April 26: Water

Magnetism; Impressionist's canvas

 

Magnetism

Swept under a current, I saw a web of silver strings
a silken tangle to drag me deep to the muddy underworld,
my eyes dazzled with the crystalline flux
on the surface dwindling rapidly—
I cannot breathe, my heart is pounding in hunger for air, and
my head is swimming from fingers of darkness pressuring—
yet the silk drowns my voice almost gently, forcing
vision before my burning eyes: delicate clouds rolling
in free gusts of whipping air, and there is so much pressure,
squeezing essence to soak, squeezing life out of my lungs—
as mercilessly as the current took me ‘neath, now it tosses me
out like bones stripped of flesh from the maw of a beast,
and I scrambled on useless knees to bank, spluttering and
shivering uncontrollably—
but the visions still came: the clouds were passing, and
warm touches of rain ran down my icy face…
and I felt the tug that swelled river and rain, with my heart
still joined in its murky depths: droplets shivered away
from my tossing head, splashes that wreathed me suddenly
in a moonlight necklace, brilliance of miniatures of the cosmos—
I felt the strange heat of fever, a delicate magnetism:
a surge of incredible feeling – and an itching tingle of
restlessness nestled into my bones where I cannot reach—
I know I will have no easy dreams should I sleep, for
that celestial being sings an ocean in me to bubble to the surface,
and the waves will keep frothing well after she finally sets…
she is a Goddess uncontested, a watcher to tug heartblood of
Earth, human and sprite alike – a master puppeteer who
unveils our truths with the tide – I am but a trickle, I understand,
a drop in a current rushing with shattering force,
rising steamy haze to a thundercloud that spans the sky—
but however great or small our matrices spread into one another,
we share the blood of silver: I am daughter of the river that
almost drowned me, with currents hidden in blackness as surely
as those in the sea, enigmatic landscapes molded by
the force of personality: and I weep as freely as I cycle from joy
to misery, as the Earth sooths itself and nurtures with her tears,
…and I share the sprinkles of celestial essence planted in
primordial pools of liquidity—
we are all of that liquid moondust, and always
will be ebbing and flowing to her lullaby, each
a tiny ocean nestled in a drop, and our pulses
synchronized to wax and wane with her smiles…

 

April 26, 2014

Back to Top

Impressionist's canvas

I am fading to impressionist, loosely gathered
splashes that seemingly have little connection—
but if I squint in the mirror, it all seems
to form a picture of sorts – then again, I may be just
deluding myself, maybe I am just a bit of
crumbling leaf floating atop a murky puddle, worth
no more than a grimace as someone steps in me
unawares – after which I cling hopelessly to a sole, an
irritant eventually to be ground beyond recognition—
a bucket of icy rain ran down my spine as I swam in
thought: exactly what I needed to fan the flames of my
existential crisis in elementally sublime irony;
but whether or not heat gushed in me, I gathered into
something more wholesome – in direction, at least—
and asserted myself in more than a couple of
dimensions short of credibility—
I have that ability, inflating into something almost
like everyone else, though I think my veins
are hollow, and my blood as thin as life’s breath:
I am barely there, and have very little substance;
what I am is a complacent dove waiting for crumbs,
certain in my knowledge that soon or late, they
will begin to fall – only, I await the cleansing rain,
to wash away the stains and relieve me of the taint
of touching on existence in such a shallow way, as
sometimes I do when I get a splash in the face; but I know
that I am a mere blot of paint, accidentally wandered onto
the canvas of a masterpiece, with emotion leaping
from painted eyes, heart’s sent fluttering at
the edges of their smiles, the trees seeming to rustle,
ponds to send ripples that spread from water to grass—
compared to all that, I am a crude little splash;
yet, whatever my inexpert artist chooses to name me once
I am decorating a once-bleak stretch of space complete,
I am sure that with another color or two bleeding together
in that cleansing water to wash the indelicate brushes, my
murky substance may coalesce into something unique:
the more you add, the less I reveal, turning black to hide
what everyone keeps trying to highlight in my
imperfect swirls and lack of general direction—
perhaps I won’t stay an impressionist creation, and have more
solid foundations to reveal and conceal my meanings as
I choose, but I begin to see the truth of my making… and that
is that my life is at the sufferance of something far more basic,
far more primal than an artist’s whims: I am parched paint
clinging firmly to my meager substance – but easily washed
away to nonexistence, by a mere touch… of murky waters.

 

April 26, 2014

Back to Top