Archive | September, 2015


30 Sep


I close my eyes and you still remain like a hand on my arm:

You never leave, although you can never quite stay –

You are the flame that made a change in me.

You are the daemon man who made all my angels quite clear:

You are change that made a flame in me.

I fly high when you are near,

but higher still when you disappear.

For you only creep somewhere within,

and, as the flame, you stay…

(Hear me recite this here:)

The Actor

30 Sep

1997 February 1


Not quite yet.

The portal is closed

Only by proprieties,

But you observe them.

You know the power of waiting.

Particle by particle you become someone else.

The transformation propels you forward

Into a light that makes

The darkness in you quicken:

The bare stage is your ley line.

Now: Fly.

There’s magic in you.

Real Smiles

30 Sep

1996 May 27 A note to a depressed online friend, Marcia.

I remember the first time in a long time I felt real smiles on my face, about seven years ago.

I kept feeling the curve of them with my fingers because I couldn’t believe it…and it was all because I was listening to new girlfriends, the first in years, discussing buying shoes. Simple pleasures bring you gently back from hell.

The Hands in Eyes

30 Sep

1991 May 15

When will my eyes stop growing hands

That touch your face at the slightest glance?

Impolite Ceremony

30 Sep

1991 February 7

I will not give back what you can’t understand was given.

You don’t comprehend the meaning of our sexing.

You hide from the fact you were within

The emptiness in me

Within a fifth chamber of my heart

Within a mouth that greeted no other man

As it has greeted you

Within my eyes

And ears and hands and breasts

And being.

I became more.

And before you stayed within

Long enough to leave yourself,

You withdrew, and thought you had escaped.

But you had never even begun to arrive.

Oh hang your face in the air above me

And bow your shoulders over my breasts once more

In the impolite ceremony that changed me.

I know. This only happens in memory.

My body, re-arranged by you entering it,

Is not broken by your leaving.

But it grieves.


30 Sep

1991 February 5

I have waited more for passion than anything.

Finding it, I was told,

“this is not yours to have.”

I am a thief of my own passion?


Told not to display it,

I still do,

Woven into things

I create.

Nothing in my heart is wasted.

Not even you.

1988 January 13 A Dream

30 Sep

 He was dead a year. My mother was dead, six weeks. In a year someone else I loved would be dead too.

Sleep was hard during those years, because all the dreams were full of death and dying.

I found this note later:

A dream:

I went to some dormitory style living place filled with Celtic musicians. The piper’s death was still fresh on us; I was crushed, but I could not tell anyone how I felt. A friend glossed over it; strange young men ignored it.

His lover was coming to clear his room.

Ghosts were everywhere. Even the moon was a ghost. His lover was thin skinned, on the edge of hysteria. I asked her if I could help clean his room. She didn’t want to do it herself, but she screamed no.

I got down on my knees and begged, telling her that I loved him, that I knew and had nothing of him. She gave up and let me come in. His room was my mother’s old room. It was filled not just with his things, but his ghost was there, and so were the monsters of death. His lover froze in fear. I walked forward and beat at them and yelled ” Go away!” But I could only beat them back under the bed.

He walked forward then, half invisible in a Celtic cloak, then he put his hands on my shoulders and said, with the voice of Aisling (my spirit guide): “Remember what we were.”

I sat down, writing down the incident, and saw the lyrics of Richard Farina’s “Reflections” beside it.

I looked at the note. I can’t remember that dream now. It was written down just before he started coming to me regularly in dreams, becoming my spirit guide. In three months he would come and stand beside me as a presence in my waking life, putting his hands on my shoulders and pointing out a dark haired young man I had just met: Go with him. Learn with him. The young man became more than the young man wanted to be, and as much as I needed. But that is another story.

When I read the dream again, I didn’t know what it meant by Richard Farina’s “Reflections.” I didn’t know the song.

I just found the lyrics tonight. Now, the internet makes it easy.

Reflections in a Crystal Wind by Richard Farina.

“If there’s a way to say I’m sorry, perhaps I’ll stay another evening, beside your door, and watch the moon rise, inside your window, where jewels are falling, and flowers weeping, and strangers laughing, because you’re dreaming that I have gone.

And if I don’t know why I’m going, perhaps I’ll wait beside the pathway where no one’s coming, and count the questions I turned away from, or closed my eyes to, or had no time for, or passed right over because the answers would shame my pride.

I’ve hear them say the word “forever”, but I don’t know if words have meaning, when they are promised in fear of losing what can’t be borrowed, or lent in blindness, or blessed by pageantry, or sold by preachers, while you’re still walking your separate ways.

Sometime we bind ourselves together, and seldom know the harm in binding the only feeling that cries for freedom and needs unfolding, and understanding, and time for holding a simple mirror with one reflection to call your own.

If there’s an end to all our dreaming, perhaps I’ll go while you’re still standing beside your door, and I’ll remember your hands encircling a bowl of moonstones, a lamp of childhood, a robe of roses, because your sorrows were still unborn.”

I choose wonderful

30 Sep


Something I wrote along the way to A Small Tale of Shakespeare: “What about life is not strange at one time or another? You have to choose, shall this strange thing be awful or wonderful? I prefer to choose the wonderful, just as I choose, as someone people find very strange, to be wonder filled. Awful is a waste.”