A VIEW FROM THE PARAPET
A view from the parapet
A sky formed of live and let
Horizon marked at twenty miles
Pathway obstacles of twenty stiles
The sea an option to beget
A golden moon of no regret
Perspective met a trillion wiles
A soul be made and let to set
Lunaris Rarus
Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition passionately orchestrated, resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cooly illuminated cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a Harvest Moon. Pale purply hued shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.
The Phantom Of Her Blog
Her blog appeared with the ping of my phone, I transpierced, mesmerized, engulfed, navigating my way round the phantom, lifted, carried deep into the well, emerging, prancing over catwalks, springing toward the decaying spiral of dripping eloquence, up, up to the dome overlooking all that can be seen; an ancient river of wisdom.
You may visit Her Blog at: http://salmonsaladandmozart.com/?p=3133
WINTER’S PROSE TOO
Tattered and battered charcoal-gray wintered limbs reach and wiggle for the warmth of the sun; through a silver-gray winters pall; winters old and wintering in the yard.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Sitting alone at the corner of the bar, tickling the stem of a globular red wine glass with an index digit, contemplating complexities, gazing out across the nearly empty restaurant, through the expanse of plate glass windows, infinite pin oak leaves, adorned with their arrays of auburn, amber and magenta, fluttered and skittered slowly and quietly along a diagonal breeze, in a warm, misting, silver grey atmosphere – the last day of October.
FINAL ACT
A silver-gray balmy breezy day. The winds are gusting to twenty-six miles per hour and the temperature is hovering warmly in the seventies. With rain threatening, the bleached white walks are already stained pink from moisture. The wood and it’s canopy of chartreuse, ochre, burnt orange and scarlet foliage are whipping, bending to and fro in an energetic Watusi of a dance. The leaves, rustling a louder song, sing interrupting the softer frenetic chorus of crickets and remaining insects chirping the last symphony for the season, the last hurrah.
MY DEAREST C.,
As I sit in the sanctuary of this tree house at six-forty-five am in the mid autumn darkness of daylight savings time, typing and sipping a very hot medium roast of cocoa and subtle spice of Guatemala Antigua, softly and quietly illuminated by the candles in the window and the twinkle lights from the terrace, the grounds below invisible and the wood, beyond the bay window I am facing, but a mere phantom, I feel gratitude for this measurable measure of equanimity.
UNMASKED
Cloaked in a pall of heavy dark velvet I whisperingly stride one step at a time, retiring to a deep seclusion – pestilence raging most furiously abroad. A lighted candelabrum braced in my right hand and a brace of an august cask of ruby red wine under my left arm, and the stems of two globular glasses locked between the ring, middle and pointer fingers of the left hand, upward on the spiral staircase, short of the catwalks and turrets pausing on the castellated central middle floors of an imperial suite, a long and straight vista without colourful tapestries or golden ornaments, conceivably to find my phantasm therein; with neither desire of ingress or egress and without the folly of grief I pour the wine at a gray weathered farm table illuminated humbly by the candlelight. Somewhere without, a pendulum swings, it’s monotonous clang nearly muffled by the verdant canopy surrounding the stronghold. Tall in habiliments darker and more dense than mine own the phantom of the castle of my mind enters and silently we salute each other with a clink of the fine hand blown glass and then a long draft of the rich spicy shiraz, and with the music unhushed, toast again, paying tribute to dissolution at bay.
THE THIRD SEASON
The prize pines at the perimeter of the wood have dropped their needles, carpeting the path with an ample amber cushion. A familiar aroma emitted from spilled sap, intense and intoxicating evokes in an olfactory system a false sense of security. Looming, the threat of precipitation drapes over the peninsula darkly, a silver-gray pall. Quivering from the rotation of an easterly flow the verdant canopy laced with an ochre glow, proof of a seasonal change and an autumn creeping toward winter, sends singularly chosen leaves fluttering like fairies to a new resting place on the floor of the wood.
Dearest friend, dear Old Light,
From an open window, wide, of the tallest turret, in the northwest quadrant of the palace in my mind, as dusk settles, a pall shaken and spread over the landscape, I, standing at the round dark oak table with a myriad and multitude of uncommon literate minds, a herd not unfamiliar to you, gazing northward toward your Paris-like lighted studio and conscientious cupola, as the church bells toll, we, each, raise an orb of hand blown glass, damming a perfect pour of a blend of fine red wine, with layers of dark red fruit complimented by hints of vanilla and mocha, to salute you, your low talker, the folly, your steep spiral staircase and your celestial catwalk to the moon.
http://salmonsaladandmozart.com/?p=2873
With some success, trying to get there, early,
R.
“Truth is the bottom of a bottomless well.”
– Sebastian Venable
“Truth is the one thing I have never resisted.”
– Catherine Holly
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