Darker than Dark

Digital illo from a photo: Black ButterflyEclipse

It all began with the erasure of

All memory, of thought and hope and care,

Of sight and sound and sense, and of the air,

Removal of all faint belief in love—

A chrysalis unsealed its crystal door,

Wherefrom emerged a brittle wingèd thing

That slowly pulsed the veining of its wing,

Searching for light and heat that came no more—

And, lastly, drew upon the black’ning sky

To fill its velvet wings, opaque, a most

Mysterious angel, butterfly, a ghost,

Then spread that inky cloak and sprang to fly—

And so was blotted out the sun and moon

And ev’ry ounce of life at highest noon.Digital illo from a photo: Black Wing

Alive & Well

photoSing Now & Always

To celebrate at breaking of the dawn

Or close of evening, or the stroke of noon,

There is no sweeter pleasure than a tune

Well sung by everyone, an antiphon

To peace, to sorrow, or to happiness;

No matter what the poetry or text,

It truly matters most that what is next

Is choral concord to renew, redress,

Resound through all the unseen years ahead,

A clarion, an anthem or motet

Grander than any ear has heard as yet,

And run to distant history, a thread

Of melody and harmony so strong

That no one can resist joining in song

The Longed-for Sound

digital illustrationAwakening

Whose is the voice that speaks my name, Aloud or silently, the same,

In gentle speech or radiant song, Unspoken care, forgiving wrong?

Whose is the loving, laughing voice That makes my waiting heart rejoice,

That wakes my hope and lights the sky With stars, to which my sole reply

Is humble gratitude, delight That such a voice breaks through the night

To search me out, my heart in two, And make it whole?

Your voice. Yes, you.

Passages of Time

photo montageJeunesse et Tristesse

We two, when we were very small,

Walked hand in hand down avenues

Studded with poplars and long views

Of granite pavement, pale and tall

Sun-sprinkled shops, apartments set

Above them on whose balconies

Perched men like birds among the trees,

Eyeing our youth with vague regret—photo montageHow could we know, young as we were,

The brevity of these our strolls,

How every hour more swiftly tolls

Than the preceding? To be sure,

The marvel of our living lies

In sensing little of the thought

That what short summertime we’ve got

Measures in spans like butterflies’,photo montageAnd realizing late in age

On balconies, as children pass,

Our tenure’s brief as leaves, as grass,

As words washed from the novel’s page

By tears dropped silently, this truth

Too hard to tell to little ones

Passing in hand-held joy, the sun’s

Brief rays alighting on their youth.photo montage

Coming in for a Takeoff

A necessary understanding of the importance of imagination in my life turns the very idea of coming in for a landing on its proverbial ear. Not, I assure you, in the sense of making a crash landing, my dears. It’s simply that the exquisite security and comfort of realizing it’s time to let my imagination take over, rather than inviting me to curl up and suck my thumb in a cozy fetal position as though my project is a fait accompli, makes me eager to take to the skies. Quelle surprise! Here am I, lazybones extraordinaire, looking with pleasure upon the prospect of digging in to work with a passion.photosIn the meantime, it’s a joy when the creative juices begin to flow. The laws of physics have taught me, as has long experience, that a body in motion tends to stay in motion. In like manner, a spirit dancing the glorious dance of invention tends to build up steam and grow increasingly hungry for further invention. Boredom and lassitude and dull deconstruction have no place in the middle of the rushing river; everyone to the oars and full speed ahead!digital artworkJust as bad attitudes and actions tend to lead to more of their like, an awakening of the creative urge can spur an upsurge of yet more desire for innovation and art. The muse is a hungry creature. A ravenous creature. Mother of invention that she is, I think perhaps her middle initial is ‘&’. I hope I can be a good acolyte, if not precisely her child. It feels so good to move forward and upward, to fly.

Creature Feature

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Little ray of sunshine, how sweet your flitting ways!

Orange Butterfly

Isn’t it charming, cute and quaint

That a butterfly made up in bright orange paint

Can masquerade thus as a garden saint

And be seen as a ray of the dancing sun

And a light, fleeting dash of enticing fun,

When its finely-veined system in truth is run

On a fuel of venom cold with spite—

It would far rather sink a great poisonous bite

In your pulsing carotid some murderous night—

How pretty, how dainty, how full of cheer

The butterfly’s presence makes it here,

At least behind all that orange veneer

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The Lady was a Tiger!

Delicious Deviation

A scurrilous, scandalous sinner

Invited him one night for dinner;

He learned that her wish

Was, he’d be the main dish,

Though before he knew that,

He was in her.

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They were drawn to his charisma like, well, moths to a flame . . .

The Ballad of Professor Montague

Professor Montague, a moth (specifically, Cecropia),

was glamorously smooth and frothy, ruling that Utopia,

his professorship at Flares, where tender butterflies and moths,

with innocent and awestruck stares, had visions wild as Visigoths,

fixed on him, rapt, their compound eyes, absorbing, drinking deeply

(through curled probosces and their brains) this wisdom daily, weekly–

they soaked it up–he’d flit about, and with his brilliance all were thrilled,

until one day he was attracted to the classroom lamp . . . and killed.

Lullaby Ten Thousand

A meditative calm is settling on me this morning as I think about the week ahead and all of the things that fill my life with thanks-worthy graces, so I shall sing you a lullaby to try to put you in a similar frame of mind. (Please make the tune as sweet and pretty as it suits you to hear!)photoLullaby Ten Thousand

Lie asleep, my languid love, with muses ’round your bed

To whisper dreaming in your ear, lay garlands on your head,

To kiss your cheek with zephyr lips, your heart fill up with peace,

And when the daybreak comes again, sing gently your release

From nighttime and its starry net, to draw you up, away

Into ten thousand leagues of joy, renewed, into the day

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