Whistling for Moonbeams: Evenings

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Evenings

Elsewhere, it is twilight. Elsewhere, I hear your footfalls on the wooden planks that lead to our doorstep. My heart is fluttering with butterflies I can hardly contain.

Soon, the knob turns and I hold my breath. The door opens and I behold your leg, your shoulder, half your face, half your smile. I run toward you and leap into your arms, and my entire world becomes your embrace.

Elsewhere, we kiss like we had been apart for years, when I had just walked you to your car this morning.

Elsewhere, our lips part and you gently touch my chin to look into my eyes.

Elsewhere, I drown in bliss. Elsewhere, I have no thoughts of elsewhere.

Here, I teach myself, over and over, to let go.

I always end up waiting for you to come home.

2 comments:

FEDS said...: My love

It is just after midnight and again I find myself awake thinking about you.

Yes, I have been away and silent but all the time reading the messages from you. Yes, and I read everyone 100 times and I have not allowed one word to fall to the ground.

I have a million reasons for my absence but not one good one. You have been so faithful but me faithless. I gave up. The distance, the separation, the forlorn hope of ever seeing you ever again buried my resolve.

But this night my resolve was ignited by your words that you are waiting for me to come home.

Such faithfulness is overwhelming and that which I do not deserve. Yet, my heart leaps at the thought that you are still there. Immediately my mind wants to conjure a way to bring you back to me. To my outstretched arms so we can be together again.

Is there such a thing as miracles? If so, I pray that my miracle, my one wish be granted. That I may hold you in my arms forever and that nothing will ever tear us apart again.

Now my eyes grow weary but what is it I see when they close. An image of you. You are still alive in my heart and my mind. I did try, I did try to forget you but alas I could not.

I came back because the pain of losing you was far greater than the pain of missing you.

Tell me, if I come home, will you be mine forever...; January 30, 2016 at 10:14 PM
Apollo said...: Dont force yourself to let go my Love. My heart has been crying from all the messages, stories that you have posted today, yet I still summon every ounce of my strenght to hope that everything will be ok. I cling to the hope that what we have my Love will still prevail.. our love. I miss you dearly my love, every where I go I am reminded by you. I look up in the night sky and see your smile through the stars. I walk around and see trees that smiles back at me. Every second today was painful to endure. I am not asking for the world my love. All I want is for this not to end. I still love you with every inch of myself. My heart is still at its home, with you.; January 30, 2016 at 10:32 PM

THE WILD IRIS (by Louise Gluck)

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure sea water.

Luis Katigbak, On Music

You find your music like you find anything you love for a lifetime: through head-spinningly intense first impressions, deepened by increments, by glances and tastes, flashes of bliss, the slow rush, the terrifying exhilaration of knowing and being known, and finally: hands and heart clasped in commitment, days and years sealed against decay. The beauty of a cascading guitar line, of a voice in flight singing words that mean something to you--these are permanent and ephemeral, as are everything that matters, and when you first fall for your music you almost never appreciate the paradox.

from "The Dawn: Everything that Matters",by Luis Katigbak,PULP, March 2005

SPECK OF RAIN ROARING by Edith Tiempo

Ich bin eine Saite Uber rauschende breite Resonanzen gespannt. -Rilke-

Did she borrow her stillness from the chair, from the book, her drink, the cigarette? So quiet, You'd think the other way around, that it was her self-possession settled the chair she sat in, enfolded and completed it with her legs and torso, gouging a shape that little by little became permanent. For she belonged wherever she was, or rather, wherever she was belonged to her, green calyx around its burden. The olive nested in her glass. Even when later he told her: Go, And do not come back, It was the capacity to contain herself, (Atlas, maybe, or Sisyphus) To hold that rolling rock frozen at every locus on that fickle hill; to locate herself Pinpoint or Dust Mote, and the whole globe the footstool; Even when later she dropped the round tear that spilled and spilled inside of him, sweat in his pores, rheum in his eyeballs, blood in his eardrums, speck of tear or rain roaring, to swell the water floods, Even then, when it was his rage that gnashed and cut his own thick tongue.

MIND (by Jorie Graham)

The slow overture of rain,

each drop breaking 
without breaking into
the next, describes
the unrelenting, syncopated
mind. Not unlike
the hummingbirds
imagining their wings 
to be their heart, and swallows
believing the horizon
to be a line they lift
and drop. What is it 
they cast for? The poplars, 
advancing or retreating, 
lose their stature 
equally, and yet stand firm, 
making arrangements 
in order to become
imaginary. The city
draws the mind in streets, 
and streets compel it
from their intersections 
where a little
belongs to no one. It is 
what is driven through
all stationary portions 
of the world, gravity's
stake in things, the leaves,
pressed against the dank 
window of November 
soil, remain unwelcome
till transformed, parts 
of a puzzle unsolvable
till the edges give a bit
and soften. See how 
then the picture becomes clear, 
the mind entering the ground 
more easily in pieces, 
and all the richer for it.

Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

They are kneeling upright on a flowered bed He has just caught her there and holds her still Her gown has slipped down off her shoulder He has an urgent hunger His dark head bends to hers hungrily And the woman the woman turns her tangerine lips from his one hand like the head of a dead swan draped down over his heavy neck the fingers strangely crimped tightly together her other arm doubled up against her tight breast her hand a languid claw clutching his hand which would turn her mouth to his her long dress made of multicolored blossoms quilted on gold her Titian hair with blues stars in it And his gold harlequin robe checkered with dark squares Gold garlands stream down over her bare calves & tensed feet Nearby there must be a jeweled tree with glass leaves aglitter in the gold air It must be morning in a faraway place somewhere They are slient together as in a flowered field upon the summer couch which must be hers And he holds her still so passionately holds her head to his so gently so insistently to make her turn her lips to his Her eyes are closed like folded petals She will not open He is not the One

Whistling for Moonbeams

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Evenings

2 comments:

I'm somewhere else

My dad named me Chanson Vanessa

.

THE WILD IRIS (by Louise Gluck)

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Climbing Fences

Them Pen People

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Because loitering is allowed

Light bites

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Luis Katigbak, On Music

SPECK OF RAIN ROARING by Edith Tiempo

MIND (by Jorie Graham)

Short Story on a Painting of Gustav Klimt