The child shook her head.

"To hide himself from the Wind and the Rain." She answered. "In ages past rain fell from the sky in great curtains. Not at all like today. The world was once covered in green from sunwaken to sunsleep. It was the rains that fed Earth, and it was the wind that blew life into all that grew upon his face... "

~~~~

Long ages have passed since the last of the great rains fell upon Earth, for he has slowed and succumbed beneath the failing light of Sun. For many ages he struggled to hold his magnificence, but in our ignorance we sought to shape him to our will and many things perished from his face. O’chelot were few in that day, and in the ages that have passed since the last rain they have become little more than a memory, as we ourselves have weakened and grown few in number.

Today we look into the sky and see only white threads of cloud, but in ages past they crowded the heavens, and in their wombs grew the rains of old, rain that fell from the sky and cooled the face of Earth. But the rains no longer fall, and Earth has grown dry and barren. It is said there are still places that see these rains of old, where green burns the eye for its brilliance. But for us, the children of men, such green is but a myth. For the world is swiftly dying.

The Sun priests were unknown in the day of the last rain, their wickedness unheard of. Long before the light of Sun began to fail there was another god that men worshipped, and so it was that with the last rains came he also to Earth to enjoy what remained of his creation.

The rains had fallen long-- for millennia. But when at last they began to die, men noted one storm that remained, one storm that persisted in the midst of the earthen desert. Lightnings grew about it in a boma of spears, encircling the last rain. For many years those that came near reported seeing the image of a man dancing in it's midst, but none dared go near enough to see its face, for it was believed that the old god himself danced.

For the span of a generation the rain fell within its boma, never moving nor quenching the deserts thirst, and throughout the long years the strange figure within danced. But there came at last one man who, believing himself worthy enough to gaze upon and speak to the old god, made a journey into the desert that he might ask the god his name, and why it was he danced.

His wife thought him a fool. 'If the lightnings do not kill thee, surely this god will,' said she.

'Be still, woman,' said he. 'Surely this god is but waiting for someone to acknowledge him and his endeavors. Perhaps he will even reward such a one.' He mused.

She but laughed and called him fool, and so he forsook her and his home, and made his way into the desert to speak with the god who danced in the rains.

Now, the O’chelot were indeed few in that day, and rarely seen, for they hid themselves from men. But as this man moved deeper into the deserts heart, the oldest of O`chelot appeared out of the wilderness and began to walk with him.

They watched each other for a time, both wary of the other, but neither leaving the path until finally the O`chelot spoke to man.

"Do you go to see the Wind and the Rain?"

"I go to see who dances in their midst," replied the man. "What do you here, O`chelot?"

"The kittens are few and prey fewer still," spoke the old cat. "I have come to ask the Wind and the Rain if the world we once knew will return, for the world has slowed. The days and nights grow longer, the air, thin and cold. Soon, all life will leave Earth."

O'chelot and man walked deeper into the desert and closer to where the rains fell and lightnings rose. For hours they walked together without getting nearer, and after a time O'chelot said, "Perhaps the Wind and the Rain will allow but one at a time to come near. What is it you wish to ask of the Wind and the Rain?"

The man looked down to O'chelot and said, "Friend O'chelot, that is mine alone, I will not share it with you."

"Will not?" asked the O'chelot. "Perhaps you do not yet know what it is you wish to ask of the Wind and the Rain."

"Why do you call him such?" asked the man.

"His breath is the wind that breathes life into all things, his tears fill the streams from which we drink," replied the O'chelot. "By what name do you call the Wind and the Rain?"

"I call him, god." Said the man.

"God? What kind of name is that? It says nothing! What does it mean?"

The man thought for a moment and realized he had no answer, but being clever he used a child’s game to answer the O'chelot. "It means, 'God, Our Deity.' " He said feeling proud of himself.

" 'God our deity?' " Laughed the cat, "it describes nothing! It doesn't say anything about who or what he is to you."

"Come now, man,” the cat continued, smiling. "Tell me what it is you wish to ask of the Wind and the Rain and I will ask it for you."

"You!" snorted the man, who was now beginning to feel insulted by the O'chelot’s words. "I will ask myself."

But the old cat thought to reason with the man. "The question is at least as important as the answer one hopes to receive," he said. 'If your question is displeasing to the Wind and the Rain he may choose not to answer another, however worthy."

But the man grew sullen and chose not to speak.

"Come now,” O’chelot demanded. "Tell me your question!"

"I would ask why he has forgotten his children and left us to die upon a dying world," said the man, relenting at last.

"Your question is filled with bitterness, with anger," replied O'chelot. "Perhaps I should ask my question first."

"How so, O'chelot? I wish to know what you do. Our questions are the same."

"Not so, Man. Your question stinks of accusation, while mine own is but a simple, requiring a simpler yes or no. I will ask first."

"Hold now, O'chelot." Said the man, fast becoming angry. "I am representative of his greatest creation, and so should ask first."

"That remains to be seen." O'chelot sneered, not at all convinced. "Your kind has not demonstrated greatness. Even in your ascendancy you destroyed more than you built. Earth is now as your kind has made Him. My kittens die because of you! But you do not remember this," O'chelot said with scorn, then sighed, "for you have no memory to speak of."

"My kind have built great cities..."

"They lie in ruin." Countered the cat.

"We have built great machines..."

"They lie in rust. Forgotten."

"We have gone to the stars..."

"And yet you are here,” the O’chelot sighed. “Having done all these great and mighty things, you have returned to what you were when the world was very, very young. You have forgotten much. Indeed, it would seem you have forgotten everything. What of Solumbraia; the son-god, or Di Vinci? What of Mudhamman or Ossenheier? You do not know for you have forgotten it all! Man."

The scorn in O’chelot’s voice was great that his small body, padding silently next to the man, trembled. His once proud markings rippled like shadows upon his fur.

The man grew strident. "True, our memories are not as long as yours, O'chelot, but we remain ascendant."

"Not so, Man," laughed O'chelot. "You are but one of many, and like us all, but dying embers upon the hearth where the Wind and the Rain warms his feet." And there was sadness in his voice.

The man then stopped and smiled at O'chelot, thinking to trick him.

"I have an idea, Oh, great and wise O'chelot," he mocked and bowed himself to the sinewy cat. "Shall we play at agates for the right to see who will present his question first?"

"Very well," said O'chelot, who, understanding the man's intent, sat back on his thin haunches. "You throw first."

"Good!" laughed the man, thinking himself clever. "I have five agates at my belt."

He pulled from his bag five polished stones, cubed and marked by sinuous lines on each of their sides. Smiling at the cat he shook them in his cupped hands and tossed them to the ground. They clattered and finally settled upon the parched earth between them. His face fell when he read the lines, and the cat laughed.

"Six? Five agates and you throw a six? Your luck is as poor as your memory."

The man, saddened by his toss gestured to the agates, "Do better if you can O'chelot."

With one small paw the O'chelot pulled the agates together then scattered them with a flick of its thin wrist, and both man and cat watched as they tumbled across the ground and stopped.

They walked over and counted the lines.

"Eleven!" spoke O'chelot in triumph. "You have lost, Man. I shall ask my question first." And with that, he padded out toward the Wind and the Rain.

The man sat back and watched as the O'chelot trotted out to the edge of the boma and sat. The figure inside the column of rain danced near to where the cat waited, but the man could not hear what, if anything, was said, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for his turn to come round.

But it was not a long wait, for shortly a spear of lightning rose up beside the cat, and he bolted in surprise and dashed away.

"Abandon your question, foolish man," he called out as he rushed past dripping from the mists that soaked his fur. "The Wind and the Rain will not give answers to your liking." And the O'chelot ran out of the desert, back to his home, his wives and his kittens, and was not seen again by men for many generations.

The man looked back to where the rains fell and to the figure that danced within. He thought his wife perhaps had been right; He was a fool, but after a time, he went himself to the edge of the rains, and a fine cool mist covered him like a cloak.

"Please ser," he trembled, "forgive me, but I have come to ask of you a question."

The figure whirled nearer, and he saw that it was but a youth who danced.

"Only one?" The youth asked and smiled.

"Who are you young man? And why do you dance about in this rain?"

"I am god. Was that your question?"

"God! My… No!” The man sputtered, then laughed. “Why, you do not look old enough to be God. You have no beard. You are no more than a child. Where is your mother that I might fetch her? Perhaps she can set cure to such impertinence." He was beginning to feel very foolish for leaving all he knew to listen to a mere child.

But the child laughed and continued his wild dance.

"If I am not who I say I am, should not the rains have ceased long ago?"

"Yes," answered the man, "they should, but I cannot say why they have not."

"I sustain them,” voiced the young man.

"You?" asked the man disbelieving. "You are not God. God would not lower himself in such a manner, to caper about in the rain."

"Has God lowered himself by enjoying what he has created?" The child asked while ceasing not his dance. "Why must god be anything other than who he is? Why must I be made into the image you hold of me in your mind? Would you be more in awe of me if I wore the stars upon my brow in a crown of gold?"

The man thought on this a moment then agreed. "It is true I expected something far different. I certainly didn't expect you."

"It would seem Man has changed little," the young man laughed and whirled, then asked, "Why did you come when you heard I was here? Did you think to see something new? Did you hope to learn something new? There is nothing new under the sun. What has been will be again, and while I will certainly see these things come to pass, you will not."

"The world will be new again?"

"Of course it will! Have I not said it?"

"Earth will be young again?"

"Not this earth, no."

"I don't understand, ser."

"No, you do not! It has always been so with man. You have never understood, and yet you have always sought me out, and I have always told you the truth. What has been will be again. Now leave this place. Go back to your wife, e'Urom, you are not a fool, but you are certainly foolish. I have told you all you need know. It is for you to believe. Or not. That choice has always been yours."

And so e'Urom left and made his way back to the deserts edge, following the road that brought him out, back to his lands and his own home. He slowed as he neared the streets of his clanat, and trying to make sense of what the Ancient of ancients had told him, realized he could not remember the face of god. But he remembered every word.

His mind now quieted, and with a smile in his heart, he entered his house. A fire was laid on the hearth and his wife sat tending it. Feeling relieved she had not left him he sat at the table, thankful in his heart. He smiled at his wife as she spooned him a bowl of broth and set it before him.

"And what have you learned, my husband?" She asked.

"I have learned to be content," he smiled, and kissed her rough hand...

--

"I hope to learn from the memory of e’Urom. That is both the message of the story and the storyteller. By the ancient words I call this tale done and ask your leave."

"Thus it is remembered, the story given and Passage granted. May his memory live forever," intoned the elder.

"May his memory live forever," returned the gathered.

Chapter 3
Agates and Gold

"It is good that a daughter remember those who bore and rose her," spoke an oldster rising from the many who sat about the fire. He looked gaunt in the firelight, almost frightening, the way the shadows played upon the planes of his face.

"The honor you do your father this night gladdens my heart," he went on, "for I know this new generation, and indeed my own son, have not abandoned entirely the lessons we have grown in them. For they are the same lessons that were grown within us when we ourselves were children, as our elders too had hope in us for their remembrance days.

"You do Ombrial proud, Ambriasa,” he said, and many heads gleaming in the fire’s light nodded their agreement. "I remember many of the stories he drew from his amber book. And it has occurred to me from time to time since his crossing, that the tales he drew were tales of history. That there must be some truth to the tales he spoke."

"I remember one story especial." He said. "It was the tale of Severance and how she drove the Sun priests from her village playing the game of Fifths."

Ambriasa smiled, "Yes," she said, "I too remember that one, and I believe you right in saying many of the tales in the amber book are indeed tales from history. Severance Otek," she called out. "How is it you have your position in council as well as your ser at a time when the priesthood is no more?"

"That is not known, Ambriasa." Spoke a thin figure with a face like leather stretched over bone. "It was told to my father by his greatfather that the memory of our ser began to fade with the dying light of Sun. Not until Ombrial told the tale of Severence did we even understand why our blade and ser are called by the same name. Indeed, though our ser has been passed from father to son for an age or more, it gladdens me to think that Severence's blood may flow through my veins, though the tale makes no mention of husband or child."

"A sad truth, yes," she replied, "but what harm can come from believing?" And these words pleased Severence Otek.

"Tell us this tale." Spoke the Eldest. "For little enough is remembered of the Sun priests and much of that is not good. They had queer beliefs."

"Yes," Ambriasa nodded, "every child knows that Sun is mother to all life, just as Ocean is mother to all that sustains us. The priests were indeed queer."

"Very well," she said. "I will tell you of Severance... "

~

"She reached into the basket and from it pulled a fish which she laid upon the board. She raised the severance and struck off its head. With it's sharp point she opened the soft white belly, and with nimble fingers long accustomed to their work, tore out the offal; for this is what she was… A cleaner of fish.

The people of Jefexnes thought her name odd. For severance was both knife and place, and while it was not uncommon for a man to take the name of his labor, it was unnatural to name oneself after a place or thing. But her name did not disturb the village as much as did the newcomers.

New ideas came with new men from ancient lands with newer names. The world had changed while Jefexnes slept. Many travelers over the years had whispered of these newcomers who had abandoned the Ancient of ancients for the sun in the sky; the same dying sun that daily dimmed, or so the old stories told, but none in Jefexnes had yet seen these new priests. Their temples had sprung up in every city and village of size, pressing new beliefs upon people who had no use for them, until at last they were come to Jefexnes.

Jefexnes was a quiet village high in the mountains to the east. The men all either fished the great inland sea or raised iylas for their wool and meat. Every full turn or so caravans made their way to the village, but it was the Jefexnese who journeyed to Ohmican to sell their labor. So it was in this way that the village earned silver and gold.

But it was not silver or gold that the people of Jefexnes valued, for it was too scarce for coin. They used instead polished agates engraved with the mark of their labor. Should a man chose to purchase fish he must give in exchange a number of agates with his labor marked upon them. Because of this, the price of a fish sold was measured against the value the seller put on the buyers labor. If the fisherman did not need new shoes the cobbler paid more of his own agates. The fisherman might then trade these for agates he could use.

To the Jefexnese this was not strange, but to the Sun priests it was nonsense. But seeing in this a way they might cheat the Jefexnese, and so build their temple without cost, the priests polished for themselves agates and engraved upon their sides the image of Sun. But the people of Jefexnes found no value in them.

"I have no use for sun," one villager would say. "She gives to me her light freely each day, sunwaken to sunsleep. How shameful to sell what you do not labor. I will not sell to you."

"I have cut stone for you all this day," another would say, "and you give me these in return? I will not work for you tomorrow."

This angered the priests, for they knew the Jefexnese to have gold and silver. Every woman and man wore them as ornaments, and so the priests began to plot among themselves ways in which they might take it from them.

It was custom then that a man who caught a fish, himself to eat, could himself clean, but should he wish to sell his fish to another, it must be cleaned by another. There were a score of such cleaners in Jefexnes but Severance was the best. Her fingers were quick and agile and all who watched her swore the Ancient of ancients sharpened her severance himself, and so it was that most fishermen asked her to clean their catch. When the catch was plentiful her living grew. Indeed, everyone’s living grew, for many benefited from the catch of even one mans nets.

In the cycle that followed the priests coming, the Jefexnes fishers grew rich with their growing catches and the Sun temple saw in this a way to take that wealth for themselves.

They imposed a law upon the Jefexnese, for by this time the villagers had grown accustomed to asking the priests blessings on things they never had before. This law declared that a fifth of what each laborer earned was to be given in tithe to the Sun priests. In addition to this tithe the laborers who hauled the nets must also give a fifth of what they earned after the sale. The tithe continued on to include any who profitted from one fisher’s daily catch.

The talk at last became heated as the fishers grew angrier each day and saw their profits slow. The priest thought to take away all their agates and so force the village to begin giving their silver and gold.

"Tiva, the netmender has raised his fee to cover what he must pay to the priests!" cried one.

"That will make our own portion less than what it already is!" another called.

"I overheard Ontebbe and the boatwright arguing over the cost of repairs to his vessel," said another.

"Even the offal-boys are charged the fifth for the gall they sell to the optecary." Said yet another.

Severence heard all this and agreed. The tithe was unfair. Like most of Jefexnes, she was poor. Paying a fifth of what was earned, in addition to a fifth more for anything bought had sent many to their beds with only hunger to fill their bellies.

To most minds the Sun priests were no better than thieves, but where priests and common thieves differed, it was said, mice could grow fat. While common thieves contented themselves with stealing the crumbs that fell from a mans plate unnoticed, the priests entered into a mans home to steal away the plate, lecturing him the while for not giving more to them who gave prayers to Sun. Common thieves dirtied their own hands, but the priests waged men to their work. Thieves paid to thieve.

The tithe was unfair, Severance knew, but she knew also that the priests, thieves that they were, exacted a payment for prayers the Jefexnese never had need of before.

After weeks of listening to the fishers’ arguments it came to her that the priests were using the chouta, a childs game, to rob the people, though she doubted the priests knew this. Were it not for the exchange of agates, no fifth could be exacted by the priests, and so she spoke aloud as she worked.

"Were it not for the agates there would be no way to measure the fifth," said she. "Without a means of measure the priests can take no fifth."

This struck the men dumb. They turned and looked one to the other in wonder.

One then frowned and asked, "how would we then make our living with no agates to buy what we need?"

Another said, "no agates? It is impossible!"

"The priests would only find other ways to tax us." Spoke another.

But one fisher stepped up.

"Tell us why you say this Severence?" he asked. "Surely you are not serious."

Severence thought a moment and answered. "It is a game they play with us. Chouta!"

"Chouta?" said one, "That is a child’s game."

"But one they have not heard of or played before." She said. "If the priests wish to play a child’s game with us, perhaps we should see in this an opportunity to rid ourselves of them, and their useless temple."

"They do not value our agates, that much is clear. They want what silver and gold we possess. We could just give these things to them but this would only entice them to stay and lust for other things. We must not allow this, instead, perhaps we can take from them what they covet of us."

"We are not thieves, like they," protested one.

"We will not steal it," she smiled, "we will win it. We will win it then return it back to Earth or sink it in the lake. But to do this we must in like manner cast away our agates. Children do not use agates playing at chouta, they use epods, a stone without value to anyone save a child. The priests look at us in this same light. Therefore we must do away with agates. Everyone must agree to trade labor for labor. That is all our agates are; a tangible expression of ones labor. We simply choose another expression, one the priests do not value."

The men gathered around the severancy were shocked at her simple solution, but not at all convinced, and they began to argue once more.

"How can a mans labor be measured without agates?"

"How then will wealth be measured? By air?"

"It is preposterous!"

"No more preposterous than giving all you earn in abeyance to the game these priests play." Severance countered. "A mans labor puts food in the bellies of all in his charge. A mans labor is given in exchange for the goods his wife asks of him, even those things a man himself desires. You must think. All that is ever bought or sold is a man labor. Find another means of expressing this, one the priests do not value, and they can take nothing from you. Why not air?"

Their speech grew heated about the severancy, and over the days that followed it was at last agreed that Severances solution might indeed work. They would play the game of fifths with the Sun temple.

In order to win, they would play the game as children do.

"For those who do not know the game of Chouta," Ambriasa said, pausing a moment. "Each player begins with seventeen epods. As ones epod moves about the stone it soon comes to land where anothers epod lays. A fifth of that players epods must then be given to the firsts epod. All epods progress about the stone, one per turn until one player in time possesses them all. That is what the priests hoped to win from from the Jefexnese. For while children indeed played with epods, the adults would play with gold.

So the Jefexnese take all of their gold and pooled it together, and hid it in the high tundras. For when the priests should come to search ther homes, as they surely did, they found nothing, not even the seventeen the Jefexnese would use to win against the Sun priests.

"But when priests come to buy bread how then shall we sell?" asked a baker.

"Sell them nothing," she said. "If they wish to eat or drink they must play the game of fifths for true with our best player, one who knows all the subtleties of the game. Tell them if they win they can have everything they want except the souls of our people, those belong to the true Sun, may Her light shine forever."

In the days that followed the priests grew hungry, and with hunger their anger increased, for no one would sell to them. They thought the Jefexnes great fools to trade everything the priests wanted for the winning of a game. A game no priest knew and no adult played.

All that the priests wanted was to take what gold and silver these poorest of people possessed. Not only for their prayers to Sun, which required exacting rituals, that in turn required monies, but because these people thought of their wealth as no more than colorful stones. They chose to use simple agates as coin.

The priests had tried to coin their own agates but the simple peasants of Jefexnes saw no value in buying what, to their own minds, was to be had freely each day. And now these foolish children wished to play a game with them!

The temple Occlusion, who, as custom dictated, was the very presence of Sun on Earth, called the priests to confer together and perhaps find a solution.

"My brothers," he called to them, "It would seem the people of Jefexnes believe we wish to steal their gold and silver. And yet, if they do not place any value upon what they possess, why then do they not just give it to us, who appreciate its value and pray for blessings to the Sun Father? I believe they do value their gold and silver. They know it has value beyond the high tundra, and so hoard it for use when the caravans come."

"Now they wish to play a child’s game with us. With gold in place of the epods their children use. Seventeen pieces of gold! Who thought Jefexnes held so much gold! There must be more where that came from. Perhaps they use agates to hide their gold from outsiders. If no great measure of gold were ever seen by traders, what outsider would wish to stay long? I believe they hide more than they show."

One priest stood before his brothers and spoke, "Great Occlusion, the game they propose is more than a mere child’s game, it possesses subtleties that require years of play to fully fathom."

"These are unlearned people!" returned the Occlusion. "They are ignorant of the world and possess no real wisdom despite their cunning game. We will take their gold. Send word to their headman and ask that food be given us, and a choutastone that we may study the game in preparation. Who here knows the play of this game?" he asked at last.

But none spoke up.

"Has no one among us ever played this game with the villagers?" he asked.

"No one, great Occlusion," one priest said. "It is a child’s game. Grown men do not play at chouta."

"Then," smiled the Occlusion, "it stands to reason their best player will be a child. He spread his arms wide to the assembled priests, "Surely we can prevail against a child. But to insure this we should find someone to teach us the play of this game."

Another priest stepped forward. "Would it not be simpler to just take their gold? We have men hired who could do this for us."

"They have hidden it, brother." Said another.

"Then we should beat them until they tell us where." The first replied.

"We cannot beat the entire village," interrupted the Occlusion. "Not and bring them to the light of the Sun. No. We must play their game and win, or we may as well leave. For they will not give us anything if we abuse them further."

And so word was sent to the headman and arrangements were made to provide what the asked. The headman called all the men of Jefexnes to plan a strategy, and they called for Severance to take part.

"Who is our best player?" Asked the baker.

"Meris was accounted a good player." Said one.

"No," someone replied, "he hasn't played in ten full turns. Xama only just entered our company three full turns ago, he would be a better choice."

"Xama!" Said another, "My own son beat him just before he joined us."

"Perhaps we should choose a child." Suggested yet another.

"Perhaps you should." Severance spoke and stood to face the men.

"No man here plays the game better than his children." She said. "Find the best chouta players among our children and let them win this game for us; how much more humiliating for the priests if we send children to play the game?"

They looked at her and saw her smile and knew then she was right.

The headman spoke up, "Severance, you have given us again and again the gift of your true sight and wisdom. Your true talents are surely wasted in the severancy. I ask that you now set aside your duties and turn your skills toward leading us in this game against these strange priests."

"But you are headman," she said with surprise.

"Yes, but it is you who have given us the means by which to rid ourselves of these men."

"Very well," she said at last. "But I will only lead in this matter. I am not headman of Jefexnes."

And so it was agreed, and they set the time for the morning of the third day.

On the morning of the great game, as the Jefexnese came to call it, every soul within three hands of marks gathered themselves in the village plaza. All come to see the priests suffer humiliation, though it was agreed that some would cheer on the priests who would play, to lull them. Every man, woman and child wore their best clothes as though it were a feast day.

A secret competition among every child in the village had yielded the three best choutans: one to play and two to advise, which followed the rule of asymmetry that ruled the game itself. One die, three players, five pieces represented by one. Eighty-five total, and every facet, prime.

For the temple the great Occlusion chose himself to play, and chose among his advisors his two wisest. The children who instructed the Occlusion in the subtleties of chouta advised against this, but the Occlusion thought their advice was given to trick him and so chose not to listen.

A table was set and a chouta board set upon it. The priests made a procession from their temple with the Occlusion at its head. Upon his own head he wore an outlandish hat, high and pointed with the shape of Sun cut through its front and back. Upon his white robes another sun was painted over his breast. The priests that marched behind him also wore suns painted over the breasts of their robes. Though the sight of their procession was meant to over awe the Jefexnese, but the villagers only thought them foolish.

When the Occlusion sat and placed his gold upon the table the villagers brought forward the children they had chosen and sat them down across the table.

The Occlusion smiled.

"What?" he asked loudly. "Do you send children to play against me?" And the two priests to either side smiled as though to mock the children who sat across from them.

Severance stepped forward and addressed the Occlusion.

"Great Occlusion, no adult plays this game. So we choose among our best children. It was you who began this game with us, imposing your tithe and searching our homes. Stealing food from the mouths of these," she said at last, gesturing to the children who sat before them.

"Yes, well, you do not value the gold, why should you not give it to us?"

"Because it is ours." severance answered. "If we choose to keep what is ours, is that not our own affair? If you wish us to give it to you, you must earn it."

The Occlusion was angry at her words. How dare she speak to the voice of Sun in such a way? "Let us get on with it then," he said at last.

"Very well," Severance said, "The rules have been explained to you, but I shall state them once more. Each gold piece represents five..."

"Five!" Exclaimed the Occlusion.

"Yes, five, Occlusion. Was this not explained to you? This is why it is called the game of 'fifths'. "

"Could this village possibly possess such wealth?"

"It is just rock," she said with a shrug, "shinier than most, not as pretty as some, but a rock nonetheless."

"Just a rock!" Shouted the Occlusion. "Then just give it to us!"

"Listen, Occlusion." she called, lifting her voice. "You may move forward or back at any time you choose but only the number of squares allotted by the epod-die and only if that square is occupied by one or less pieces, but you must move, be the move good or ill; you cannot chose not to move. If circumstance gives you no move, you are forfeit one fifth- one gold piece -of your choosing. If a player rolls the same number as his opponents last roll, he may roll the epod-die a second time after moving his piece the number first rolled. Each square lost pays one gold piece to its possessor. First one to complete the circuit wins, and the game is then repeated until one players possesses all the pieces."

"Agreed," the Occlusion hissed. "I will roll first."

The epod-die rattled across the stone, the sinuous lines upon its faces danced and settled at last with a single line showing. The Occlusion drew his brows together and moved his first coin one place.

"There," he hissed and gestured to the child who would play. "It is your turn."

"I am called Pina, Occlusion," said the girl who sat across from him. "It is a long game yet. The odds will show you an equal number of highs and lows throughout." One of the children at her side rolled the epod-die and they all watched as it settled upon a three.

"See? Not much better." The third child spoke, then leaned and whispered into the Pina's ear.

"What’s this?" Demanded the Occlusion. "Secret whispers and plots? What goes on here?"

Severance stepped forward. "Chouta is a game of strategy, Occlusion." Severance explained. "Your own counselors are here to advise you, but you may of course choose to speak your deliberations aloud."

"I see," the Occlusion said, but he did not. He thought the villagers worked to cheat against him.

Pina moved her first coin forward three places.

And the game progressed, the Occlusion scowling and the children whispering all the while. Advantage moved back and forth between them and the first game ended with the Occlusion winning four of the children’s coin.

The priests clustered behind the Occlusion smiled and clapped each other and cheered the Occlusion for his skill. The children waited quietly and whispered among themselves until the Occlusion spoke out.

"I have won four from you simple folk. I shall soon have it all!" And he laughed.

"I shall roll first this game," Pina said and one of her companions rolled the epod-die. It landed with a five and after a short counsel moved her first coin five spaces.

The Occlusion rolled the epod-die himself and, counseling not with his first and second, moved his coin the spaces numbered upon the die. This game too progressed and saw the Occlusion with six more coins added to his own.

"This is too easy," he complained. "Could you not just give me the coin? It would save us all time."

Severance stepped forward and cautioned the Occlusion, "Pina has told you of the odds. What never changes in chouta is the equal number of highs and lows throughout. Chouta is game of strategy, Occlusion. The epod-die will not win it for you."

But the Occlusion only snorted and bent back to the game and rolled the die.

The game progressed throughout the day with coins changing hands back and forth. Twenty and seven games were played. The Occlusion had long since grew bored but when the coins began to move steadily into the children’s hand, he awoke and became angry and cursed his first and second who had given up trying to counsel him.

In time the last game drew to a close and the last coin fell to the children. The priests stood about in stunned silence, and the Occlusion himself called curses down from the sun upon the children.

"May his light burn your eyes from your heads!" He shouted at last and grasping the chouta board smashed it down upon the stones of the plaza. The children gathered the coin quickly and moved back into the crowd where the coins were quickly taken away and hid.

"You have lost, Occlusion." Severance spoke.

"Do you mock me?" the Occlusion whirled about with a shout, "using children to beat us at a child’s game? Do you think yourselves clever? Who now will offer prayers for you to the Sun Father? Do you think we will now stay here in this tiny village of yours?"

"It matters not to us, though we would prefer you to leave," she answered. "As to your prayers, we do not need them. In all the time you dwelt among us you never once thought to discover our thoughts on Sun, for had you asked, you would have been told that Sun in our Mother. She gives us life, and light in which to enjoy it. She warms our skin in summer and holds back, as best she may, the freezing death of winter. And she does all this without our spending coin to placate her. She does all this because we are her children and she loves us as such."

"Your people are sadly deluded, woman." the Occlusion said. "It is the Father that strengthens us and gives us the courage to last the night."

"No, Occlusion. A man wars and destroys. He builds to glorify his name. He tells himself he deserves a thing, then goes out to take it. There is a lot of good in a man, but life has never found birth in a man’s womb. Woman gives life. She nurtures, but does not coddle. She gives us what we need and asks only that we love her in return. It is a mothers love she holds for us in her breast. Man cannot do these things."

The priests gathered their possessions that very day and made haste to leave Jefexnes. It was decided among them that retaliation would not return their gold and so chose to leave without incident.

When their train of beasts and wagons were marks across the tundra the headman came upon them riding a great wooly iyla and called to their leader. "Oh, great Occlusion," he called. "Please accept a gift from our village. We would not have you enter new lands without our hospitality fresh in your hearts."

The Occlusion, humbled by the manner of his defeat, came to the headman and took from him a bundled cloth and marveled at its weight. Setting it upon the grasses he opened it and saw within all the gold he had lost and more. Much more.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Why, it is gold, Occlusion,” replied the headman, now confused. "Do you not want it?"

"Of course I want it," the Occlusion said, "but why now?"

"We have no real need of it. We have kept enough to trade with the caravans when they come again, but the rest we give you."

"Did you wish us gone so badly? Could you not have asked us to leave instead of playing us for fools?"

The headman slowly shook his head. "We did what we felt we had to, and beside that, would you really have left had we asked?"

To that the Occlusion could only nod and with no word of thanks gathered the gold and left.

--

"I hope to learn from the memory of Severance. That is both the message of the story and the storyteller. By the ancient words I call this tale done and ask your leave."

"And thus it is remembered," spoke the elder, "the story is given, and Passage is granted. May his memory live forever."

"May his memory live forever."

ELAshley
122903.025826.1
Revised on:
022305.025524.6
And finally on:
101106.110250.6

There will be further revisions, but
for now, it is what it is...

..::A Note on Pronunciation::..
For those who appreciate such things

Note: Capitalized Syllables are stressed. Vowels at the beginning of words that do NOT precede a hyphen ( ' ) are always soft ( "a" as in "cat"; "I" as in "it"; etc.), except "O" when followed by a consonant, which is always long.

Ambriasa = ahm-bree-AH-sa
~Daughter of Ombrial, keeper of the Amber Book

Ombrial = ohm-BREE-al
~Mysterious Father to Ambriasa

c'Cluseon = see-CLUE-zhun
~The last High Priest to the Temple of the Sun

o'Cluseon = oh-CLUE-zhun
~The stolen son of the Ohmican Citidan. Raised in the Sun Temple

Solumbraiah = sol-oom-BRY-ah
~The son of Sun

e'Urom = E-yoor-ahm
~The man whose tale was the impetus for the creation of the Religion of the Sun

O'Chelot = Oh-shell-Oh
~The last feline species. Descendant of the Ocelot of South America

Enohtoo = en-OH-too
~The last "Giant" believed to be responsible for the Vale of Zon

Crearachenala = cree-ARRA-shen-ALLA (Rolling the R's)
~Ocean’s daughter, who has control over all still waters.

E'tal = E-tall
~The remnant of Italy

Anastarii(s) = ahn-nah-STAR-ee(z)
~Eaters of the dead. Those who offer human sacrifices

Citidan = SIT-i-DAN
~Literally, "Emperor"

Citidanat = SIT-i-DAN-at
~Literally, "Empress"

Ohmica = OH-mi-kah
~What was once Brazil

Ohmican = OH-mi-kahn
~Any citizen of Ohmica

Omicar = OH-mi-kahr
~The title given to the Ohmican Heir-apparent

Cyihnc = Science
~The logic of science reduced to magic

Apoth = a’-pawth
~An herbalist

Cormorii(s) = kore-more-EE(Z)
~A bird, descended from Cormorants

Shallowrii(s) = shall-lore-EE(Z)
~A small, tended plot of marsh, for the keeping of cormorii’s

Unfinished & Untitled

2005-10-04T06:19:00.001-05:00

I lay on my bed
Wet & naked
And dreaming of you
I hear your whisper
- A ghost in my ear
My body's aches
Disappear

Exhaustion lays hard
Upon eyelids weak, and
Your whisper grows

Now deep in dreams,
I feel your hands
Smooth on my wet skin
Easing the days cares
Soothing tensioned cables
Tight in my limbs
And back
And tightening others

I am wet
Dreaming
And stretched upon my bed
Wishing you were the same

ELAshley
October 4, 2005, Evening

For Mary Angel

2005-10-02T19:43:00.001-05:00

She lives in my mind
In a world of stills;
Images shorn from the thread of time
That is what she is
A snapshot within my memory
Never fading, never changing
Who she was
And will never be again,
That star by which
My heart is led
Unreachable
Unattainable
~Unassailable memory
And the pattern of my life
Colored by a tender kiss
The taste of which
Has long since faded

E. L. Ashley
060799.0449.6
Deemed perfect without further revision on:
012300.121126.6
Revised nonetheless on:
102207.012257.6

Pain, Pleasure, Separation [ still in utero ]

2005-10-02T19:41:00.001-05:00

Pain, the fear of Pleasure
And the souls pollution in Separation
~Sensations of love; a boundless treasure
To hold back those things I run from
Those things that
Like light in a dark room
Hide from my heart in shadowy bowers
The easement of fears
And the restitution of Pleasure
Over which the kiss in Separation
Though delicate and sweet
Oft brings more Pain than Pleasure
...

ELAshley

Ongoing:
031602.122652.1
073104.030156.6
022305.022855.6
100106.122906.1
102207.011535.6

Emily's Six

2005-10-02T06:55:00.001-05:00

Emily will soon be six
And I must work to gather sticks
To build the fire around which we
Shall roast our mallows with quiet glee

Six is what Miss Em will be
And we shall sit beneath the tree
We planted on the day she came
And told us all her beautiful name

We’ll all wear hats for Em’s birthday
And laugh and dance – what games we’ll play
We’ll kill and eat the fatted cake
And eat ice cream till our tummy’s break

And then Miss Em will open her gift
And it shall give my heart a lift
To see her smile in wondrous surprise
And say, I thank you, with her eyes

Yet for now I’ll gather sticks
For Emily shall soon be six
I long to see her innocent smile
If only for a little while

ELAshley
042001.022606.1
On the Occassion of Emily's Sixth Birthday
Revised:
042001.114836.1

Driving On

2005-10-02T06:47:00.001-05:00

It floated in the water, her body
We drove over the bridge to holiday
Over the spot where she lay
Immersed and discarded
Another bit of flotsam
Carried on the tides…
It swelled and drained of color, her body
We laughed and counted car tags
While she lay cold, forgotten
~Not even worried about
In some small corner of the world…
She floated; eyes glassed dead and staring
While we took photos
~New England leaves dying beautifully
Giving color to a world
Growing cold ~ her body;
Hair spread like a fan
Mouse brown and sodden, her mouth open
Surprise written on her face…
And grandmother’s surprise
Arms spread wide to receive our little ones
Her hugs smelling of love and pumpkin
But where is Susie?
Days late and not a call
So very like Susie ~ so inconsiderate…
But mother,
She will call if she needs help
Doesn’t she always?

Her body floated
Not so much as worried over
Evil spoken of...

“So inconsiderate…”

We were so close
We could have looked out our window
We could have seen her floating there
Her body ~ discarded, forgotten
…but we drove on

ELAshley
24 February 2002
For little sister

Dogs Day

2005-10-01T07:40:00.001-05:00

..::In Eight Parts::..

Part II

"The Shape of Rain"

We marched through the rain
children soaked to the knees
two lines ~ boys and girls
stamping the torrent beneath our souls
They gave us no umbrellas
but marched us as to war
and drove like cattle ~ the hammer to fall ~
I could not now say why
but I remember...

I remember it was a lonely time
Words were stumbling blocks
Humiliation the tool of teachers
and peers alike, and I remember the book
found, and clutched to my chest
spawning hope within my heart
bestowing courage
gifting me dreams of the sea
sealing my love for her
as it sealed my fate and led me to you
down the long years, through
a labyrinth of corridors…

I love
because of what shaped me...
Love you ~ ever on
because of how you have
and will
shape my soul hereafter

ELAshley
030602.124545.1
Revised on:
090103.125247.1
Again on:
090405.012120.1
Finally on:
100105.123526.1

The Great Well

2005-10-01T05:51:00.001-05:00

The walls are grown high.
The light of day become a moon high above.
Each stone’s spiraling descent, into a darkness
Held at bay by a small sphere of light…
At my brow, ticking time to the moment
~ That moment when stone is struck,
And the great well that is my life
Is ended.
The work has been arduous

Began: 123000.015325.1

.::Alternate Version::..

The walls are grown high.
The light of day become a moon high above.
Each stone’s spiraling descent, into a darkness
Held at bay by a small sphere of light
Bright and dimming at my brow...
Time ticking down to the moment
~ That moment when stone is struck,
And the great well that is my life
Is ended.
The work has been arduous.

ELAshley
080301.113126.6

Trilogy of War

2005-09-29T18:26:00.001-05:00

Part I

"The Poetry of War"

We all lie still
In the poetry of war
We all lay slumped or draped
And do not move anymore
Strike a pose macabre
A pose more resolute
Than lines drawn in shifting sands
The fields our lives pollute
The eyes that cloud
In an opaque glassy stare
Do not see the dogs that feed
Upon our carcass' bare
Of life. That spark is gone
Robbed by the poetry of war
Humbled, frail, broken, torn,
We do not move anymore

Part II

"Long Corridors"

Hard won the closing of my eyes
pillow my head upon dreams
Weeping the loss of one too many
and each day lost
in the hard won war
Sheets muslin and opaque
diseased with ochre 'd age, and torn
rough spun upon my cheek
Eyes closed with slumber unchecked
and rough dreams of gore
of pain
and loss
Hard won it is
each second of mindless rest
night and day
heat or cold
frigid and burning, both
beneath similar skies
The clamor of war about
yet i lay a’ sleeping
still and undisturbed
calloused hand clenching
the spasm of dreams translated
into moments brief and unconscious
preternatural, perhaps,
to one set above such things ~
Eyes gummed in sleep
delicate
and fragile
beneath twin veneers of flesh
covering tumultuous wells
from whose depths
dreams are stirred…
Breath shallow
stirring molecules
and shaping the next moment
in eddies and currents...
a grace under pressure
and soon forgotten
on pillowed dreams
And subconscious i
kneading the id
in preparation for i's rising…
Yet for now i sleep
and hard won it is
each measure of time
wound like thread upon the Sisters skein
Fates chasing with shears at ready
and i
blissfully oblivious
chasing sleep down long corridors

Part III

"Euphrates"

We claimed her soil and changed her name
Euphrates now
Not merely a river
But the whole of the land
Euphrates… west of the Tigris and
East of our homes
But it was the space between rivers-
Ribbons of life amid desolate wastes,
Green palms and empty palaces,
Where we slept ‘neath vaulted ceilings
Pillowed our heads on marbled floors…
And where kings once bathed
Washed the war from our skins

And the souvenirs, toppled like dictators
Cached in our packs
For reminders down the long years
Of where we had stood…
Where friends of old found sleep unwanted
Sent home with taps ringing
Like the staccato sound of weapons fire…
Ringing…

Not unlike the clink of Turkish teapots
Upon saucers and cups
The sound of boots scraping cross roadways
Not unlike the propagandas rolled like posters
For souvenirs…
Photo stills of camaraderie and bravura…
Pieces of statue
Like lucky rocks in our pocket
And the memory of lives taken
And lost.
Was it really so easy?
Despite the toll in lives lost
Did we gain all this
Only to lose more, much more
In the Honor esteemed us
In the Eyes of the World?
Is Honor lost
In the fires of Vitriol,
Or is Honor burnished bright
And proud?
Despite the blood we've shed... and bloodshed?

Now I find I’m caught, weeping
Upon the precipice
We were not made to kill
Yet neither was the world meant for peace
And I remember Yeats who aptly penned
“The world’s more full of weeping
Than you can understand”

ELAshley

Part I

December 17, 1995
Between 2 and 3am

Part II

122000.020645.1
"...chasing sleep down long corridors"
Revised: 122100.112407.1
[deemed perfect with but one revision]
but how wrong I was…revised again on:
051501.024817.1
and again on:
052001.054625.6
and again on:
061401.013611.1
and again on:
091201.113924.6
and again on:
042602.012741.1
and finally on:
092905.021644.6

Part III

040903.123920.1
Revised on:
092105.092331.1

..::Original Comments::..

You have the gift. Etienne! You have the gift!
Posted by romantica on 09/30/2005 05:51:39 PM

Resonance

2005-09-27T05:03:00.001-05:00

Some things resonate in the soul
A firefly's dance over flower strewn meadows
Cicada’s emerging from transparent shells
The sound of rain falling through trees
All these resonate
As does my love for you
A warm sensation touching the senses
Like an ancient voice calling,

        “Soul remembers
        What Body has forgotten…”

And a smile of recognition
Steals cross my mask

And I remember the song that oceans sing
In pounding rhythms upon the shore…
The feel of my lover’s hand in mine
And the sight of wet Atlantic winds
Combing her hair…
Making love with its scent on her skin…
The scent of restlessness...
Salt and turbulence…
All these resonate
As does my love for you…

Can you feel me?
Can you sense me lying close,
The softness of my breath upon your skin?
How my heart beats ~ pressed to your back?
Can you feel my body's heat
Radiating, penetrating through you?
Can you feel my hand at your thigh
Smooth, burning, moistening…?
Your flesh singing at my touch?
All these resonate,
Tells us there is life within reach,
Tells us there is something of beauty
Within sight, within sound, within scent, and touch

My soft whisper in your ear,

        “I love you…”

This too resonates
It is knowing what you will say
Before it is said
Catching your eye
From across a crowded room…
Reading your thought hidden in a smile…
Even my dreams of you resonate
They stir my soul upon waking...
Make me yearn for night again
And the closing of my eyes
That I might turn once more to dreaming…

And the dream of us…
Pledged to one another
Our lives happily shared
With the little ones we've made
The resonance of words
~ An offering of your lips
Telling me you carry our child…
The resonance of hearing,
With passions spent and in each others arms,
We did conceive…
The resonance of knowing
There will be life beyond our own…
All these resonate, true
But this is life at its purist
Wherein we choose, simply
To open our senses,
Our spirits, and our souls…
Where others dare not

You ask now if I shall run,
Having bravely shared your dreams,
And I reply,

        “I cannot…”

For your dreams they resonate in my soul
They are the stars by which I steer my heart
You are the firefly’s dance
I am the cicada in the throes of resurrection
We are the sound of rain falling through trees…

Together we resonate...
Become a holy delight
For that Ancient voice,
Who loves us, and
Reminds us in His love
Of what our souls now can never forget...
That we are one.

We are one

ELAshley
080101.121126.1
Revised:
092805.120311.1

..::Original Comments::..

firefly's dance...rain falling through trees...salt and turbulence... I am breaking all my pencils and throwing them away. I am burning my pages.
Posted by romantica on 09/30/2005 05:57:16 PM

You humble me, Dear Nicholas, but please do not throw away your pencils. Beauty is subjective; what I find mundane you have found beautiful.
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 09/30/2005 07:57:08 PM

Softly

2005-09-27T04:28:00.002-05:00

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

Cobalt

2005-09-26T06:03:00.001-05:00

There is a cloud in the sky
A smudge of gray in a cobalt sea
It wasn’t there yesterday
But there it is
Evidence of hard times ahead
Rains will fall and feed the fields
Look up with regret and cover our heads
“Where is the sun?” We will ask
Where is the bright clear day,
The unsullied skies of cobalt blue?

The smudge grows deep ~ heavy
Rains fall to mask our tears;
Tears we’d just as soon not hide
Now Cobalt blue our hearts…
“Where is the sun?” We still ask
Where is the bright smiling day
Unsullied
And taken from us?
What of the work she left undone?
Who now shall tend her fields
Beneath unblemished cobalt skies?

For the Friend of a Friend, Who Died Suddenly... Unexpectedly... Leaving Work Undone, and Fields to Tend.

ELAshley
Began: August 31, 2001
Worked on:
090201.071535.6
Finished on:
091501.124900.6

in Memorium

2005-09-22T04:57:00.001-05:00

What is coming?
I asked of the sky
No thought that blue
Could ever reply
But countless birds
Away did fly
"Something comes"

What is coming?
I asked again
And felt the brush
Of Insistent wind
Pursuing a path
That Avians winged
"Something Comes"

What is coming?
I asked of the sun
The air grown hot
To blister my tongue
Flesh to ash, and
In a flash, done
Something has come

Yet I remain
My ghost, my bone
Remembered this day
In memorial stone
Etched in apology
I've no right to own

Something has come
...and gone
May it not be forgotten

ELAshley
080605.102501.6

Of course, factually, birds were incinerated in flight,
and no wind rushed save those winds atomic,
and those that held Enola above the fray.

A Bit of Lullabye

2005-09-17T00:44:00.001-05:00

Settle deep
Into sleep
Do not wake
Should storm winds weep
Naught will harm thee
In thy rest
Cradled here
At mother's breast

Let the moon
Fail to shine
If Stars should die
Know you are mine
Naught can harm thee
In thy rest
Cradled here
At mother's breast

There's no way that you could fall
Or that I'd not hear you cry
Though shadows dance upon the wall
I am ever by

Close your eyes
My little one
Soon will come
The rising sun
Naught can harm thee
In thy rest
Cradled here
At mother's breast

Cradled here
At mama's breast

----
ELAshley
091605.061632.6

Hmmmm... perhaps a little melody is in order

The Dance

2005-09-14T06:17:00.005-05:00

..::In Four Parts::..

Part I

I had come to dance, to feel alive once more
Isn’t that why we all come? To find life again?
To dance and feel the swirl and sway of synchronous movement
The play of emotion written on every face
Love, adoration, even desire glazed in every eye
And the magic of sharing one's soul
That most solitary of creatures, with another butterfly in waiting
A lady or gentleman in wanting
Desiring but to merge with another singular soul
And with the world at play; at dance within this Grandest of Halls

I had come here before, to watch and dream
To study the dancers, their graceful fluidity...
Ah, the dancers...
I sketched and drew each ruffle and bodice, jacket and pleat
My sketches filled pages, and pages filled tomes of line and movement
Imagination consumed me and a fire burned to capture it all
I was driven to know what drew them to this ballet of souls
And it was as though I too were swept away
In the beautiful dance I sought impossibly to capture in static lines
Rigid curves unbending, unchanging, unwilling to fully be the dance

I had tried a hand at dance; once or twice...
My feet seemed not to understand the language
I was clumsy and three footed, or so I deemed, and was
Unlearned and unready for beauty,
And the currents of the Great Dance
My partners were few, saintly with patience
Yet, not unkindly, left one and all
To find grace in the arms of another
Yet I thanked them all for the lessons offered
And I've sat on the edge since...
The edge of dance, the edge of life, and for long years waited
Patient and shy ~ for what I could not say
But I had glorious dreams beneath the dome of the Grand Hall

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
For it is assured one day the thread will break, the sword fall
And the dance cut short, as are all things mortal
     Oh, short of breadth, Dance on!
So beneath golden Dome, across gleaming marble
The multitude danced,
Cadenced and true to a music that shone about them all
Bathing them in rhythm and sound
They lived my desire
My dreams, my hopes, of beauty and rhythm, light and shadow
In step, in tune, and my arms about a Ladylove...
The music had always sought to sweep me away;
I have ever been powerless in its thrall
When she sang I became Odysseus
Lashed and straining, bound by fear and filled with lust
Wishing only to leap from the mast and plunge to my death

The sketch too inspired me; the motion of the dance
Like the rise and fall of ocean swells, it inspired me
But the music… Ah, the music!
It seemed the binding force that held the dancers to their course
That sparked the magic I felt at watching this magnificent spectacle
And I was surprised to see that none who danced
Seemed to realize the mystery and beauty in which they took part

Is it then difficult to see the dance while in its throes? I wondered
Could it be when one is dancing, the light of its magic cannot be seen?
Are they perhaps blinded by the light in their partner’s eye?
I have seen some beautiful eyes
But none as beautiful as hers…

I remember, as well I should, the enormity of chance;
Chance that I should see her from across the vast hall
Chance that she should even have caught my eye
But Chance and sister Fate seemed ready at last to deal with me
Perhaps taking pity on me, allowing her to see what I could not
Something deep and special within,
Hidden and unbeknownst to even I
Yes, They were kind to me, who
Always on the edge, watching, yet not dancing
Allowed far too much evening to pass…
Perhaps they whispered to her,
Directed her eyes across the Grand Hall and the great sea of movement
How many millions danced that night, and yet her eyes fell on me?
How fortunate that I saw her from across the swirling sea

The Grand Hall hushed, seemed to pull back its voice
And I heard her voice speak across the great distance
“I am Angelina,” I heard her voice,
Sweet as honey. “Please, tell me your name.”
And she moved through the crowd, toward where I stood in wonder
Each step timed to the rhythm of dance,
She was a pebble in the stream
Each couple gliding to a side and sweeping by,
The dance and its harmony preserved
“I am Etienne...” I said with surprise.
I marveled at her radiance,
At the light that shone from her eyes and smile as she drew nearer
“I am Etienne...” I whispered in awe
“Hello, Etienne. Tell me; do you dance or do you simply watch?”
“I would like to dance,” I said, “though I am far from graceful”
“Grace is learned,” she said… “No one here arrived with skill,
Though all were born to dance”
“All? Not I,” I said
And she smiled and spoke… “Yes, Etienne, even you!”
And she laughed
My! How it shone! Silver and true! A ringing to awaken my sleeping heart
Her smile then burned through
Consuming each curtain drawn and shutter locked
     ‘neath the eaves of my soul
Smoke and ash! and blown away upon sweet winds
Over plains long forgotten
And the light that shone from her impossibly blue eyes

I fought to speak, fearful she would leave; and I stammered…
“I tried once to learn,” I struggled, “and though my teachers were patient all,
I have not achieved such grace as these.”
She swept back her arm in gesture, “These?”
“Yes they are graceful, some more than others; still, you need only a teacher”
“Will you teach me to dance, Angelina?” I whispered, afraid of her answer
My voice wavering and on the verge of tears
For I could not believe how beautiful she was
Oh, How her skin shone! And with a light I could not fathom
And yet she had chosen to notice me
Among the millions who had come to dance
She chose me

Part II

Her dress was a glimmering white, diaphanous layers of silk, satin and taffeta
Milky gold hair fell flaxen and amber honey to soft porcelain skin
And I thought briefly of Olympus, of goddesses both beautiful and self-aware
Yet unaware of their effect
     ~Of her effect
On my senses
She was ambrosia to me, a heady wine of bliss
Her eyes the color of a soft summer sky, shining wetly
Seeing all that I was at a glance
And I could not hide
It was as though I fell
Forever tumbling and ever in awe of her
Yet I found I could not gaze forever into their liquid depths
For I was drawn to her lips, how they danced themselves, moist and inviting
Shaped and contouring 'bout the sound of my name
“Teach me to dance,” I asked again
“Teach me to move and spin and step and live
For I find that I would take you in my arms and never let go
I would die in your arms, and in your eyes…”

“I will teach you,” she said at last, after long perilous moments
A smile on perfect lips...
“Will you do as I say, step where I say, move where I say?
Then take me in your arms, gently as a lover
For is that not what all dancers are?
Lovers, moving with each other, through the press of skin on skin
Drinking in each others eyes, sensing in each, desire in the subtlest of turns
Each eager to please the other?
And yet it is not making love, not the union of flesh and passion
Think of me nonetheless as your lover, think of our souls
Binding themselves one to another”

I could not believe I was to hold her
To feel her warmth, to be guided by her, this loveliest of dancers

     “Come now and take me, into your arms and make love to me
Turn me about, and let's move with the tide and currents of the dance”
And she placed a hand in mine, her palm to mine, fingers gently grasping
Fine boned and soft, nails lacquered and gleaming. Perfect
I stepped closer placing a hand to the small of her back
And drew her close
Her scent enveloped me; cradling my senses
It was the scent of angels, pure and beguiling
And as I breathed deep
The warmth of her skin encompassed me, and I sensed
The lines of her form like the lines of my earth
Rich and yielding, fertile and young, and ripe with potential
“Tell me your thoughts, Etienne,” I remember her saying
“For you are surely not here
With me”
“Oh, but I am,” I smiled
“Tell me everything; remembering your promise to do all I say”
“I have been taking pictures, Angelina
Sculpting this moment in the clays of my memory
Drinking in every sensation
The feel of your hand in mine
The warmth of your body through silk, satin and taffeta
Every glint of pearl, every aquamarine and tanzanite sewn
The scent of your perfume, your hair of honey
And the unnatural beauty of your eyes
The very way your skin gleams and shines
Your smile, the soft sound of your breathing
And your lips…”
“My lips?” She asked
“Do they make you weak?”
I thought for the briefest of moments she mocked me
But her eyes glinting and lips shining
Pulled into a smile and assured me she understood
And I believe I loved her at that very moment
The moment she showed she understood my heart

“You should take care,” I said, “for I could well fall in love with you
Though I sense I already have”
“And would that be so terrible?” She smiled, and leaning to my ear whispered
“Did not I choose you?”
And I felt my heart swell and my soul surge with new life
My spirit enlarged and engorged with a new sense of purpose
To love her and her alone
~Et nunc, et semper
For now and forever
From that day forward
Confidence grew in my hands
Her hand in mine seemed new and my hand at the small of her back, at home
I thought of the Gardens of Loveplay
How I longed to walk their paths with her
And yet I felt as though we were already there

The music had crept back, little by little
The dancing continued yet we had not danced a step
Only stood together, poised in preparation like horses at the gate
And in that moment I realized
It was I who was horse, straining at the bridle, champing the bit, eager to run
And she the rider, skilled and at ease
Gently stroking and controlling my impatience to burst forward with a rush
Calming, relaxing me, yet promising me the heat and sweat of the race
She has always shown more control than I
For I have ever been weak in my excitement of her
And for her

“Relax,” she said, “there is time a'plenty for to run
First let us learn to walk with one another
Let us enjoy this first moment of bliss
And remember always the feel of our proximity, our touch
Handsome and magnificent”

“Where should we begin,” I asked
“Begin? Are we not wrapped in a lovers embrace?
And your arm about my waist
My hand in yours?
My dear Etienne, we have already begun…”

“Can you feel the music?
Can you sense its desire, its only desire, to see us wed in motion?
And moving across the planes of the earth
Clicking sparks with our heels, and drawing fire from the heavens?
There is no stopping now, Etienne
Feel its rhythm; let it speak to your soul!
Let it move you to move me
And touch my heart
Never taking your gaze from my eyes ~ or lips
Nor your hand from mine ~
Remember your promise!
Write to me with every movement
With every step and whirl write me poems”

“Angelina,” I softly cried
“Forgive me, but I am fallen for you
You speak to my soul and I… We have yet to even dance!”

“Shhhh, my, Etienne,” her lips brushing mine in a kiss brief and eternal
“Make love to me,” she whispered upon my lips, her eyes deep in mine
“Come, and dance with me”

Part III

“What you must understand, Etienne
Is that life, like the Dance has a rhythm
Our hearts beat, our every breath a cadence
The words our tongues and lips shape
All is rhythm
And still they are imperfect. We are imperfect
Life and the Dance as well
Everything imperfect.”

“But their grace…” I said, and at that moment I was struck
We were not dancing
Yet she allowed me to hold her
Our hands still poised
Our arms still about each other
And her breath on my face
“But their grace,” I said again
“They could not be more perfect!”

Then she smiled and drew me closer
Laying her cheek to mine
And together we watched as the Dance swept ever by

“Look, Etienne. Watch their feet!”
I watched and heard the sound of their shuffle
Felt its rhythm, and I shuddered
I felt her smile against my cheek
But she did not pull away
And I then saw…
As one foot slipped, its leg stiffened ~
Balance was restored, and the pair flowed on

“Did you see it?” she asked, “did you see his misstep?
How he caught it and moved on?
She did not even notice! Her eyes were only on his!”

She pulled away ~ My cheek warm with the memory of her
And she favored me with another smile ~ Gleaming, shining true
A radiant sun in a perfect sky
Perfect, I thought. She is perfect…

“No, Etienne, I am not
But it is sweet of you to think so. Thank you”
And she suddenly laughed for the expression I wore
“Your eyes, it was they who spoke to me…
     ~ And your soul"

“How is it you understand the language of my soul, Angelina?”

“One need only look, dear Etienne…
To read one must open his eyes, focus on the page
Wrestle meaning from each word; its order and relation to the others that
Follow, or come before
There is rhythm even here
And now,” she said, “to the Dance”

“Our hands and their placement
And the pressures we employ
Speak to our partner; this too is language, and the beginning of love
For the languages of Dance and Love are sisters
Or brothers, if you like
Twinned and born of the same mother ~
A Greater Love known only to gods
Who have no name utterable by mortal lips.
She simply is
And Dance and Love are but shadows of her Grace and Perfection
     ~ True grace, true perfection
And we as mortals need learn this language
It is our souls purpose
And though we as mere mortals cannot attain this perfection
Its pursuit is not without merit”

“I feel like a child,” my eyes bright as a whisper
“Do not,” she said
“For whatever reason, the fates have chosen me to teach you the Dance
And I would not do you disservice
I must confess, Etienne, I have never heard a man’s soul
Speak so clearly. I am intrigued”

She tilted her head and her smile broadened
“Shall I teach you this language I spoke of?”
“I am yours to command,” I said
“Do not tease me,” she replied. Her smile flickering as it were a candle’s flame
Then returned, forgiving me my indiscretion

“Very well,” she said
“Your hands speak to me, to the small of my back…
I hear that you support me
That you will protect me; you tell me I am safe in your arms
My hand set upon your shoulder
Speaks to you of my acceptance
Of you, and of our journey together, however brief
Or enduring

“My other
Clasped softly in yours
Tells you my acceptance does not come without price
You must be gentle, and above all, respectful

“The way you hold my hand tells me of your reverence for my honor
It speaks of devotion
And acceptance of your responsibility
Not only to me
But to your own honor as well
How you hold me tells the world you a gentleman
And cognizant of your duty to me
As I have given myself over
To be led by you
But never dominated
To be cherished
But never captive; I am free to leave if I choose
“How I allow myself to be held can tell the world many things
If I am rigid and grip too tightly your hand
The world will see I do not trust you
For I have not given myself over to you
And that our dance will be brief
If I am a feather
The world will see I am not content to be led, rather
Intent on requiring you follow me
It says, I do not believe you can lead me
And the world will see you as weak
Again, the dance will be brief
But if I seem to move with you
Our movements harmonious, our steps in tune
Our bodies flowing one to the other, so much so
The world cannot tell where I begin and you end…
Well…
Such a man is to be admired
To so gain a woman’s acceptance; her trust
The world will applaud your grace and skill
The Dance may still be brief
But most often it is not
For when a man and woman dance so
It speaks of their abiding commitment; each to the other
It is rare that a woman should find such a man
Skilled in the art of Dance
His bearing graceful
Most women must hope they can find a man they deem trainable
Like clay upon a potters wheel
A man they can shape to their desire”

I listened, rapt with wonder
And I prayed to be taken into her supple hands
To be molded and shaped to her desire
Her words so touched me; my heart, imbued that moment with hope
I knew I loved her and I hoped…

But I was not worthy of such as her
And though I could not hide my pleasure
I secretly crafted new dreams in the depths of my soul
Fearing and hoping both that she might hear and tell me she approved
That the dreams I forged too had merit…
Ah, she was so lovely…

“Shall we begin?” I heard her say
Her voice drawing me back from my dreams
“Yes” I said

“First, Etienne, Dance is founded on but two primary rhythms
Unlike the spectrum of light
For in dance there are but two; a cycle of two and a cycle of three
Though music follows several other such cycles
Dance has but two”
“How is that possible,” I asked, “if music has many and dance but two?”
“Ah, but Etienne, it is merely a matter of slowing or quickening the pace
To fill the space between beats
If a dance boasts a rhythm of but three or four, each step is equal
Yet there are Cycles that require more than its measure
If there are but three in a cycle of four
You must lengthen one to fill the four
But if there are four to fill the three
Then you must shorten two to fill the three
There exist, of course, variations
But all are easily learned with time
Now let us begin simply, allow me to lead

And she danced me upon the shore
Beyond the crash of thunder and music
And the shimmering sea of dancers
“Pretend your feet are tied to mine, having no choice but to follow
Where once my feet were, yours must now be…”
And I followed her, and loved her for the confidence she showed me
Never taking her eyes from mine
Sighing not once in frustration
Never stiffening beneath my hands
She spun me and moved me and carried me about the Grand Hall
Yet always on the shore
And there were some who laughed
But her eyes never left mine
Her smile never dimmed
And my love for her,
Filling all the dark places of my lonely heart
Now ached to hear her lovely voice
Speaking to my soul
Calling me friend
And saying, I love you…

Part IV

We danced for what seemed ages
Our eyes held fast and
Unwilling this spell be broken,
She was exquisite to my eyes
A priceless jewel
In a sea of mediocrity
     ~As though the Dance could ever be so!
And lost in her eyes, I do not recall when we left the shore
And moved upon the sea; dancing the current
Now part of the great migration that ringed the fountain
That circled life
Nor can I say when she ceased to lead and I follow
When she
Letting herself be led, told the world how she believed in me
How she trusted my hand at the small of her back
     And my love for her grew
I scarcely knew where she left off and I began,
As she said we should be
And passion stirred within my breast
A desire to make love to her with every step and sway
Make poetry of her name, for love’s sake.
To see pleasure written in her eyes
And smile, I was willing in that moment to die a thousand deaths
On foreign fields; a warrior-poet, my bone the quill
My blood, the ink ~ spilled on the whim of a muse...
Such was the love that filled my heart
And fills it to this day

     “I am thirsty Etienne, though I am not sure
Whether I thirst for drink, or do I crave something else?
You perhaps?”
     “Do not tease me,” I said, the spell suddenly broken
A gulf beginning to deepen between us
Yet she drew me back, putting her arm in mine and pulling me close
“We shall see,” she said with a smile
“Let us go to the fountain and drink and...
It is true, I am parched for both love and drink”
     “I cannot move as you did through this sweeping dance,” I said
“I have not your grace. Not yet”
“Etienne, don’t be silly
It was not I who moved through the dance
It was the dance that moved past me. About and around
The current does not divert the island
Nor is stone pushed aside by the stream
It is the water that flows
Not island or stone
Let them be what they are…
And let yourself be what you were meant to be; my companion”

     “Why is it at the center? Why a fountain in the midst of the dance?”
As we moved toward the center, the dance streaming past,
A river of swirls and eddies running before and behind
Never a touch or glance toward us, yet stirring the air
She laced her fingers with mine, and spoke to me

“Life is at the center of the dance,” she said
“To drink is to live ~ and the dead do not drink;
Life is at the center of all things, Etienne”
     “Is that what I was? Dead?”
And then she spoke the word I had not before heard
Nor since forgotten…

“Not yet, my love”

     “My love,” I repeated, “…my love”
“Yes, you are my love, Etienne”
     In the midst of the dance
Somewhere between life and death;
The fountain and the shore
We stopped; the world swept by, the ocean rushed past, the dance moved ever on
And her arms swept over my shoulders drawing me close
Her smile for the briefest of eternities filled my sight
Before her lips swept me away in a dance of their own
We were the island she spoke of
The stone that parted waters, and for as long as our kiss held
As long as the taste of her lips, the scent of her hair
Filled my senses, I forgot about death
Forgot about life
Forgot about everything but the brush of soft lips
The dance of tongues, and our eyes
Open and drinking
Watching and swimming in each other’s depths

     “I knew I loved you the moment your eyes touched mine
Though I was afraid to tell you, fearing you might return to the sea
And the dance, yet you stayed”
    “Where would I have gone, Etienne? Where between heaven and hell
Between life and death, where would I go?” you asked
“I watched you for the longest while
Watched how you desired the dance, how you longed to dance
I watched your hands, watched as you sketched
And I wondered how you viewed the dance, how you drew our lines
How you, on the edge of death, viewed life
And I saw in your eye a wistful dream that awoke in me
A desire I thought long dead…
I did not know if I could love you
But I had to know
And now I do, and I find I am still thirsty, Etienne
For life… with you”
      “But you know nothing of me, Angelina,” I cautioned
“Don’t I?” you replied
“Have you not danced me magnificently?
What more need I learn? I have read the lines of your earth*
Saw what manner of grain grows there. So come,
Let us go to the fountain and seal our love, and drink of life”
     I took your hand in mine…
It was my first act of confidence, inspired by a desire to live
Born of a desire to belong at your side, in your arms, and in your heart
And I led you in a dance that brought us nearer each turn to the waters of life
To the consummation of love, of devotion ~ a cool and heady drink ~
Awaiting us there at the very heart of life

     And on we danced, moving like stars about the galactic core
Merging at last, emerging from the stream to the bright wet shores of life
The great fountain rose before us like a mighty ziggurat, gleaming like pearl
And ringed about by Orsel maids, pitchers tipped and brimming
From which wine fell like rain, filling our glasses
Ambrosial mists covered our skin
And together we shone glistening wet and
Bright like the sun
And we raised our glasses to toast the fates
That joined our threads and wove the pattern
Of years to come, and our lives
Within both weft and warp
     “To Angelina,” I smiled, falling deep into your eyes,
“To my dearest friend and most cherished lover,
I vow to love you,
To the last breath I breathe, and beyond
For I was destined to love you,
Born to be your lover,
To dance with no other but you…”
     “And to you, My Etienne
I will be your harbor, safe and warm
When storms threaten, and oceans build
I too will love you to my dying breath, ever mindful of your heart
I will love you and no one else
To the end of my days, but again, there is a price:
You must always remember that how you dance me
Tells the world how you love me
And you must love me such that
The world would be envious
Wanting what I have, but never can or will…
To my Etienne, to our love,
     And the envy of a world!”

     We drank from our glasses then drank from each others lips
In a kiss that, to this day has never left me
~ And it was a rich wine indeed, thick like honey upon our lips ~
Above all else, you inspire in me a desire to be one with the dance
To be one with you, in all things
And so I have sought daily to never lose the feel of that
One beautiful kiss, sweet ambrosia misting our faces

Our lips heavy with wine, and our senses drunk
With love and wanting…
And to live each day remembering my promise
To make an entire world envious

     There are many things I sought to find at the dance, And you, my most secret of dreams,
But what I found far surpassed any hope or dream. Like my sketches
~ Poor imitations of life
And with your gift of awakening I was made to recall a verse of song…

          “Gold and diamonds cast their spell      It’s not for me I know it well
     The riches that I seek are waiting on the other side
     There’s more than I can measure
     In the treasures of the love that I can find…” **

       And what had I hoped to find? I had come to dance never expecting to dance…
And finding a dance, changed my life forever, to the reshaping my soul
The deconstruction of a name I walked within
The resurrection of a name in the throes of a dance
And the resonance of a name
Spun from dreams and cast like nets
From your own perfect lips
To the capture of my very heart and soul

My fair Angelina

--ELAshley
010302.115718.6
Many Revisions
Culminating in this
Final Revision:
102107.125628.6
041610.113811.1

_______________

* "The lines of my earth, so brittle, unfertile, and ready to die.
I need a drink, but the well has run dry." --Sixpence None the Richer

** "The Wall" --Kansas

I am Atef

2005-09-14T05:34:00.001-05:00

He burned through the desert ~ hate and rage
Sight searching and hoping for respite
Hearts vitriol grasping for life,
And no purchase for scalded hands
Screaming down the barren hills

                    “I am Atef ! I am Atef ! I am…

“…bereft! In an ocean burning white
Where is paradise? My reward?
Pools to cool my blackened feet?
Where the virgins to attend my whims?”
Now screaming vast in a fiery demesne

                    “I am Atef ! I am Atef ! I am…

“…the sun! So hot! Might this be that star?
Where is God? Where Allah the merciful?
I am Mohammed Atef! Martyred son of God!
Surely Lord, Thou hast made a mistake!
I am burning pitch, embers cracking with pain!

                    I am Atef ! I am Atef ! I am…”

ELAshley
17 November 2001
In memory of Mohammed Atef, Osama bin Ladin’s chief of security. Atef is credited with training the terrorists responsible for 9-11, and was killed during a US bombardment in Afghanistan on November 16, 2001 during the Holy month of Ramadan.

Yet Another Riddle...

2005-09-12T17:09:00.001-05:00

Having cleaned, it's what we do
It's what must be in spite of you
It can't be fixed - It isn't broken
It comes and goes with each word spoken
Adapt or perish is what it says
And is what it ever is

One Kiss

2005-09-12T06:51:00.002-05:00

There is but one kiss
The first kiss
Only that one ~ savored more fully
With each returning brush
Of lips intent
On recapturing the moment and pleasure
Of the first
Like the taste of wine remembered
On a lovers tongue ~ the wet warmth of desire
Sensual and yearning…
We clash again and again
Lips hungry,
Hoping to find that moment
Now lost
Wherein we were awakened
By the gift
Of that first kiss...

That I desire you…
That my entire being is impassioned
By the hope of your soft lips
Brushing mine
Should come as no surprise
For I am compelled to reach for you
I am tortured by separation, and
Bound without remedy
To the promise
Of our first and only…
Our last and eternal kiss...

ELAshley
--On St. Valentines Day, 2002

Dearest Mary Angel,

2005-09-12T06:22:00.003-05:00

Deepest apology's for not writing you sooner. My last letter was the night of my birthday, and I had allowed myself to drink far too much. I hadn't been drunk since the year before when a friend of mine passed on. I rarely drink as it is, which is a good thing, but I was foolish, allowing grief enough room to throw caution to the wind. But that's neither here nor there.

I had been so miserable the year or two leading up to my firing, and it took losing my job to see it clearly. Eight days after my birthday Colin fired me-- Princess Diana was dead and I was out of a job; albeit, one I hated. Still, it was completely without warning, and I was simply too stunned to ask why. All he told me was my performance was "...too little too late," and that the matter was out of his hands. He went on to say that if I wanted, I could continue working at the restaurant as a cook until I found work elsewhere. I told him I would think on it and give him a call. I then surrendered my keys and left.

I had another set of keys at the house, and for a month and a half I contemplated entering the restaurant some night when everyone was gone, disabling the alarm system, and wreaking havoc on their food inventory, and stealing money from the office, but thankfully, I had better sense. Instead, I applied for unemployment and made a half-hearted attempt at finding work... meaning, I didn't look very hard.

I had decided months before that I would never work in another restaurant again unless I had some control over menu, and autonomy enough to treat my employees with more respect than I was then allowed. I'd also caught on to an unconscious trend-- every new job I go to always seems to be completely unrelated to the previous job. So, when I looked, I consciously looked outside the food-service industry.

In early November, I went to both television stations in town and applied for whatever might be available. Ch 18 never called for an interview, but Ch 4 interviewed me on the spot, and I was hired the next day! I am now what is called a "Master Control Operator," which means little in regards to pay-scale, but the job is so incredibly simple, circus bears could do it-- I literally get paid to watch television and occassionally push a few buttons.

Then the most amazing thing happened! 1 day after I was hired, Spinnaker's Restaurant-- the establishment to which I had devoted 10 years of my life --without warning, closed 3 hours early on a Saturday evening and informed the staff that it was closing it's doors in town forever. I received a call that very evening from a kitchen worker with whom I had been sociable. I was somewhat shocked that he openly cried over the phone as he told me everything.

The home office, I later learned, closed six other units that same week and had recently closed two prior to "our" closing. Initially, I was so elated to know that the company, which had seen better days and was in decline due to debt, had been forced to fire almost 500 employees and over thirty managers to stay afloat. I laughed until I realized what they had done by letting all those people go just four weeks before Christmas. Each employee, like myself, had given a significant amount of their daily lives to a company that couldn't have cared less.

So here I am. It's 1998. And I am somewhat happier, though the loneliness I feel grows stronger each day. I want a family. It's time I start thinking about a family. But I'll probably have to hurt someone I care a great deal for to actually get on with my life. It would be nice to find someone with whom I could actually open up to; someone whose personality would allow me to be myself without fear, and perhaps someone who would love me with equal measure in return.

But that's all I can say about that for now. Ophelia will be home soon, so I must finish this.

With great love and longing I am ever yours,

Eric

January 0898