I lie on my bed...

I lie on my bed, still—unburdened from the cares of motion and the external world—staring at the wall, the ceiling—at nothing and everything.

Pervading the room, the enclosure of my cavernous mind: music; its beat an affinity seeking union—one of its proposals a deep earthly throbbing, and another repeating like the hurling into the distance and its eventual auspicious return. My thoughts intermingle with the sounds, the rhythm; at once detaching themselves from their host and extending their tendrils further into that hidden crossover point that perplexes.

How inconspicuous is breath: to sup from the unseen and sustain this motionless soma of mine. And my heart: its pumping working away in the eloquence orchestrated by nature. I place my hand upon my breast but fail to attest to the symphony..."the symphony of nature".

How did they begin: the heartbeat, the thoughts, the music? Were these to be reverted to the moment of their genesis what would be there? God? A god? Something more fantastic? Or perhaps, in actuality, something beyond our infantile ken?

There and then,

at the primæval stillness,

motion preceded

and motion succeeded.

Metapoem I - Stars in the Water

 

 

I saw

stars in the water



I saw them

shimmering

elusively



I immersed my hands

till they were

wrist-deep

and all were



one



I felt

starfire



I submerged

my face


swooned


and birthed from

suffusing heat complete



I withdrew

and wondered at

my living flesh

  

M.M. — November MMX

Poem XVI - Death Mask

A portrait perfectly moribund,
long had she left the sun;
the fever now sets her face,
her flame has lost its pace.

Sweat bedews her wan skin,
tears telling of future that has been.
As fingers gnaw at a noxious bed,
nothing more will ever be said.

She hears murmurs by the bedside
from those who had mollified and lied:
their hollow words becoming more indistinct,
the dimming of lights growing succinct.

The matters that raked or reminisced
are remnant flurries, and both missed.
Her weakening grasp to her blares,
resounding loud in the thickening air.

There had been a girl with such a laugh,
whose voice is now wine in a leaking carafe.
And a soft, scented hand will not caress,
will not run fingers through youthful tress.

And a boy: there had been a boy, and love;
she had once loved (dare she think thereof?).
But his smile heightens what is already sown—
this is the most she has ever felt so alone.

Convivial in melancholy's gainful time,
doom is wielding its hand, committing its crime;
cascading like the pain in her muted cries,
like the fear etching itself about her eyes.

Black draperies accent the intent with such candour,
though the panting of thought is so much grander.
The nothings in the room impress unavoidably:
the stark last things that she will ever see.

At last the gaunt gentleman has returned
with his look of apathy—and concern.
Or is it the lady of the impending storm
regarding between the flitting forms?

And what is that behind the door,
skulking now along the floor?
She is tightly grasped in its scheme;
it has burrowed deep in her bitter dream.

It comes close—creeping, creaking—
as she turns her head, speaking:
"I think it is time for us to go.
What is next? I wish to know."

When morning came, and dawn sung,
she was gone with a breath—the deed, done.
Nothing was left but the cold, vacant shell;
nothing but the mask Death had moulded so well.

M.M. — September-November MMX