Oh what providence to meet with philosophers and poets. White marble silent sentinels standing at Baroque chapel entrances where Trinity holds 200,000 ancient texts. ‘Tis the mind of Dublin–Trinity– barrel-vaulted brain center; 210 foot Long Room. Two stories– told in tranquil reverence– one of intellect, one of soul. Guardian of light and ancient harp, Boru’s fabled instrument. Vibrant Celtic symbols…
Religion dwells in glass cases in dimly lit enclaves, dark grottoes of light; beehive cells where monks in solicitous solitude scripted holy verse. Gospel on calves’ vellum, beetle wing peacocks, oak apple spirals, Christ in lapis lazuli; apostles, saints, and triskeles with crosses crossing all. Men of holy inspiration turning darkness into light with insular majuscule. Saving impudent civilization, irreverent…
Goodbye, old friend, run free across those distant hunting fields. Run free, old friend, your un-fenced soul can lead you where it will. Follow your heart, old friend, and, one day, may it lead you on to meadows still; to flowing streams and grassy knolls, where I, at last, will join you in my unfettered soul.
Photo Courtesy of Lulu Lovering Living to get, getting to gain, gaining to spend, the cycle rewinds, replays the same. This can’t be the plan but the spin doesn’t stop. We’re centrifugal ears that hear out of tune on a carnival ride that makes weak eyes roll. Out of focus, out of kilter, our feet shuffle in place, hands hang…
Photo Courtesy of solarisgirl It’s been too long since I took time to be mellow. Living nose to the stone grinding out a groove to make it all fit (I keep starting new grooves). Getting-on-with-it takes focus. No time for garden variety contemplations, or to stop and consider the topsides of June blossoms. I wonder what they’ll look like when…
Photo Courtesy of Cheryl Twin Peaks Twin peaks meet at their cleavage– the swells of Mother Mountain’s breasts as she lies in cold, silent repose. Ridges continue along naked horizon, her knees drawn up, feet planted firm. Her lover lies on his side toward her– large mound of man-hip rising, sloping, poised. Awaiting the day they two will join again as…
Photo Courtesy of Monique Kittan The Alabaster Shell Milky white alabaster skin, unnatural rouge-rosy color high on my cheekbones, I never wore rouge. Lips like wet cherry, shiny, silken hair, delicately smooth, pale peachy hands, sleek, shapely, mauve-painted nails, I never wore nail polish (though I always loved mauve.) I had bulgy, blue-green veins that moved when my grandson fingered…