Maybe it was the way she said it. Or the way her hands gestured.
Criticism in every motion. She spoke softly, but her words came as
daggers and knives. She betrayed nothing in her stare, nothing at all,
but I felt it. My memory is faulty, my speech is slowed by my clumsy
tongue, and my consciousness is blurred by lack of sleep, so I can no
longer be sure of what I saw or heard, nor can I accurately recount it
even if I were sure of what happened. But it made sense. That's what I can say--it all made sense. I imagined the words coming out of someone else's mouth, her thoughts originating as those from my childhood friend that I used to get spicy ice cream with. It wasn't bad. The ice cream I mean. From her sweetened lips came pure Reason. So why was it grating and harsh now? My mind trudged, neurons sticking to the blackened mud, tar mucking up my frontal cortex, and dirt washing over those over parts I can't remember. Incomplete metaphors. Incompletion. I suddenly feel my eyes well up with reluctant tears. I am no longer in control. She massages my shoulder, trying obviously to soothe me, but it burns hot. I tell her that there is a part of me that rebels. She says it's alright. I understand she's right, but that's not the point. Maybe it was the way she said it.
Blow soft the winds of fate as not to stir The tempers of those in desperate need of solace; Even the lovers enjoy the sapphire skies Serenely cast against their glowing faces.
Set light the sun of love as to arise Not but brighter still than when they left Their kissing lips to rest amongst their sighs Of contented breaths and their starlit eyes.
Oh salty brine filled waves will you not bring Those salty lips gilded with final rays of sun That softly arc into angelic smiles To part with breath of summer's flowing breeze.
In the silent dark of night I can but dream of her; She walks amongst the crashing waves of mer.
I came into the doorway and stood watching the clouds drift across the full pale moon. Despite these nights at home being warmer I had a large winter coat draped over my shoulders--the wind was cold enough. These nights, these nights are most wonderful when the lazy clouds of mist dance and play with the stars and their keeper. I stood waiting at the bottom of the stairs in the dark. I could not for the life of me tell you what I was waiting for, but the dark, the darkness filling the steps and crevices was comfortable. My hand sat on light-switch and the other on the handle of the door. Engaged in an involved bow, I let my head hang slightly, buoyed by the two promises of illumination. She called from the top of the stairs, my mother, asking what I was doing. I smiled and walked out. I left the starlit stairs behind and walked slowly towards the moon.
She walks in beauty like the silent night,
Of dreary eyes and hallowed moon so bright,
That all the world indulge and share her plight,
And in all else the world would turn its sight.
She walks in trembles like the living earth,
Of silken tresses and vibrant sprouting moss,
That all of nature laugh and drink her mirth,
And Her phenomena would turn to dross.
She walks in blazes like the setting sun,
Of piercing golden rays and dancing light,
That all galaxies gaze and praise her calm,
And all the stars would burn with all their might.
And what if you were to this lady kiss;
A moment of eternal bliss.
He walks along the river’s flowing
edge, While still his soul and body ache
for home; The half-remembered pains his heart
did dredge Remind how far from his love he did
roam.
The blazing sun and amber waves
won’t soothe; Not skies sapphire, nor stark white
clouds that soar Above the still green trees and
leaves that move, Will course as she through every
vein and pore.
He stops his breath and haply
thinks on her; Her brilliant eyes that best the
eternal sun, Her lovely voice that, even doves,
deters, And her heart that he still has
when all is done.
Though
his path to her, Time day by day will pave, He
still will miss the river’s amber waves.
A young
girl, no higher than my hip, pushed past the busy crowd gathered in a morphing
semicircle and came to settle underneath the shadow of a marble horse. Mane
flowing, eyes wild, the horse eternally reined by his merman master
overshadowed the girl’s figure as she eagerly rubbed her bronzed coin. She
raised her treasure to meet the sun, the sounds of rushing water bellowing
across the silent statues, and for an instant, blinded the cold stern eyes of
her onlookers. She brought the coin close to her heart—a smile, a breath.
Throwing the coin over her left shoulder, she let her right arm swing by her
side until it stopped of its own volition.
[A story inspired by
“And yes I said yes I will Yes,” the last line of Joyce’s Ulysses]
Once upon a quiet night, in a quiet city made of soft white sand,
a young boy raced through his house and into his bedroom. Laughing and leaping,
he crashed lightly into his bed of fine sand. Gleefully pouring sand from hand
to hand, he slowly settled into a comfortable position as he eagerly awaited
his nighttime story. The moon outside reached its peak in the sky and the
infinite dunes glistened and danced in the midnight gusts and winds. The boy
waited for this particular moment every night; an ocean of light would rush
over the kingdom, illuminating his bedroom. Beams of moonlight traced his
widening smile as his father entered the room with a thick leather-bound book
announcing itself as the “Book of Many Stories” by way of faded gold plating.
“I wish to hear a story, father,”
whispered the boy, containing his excitement.
His father flipped through the
seemingly endless trove of stories.
“Which one would you like to hear
tonight?”
A heading of “Superheroes Galore!”
flashed across the page.
“No,” said the boy immediately,
“not those. I want to hear a story from when you were young.”
His father laughed heartily.
“Then I will tell you the story of Percy and Gordon.”
He closed the book; there are
stories even its infinite pages cannot contain.
Percy and Gordon lived next door to each other in the
beautiful village of Margana. From when
their limbs could grasp motion, the two boys played among the dunes of sand, dancing
on unending crests and troughs, laughing in full delight from day until night,
when the sweet sound of their mother’s voices could be heard calling for them in
the distance. It was a wonder for the magic of youth to be unleashed upon such
an expanse. Their imaginations filled the skies with enough spared to sweep the
yellow oceans twice over. When they tired, they lay within the folds of golden sand
and dreamt of their futures.
“I want to
grow up to be a scientist,” Percy would say as his eyes scanned the clear blue
sky.
“And why is
that?” asked Gordon, unconsciously grinning.
“To save
the world, you know that.”
“I know. I
just wanted to hear you say it.”
It was not until later that they actually had to consider
their futures. As time passed, their words became waxed with doubt and their
minds reeled with confusion. Purpose. No longer did the golden sand glisten for
them. Purpose. Nor did their mother’s beckoning voices sound sweet. Not when
they bellowed for purpose.
Most men in this village were, like Percy’s father, destined
to become merchants. As with most, they bought and sold everything from maize
and wheat to truths and lies. They traveled often. Gordon’s father, to the
disdain of many in the village, was an artist and chose to stay at home,
creating paintings of sand. Feeling the conscious pull of time passing by,
Gordon began to spend more time at home, sitting by his father, watching. He
sat silently, watching his father work the flowing sand with soft hands. For
hours, his eyes followed every wave and slash of his father’s motions,
mesmerized by the fluidity and ease of composition. When his eyes finally grew
weary, he piled a large mound of sand against the wall and fell slowly into
dream. He awoke to a whisper in his ear.
“Guess what
I got?” inquired the familiar voice.
Gordon
opened his eyes to dozens of crudely drawn boxes on a sheet of sturdy brown
paper.
“My dad
brought me back a graphic compilation of all the known elements in the world,”
he explained excitedly, “but he only let me copy it down. Is this not a work of
art?”
Smiling,
Gordon shook the morning sand from his clothes, and pointing proudly to his
father’s toil, said to Percy, “My father painted the night for me. Look at the magnificent
stars, the perfect moon, the paths of the wind traced onto the midnight sand;
this is a true work of art.”
Percy’s
gaze slipped to the floor.
“My father says that is not art.
That is merely a hobby and a waste of time. I think that if you—”
“Leave.”
“I meant
that my father…”
This time it was his better judgment that silenced him. As
he heard his own words trail off into the morning wisps of wind, he felt
embarrassed at his own behavior. He gripped his poorly drawn table of elements along
with his number-two pencils and with downcast eyes, hastened for the door.
Eight months passed without a single word between them.
Gordon’s father was invited to teach temporarily at a faraway school as a
master of fine art. His son wanted to go with him and after relentless begging
and pleading they began packing for their travels. As Gordon happily hugged and
thanked his father, a brown paper airplane flew in through the open window and
landed in his lap. Immediately, the color caught his eye and he unfolded the construct
to find a picture of himself and Percy standing in front of the two doors of
their adjacent houses. An outline of a larger house surrounding the two
buildings contained the only text across its shaded façade: Gordon Tehvitan
Ibele & Percy Nograd Gilsenpe: Two as One. He rushed outside and saw Percy
standing bathed in moonlight. Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but his words
were choked back by the furious winds. Instead his friend spoke, “Forgive me,
but above all else, please remember me.”
“And what
did Gordon say?” demanded the boy now sitting upright clutching handfuls of gleaming
white sand.
The boy’s
father gazed out the window at the glistening stars, the pale wondrous moon,
and said in a whisper, “And yes I said yes I will Yes.”
He woke up disconnected from the world. He softly scratched his head. Touch. Touch. His mind came into being--his head brought into existence, his face a mirror. Feeling about, touch, touch, he realized the sprawling floor, the desk and the computer. He pushed his palm forward and a window stood pressed against his bones. His eyes, touch, touch, brought a blanket of light to the chill grass, the sprouting weeds. Where he stepped, a path formed, where he breathed, air came, where he stopped, he observed. There is never so lovely a sight as a world still.
And as my tendered eyes are put to rest
From pure white landscapes fraught with gleaming light,
My mind but wanders, tress to flowing tress,
A sight of drifting flowers in the night.
To see such flowers bend and twist in flight
Among the rougher kinds of stems and seeds,
Sad, estranged, alone, yet graceful in their plight,
A sight of drifting flowers deep into the night.
And as my tendered heart is put to sleep
It softens. And though the world has taught it "No",
The flowers dance and sing bright peals of "Yes",
For eternal morning sits upon their glistening petals;
And if the world would have but one regret, one fright,
T'would be to miss the flowers drift into the silent night.
