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| Oddly, Ocracoke is not considered, jurisdictionally at least, to be part of the OBX destination. No problemo - I prefer to "Hyde." |
I’ve discovered here
that there’s a Star Trek backdrop
landing party sound
steadily powering the daily arc of the mighty Sun.
It’s not just breeze through trees on Ocracoke,
it is the
whisper of the gentle One
who only speaks when water parts the ways
away from
home sweet home.
Isolation, insulation.
Insolent too.
It is not wind!
Not
leaves all moving at once!
As if osmosis
needed tips to choral on this island beach.
No!
Stop naming actors the tree,
air and ear some symmetry,
giving brain
to all that
stenciled canvas chair.
This singular sonata be troupe, troubadour, itself the
play.
The voice of Trinity comes to Mind
both close and far away.
Infinity not some measly frequency,
transit inside
time in line
to some sense of biology.
Entwined the ebb and flow of air
forms an allwords backwards-forwards,
a simple sounding
hiss
serpents seldom say but certain ones alone.
This is elemental song of Earth,
from the
mother we destroy with Nature named of conquest since the womb,
where we became
and then quickly severed of the cord
to fill some twin bellows with air instead
of breathing deep.
All of us, islands
of God!
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| Oh Dante Oh Dante |
The Archetype of Mother,
and yet still my own Irene.
What is shushing that never ever stops?
Surely lullaby.
Sweet lagoon!
She speaks now as the Star plays on,
directly in the evernow
to her lovely creation abandoned in the mirror dark
who longs for her even
though she is not gone,
but simply not able to enfold innocence
like Mary doth
blessed Grace bestowed.
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| View from high atop The Castle B&B, looking out to Silver Lake over green carpets of magic. |
And still the jealous, jaded Djin do pry herein.
Gravel grinds below, interrupts the flow,
car tires crush pebbles down to ground,
as if to steal the sacred sound
above singing
in the trees
and on my level love through the stringed metal sieves
we call
screens and do not see upon,
but only through.
On account of bugs getting in.
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| Nobody ever noticed the gnarly liongoths on the coat tree in the hall from the back porch until I took this picture. Creepier still is the staircase to our lovely rooms in the mirror, as if indeed other worlds do put pins in that map in the parlor too. |
Still protest
this serpent does,
staccato of the doors slams
shut,
each invented guest
an effort to distract
rightful heir from noblesse.
Fall
longshadows under railings creep and upon my neck wrap dark fingers 'round,
but
they cannot squeeze precious air from the apple of this Adam’s neck.
Forks make fingers
of the dark but only out of light,
and out of the corner of my sight,
I realize
this is no Setting Son.
Sophia
is this torch etched from Sol above,
who moves across
the porch surely as he does a day,
warmshouldered I am prepared to say:
Too
late, shadows!
I know walls from caves
and acts so flat that are more close to mouth and flame.
Allegory or not, here I come!
With golden hues ablaze
She somehow says as sits still
the golden rays:
"The clock! A false device!
A paternal pimp to pass the time as excrement
and not take in as wine.
Silver rings these awful things
in schools in offices are hanged
to hypnotize, on walls in banks
and even multiplied on newsroom stalls
For its sweeping hands and charms
you must not ever fall.
At twelve it does not begin
nor does it end, for Omega and Alpha
no one numeral can ever be."
Twenty and four hours this Celestial transit
yet every wheel in history to just a dozen number gauged,
circled round the town a compass three and nine,
and doubled in your mind alone
with the two faces of twelve...
MIDNIGHT
NOON.
How they fear thirteen!
My God, the rising voice in just one gust of wind!
And an image comes to me
not on cavewall nor
forestry with magic
or some brush never stroked.
I see, and I love her
and I cry.
Why?
Because where mermaid sang so swimmingly,
iridescent above
the tree is one instant past the ugly hag,
and I have not abandoned her
for I
know now her sacrifice radiates youth to me the same,
so I the beauty keep in Death
disguised as supple skin but not in vain.
One last thing
the Oldest Lady in the world
whispers unto me on leaving
for the Sea……
“One secret, one perfect shell
on the sands Neptune’s pull shall not retrieve.
Know Thee child the face of time a magic spell,
an insult
on the circle of the true and living Soul,
for sell they’ve stamped you through in
Red,
for commercial trade you are bred
and they’ve covered Mari from the Time
instead…
but see how their Laws nor admirals do not preside
when land is water put aside
by Sound.”
Pamlico is her name.
“Hear me well now,” her imprint now communed goes on…
"all
trees wave goodbye…
my seeds the last spell down, Dell shall not Ye bind, do
not cry!
Must Ye your bretheren show be
digital, unmasked
coordinated grid hath caged Spirit’s move in colon pair.
The revolution twenty-four,
Cosmos knows you
are coming to the Door
and they can only fear.”
And she is gone.
Now itinerary.
Bullet points. Lists.
Lingering, one last pulse of prophesy...
as if persistence of vision came
upon the wind in trees.
It ushers back through reeds, tall grass and varied
leaves,
loud as daysound despite lonely haunt of hollownight,
in time to bell
on Bay a lonely buoy away, she fades and sings:
"Do not ever fear
the end of time that is near…
but see it for its Word
Logos lives now among us All,
not in history
but next to you my dear.
Remember me
on the island you have found
and share the secret of its name
the longbeach village entropy
where mermaids bring my work
unto your artist’s ear
and pirates
lose their very heads
to protect the ocean blue above
from marauders
who call the mystic queer."
EPILOGUE OR POSTSCRIPT or JUST WOW REALLY
I wrote this on my smartphone while staying at the Inn and had shared it with the staff. The Innkeeper enjoyed my piece so much, that the last stanza (the one that sings through time and thus beyond her Cypress walls, thank you) is now permanently affixed within a frame to the Castle's walls so that others hearing the song of Convergence may relate. And my name in place below. As if now I am eternal guest. I am so honored and beyond joy - thank you so much Ronnie - for your love, your ear, and the gleam in your eye that refuses to ever dimmer down despite this World's candlesnuff ways. Sidra and Jude too, your support is effervescent as I gallivant the halls, but I must confess now Ronnie has my poem"Sun is Yellow" handwritten on sketchpad paper so she is by default my number one fan. ;-) Everyone else who remember child sojourns, please go to Ocracoke again, and stay at the magic Castle. Click the banner to visit their official site.
Although the Christmas lights out front have been OFF they have still
been THERE, annoyingly, but not any more. Spent an actually pleasant
Sunday afternoon high atop the ladder (once I got there) untangling them
from the Ichabod trees. And then I coiled up all the highways of
electricity I so ingeniously laid down.
