lovers’ fingers
shape form into nothingness—
art of the moment
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Postcard #1: From Land of Purple-Blue Skies and Tractor-Trailer Brains
by Karyn Huntting Peters
But what if, in this infinite intelligence, they realize that their imaginings are actually reality? The reality of minds that can propel themselves through the universe, visiting Venus, finding themselves in parallel universes where the sky is purple-blue and little black birds drive railroad cars off on the horizon? Where memories and reality meld, where there is no more talking, where the ones we would talk to are already there inside of us and part of the same eternal whole that we understand so well with these tractor-trailer brains of ours, where all that is needed is to think to each other? Where smiles are something ethereal that permeate the parallel atmosphere, where dreams and reality blend as the conscious and subconscious and the driver's seat and the tractor bed? Where tomorrow has already happened in our memories and we knew today way back when? Where we see more clearly with our eyes closed and our minds open than with our eyes open and our minds closed?
Why conclude that we have such bounds at all? Indeed.
And thus we conclude Postcard #1 From Land of Purple-Blue Skies and Tractor-Trailer Brains.
But what if, in this infinite intelligence, they realize that their imaginings are actually reality? The reality of minds that can propel themselves through the universe, visiting Venus, finding themselves in parallel universes where the sky is purple-blue and little black birds drive railroad cars off on the horizon? Where memories and reality meld, where there is no more talking, where the ones we would talk to are already there inside of us and part of the same eternal whole that we understand so well with these tractor-trailer brains of ours, where all that is needed is to think to each other? Where smiles are something ethereal that permeate the parallel atmosphere, where dreams and reality blend as the conscious and subconscious and the driver's seat and the tractor bed? Where tomorrow has already happened in our memories and we knew today way back when? Where we see more clearly with our eyes closed and our minds open than with our eyes open and our minds closed?
Why conclude that we have such bounds at all? Indeed.
And thus we conclude Postcard #1 From Land of Purple-Blue Skies and Tractor-Trailer Brains.
music
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Music. Silent sleeping in tombstones
of forgotten graveyards, quietly breathing in
voiceless statues as they stare without
eyes along worn boulevards trod once
by laughing youth and tearful love.
O thief of all mother tongues! Language
seeping through cracks in finest mortar
between all peoples to bind beating
hearts afar in timeless passion and
angst for words without home.
Music! Incessantly tapping at some
tiny fortress within, louder and stronger in
adagio as its tendrils reach with a practiced
whisper into tired souls as they seek
only night's air and dreamless slumber.
Music. Silent sleeping in tombstones
of forgotten graveyards, quietly breathing in
voiceless statues as they stare without
eyes along worn boulevards trod once
by laughing youth and tearful love.
O thief of all mother tongues! Language
seeping through cracks in finest mortar
between all peoples to bind beating
hearts afar in timeless passion and
angst for words without home.
Music! Incessantly tapping at some
tiny fortress within, louder and stronger in
adagio as its tendrils reach with a practiced
whisper into tired souls as they seek
only night's air and dreamless slumber.
antarctica bound
by Karyn Huntting Peters
like the wind you passed through me as
i stood high upon the bow
arms outstretched, yes, and yours fell through mine
upon the sea’s lulling waltz.
i threw my magic shoes of oz overboard
into the tangled surf. we darted among the
deckchairs, my salt-watered dress clung
to me in the dark and we laughed.
the glaciers shone under the smooth
skin of the moon that night.
the smell of antarctica filled our veins as
we fearless sailed past icebergs.
strains of music from below and a
wave threw you against me in the salty sea spray.
pulling you into me, feeling your
heat the length of my body through the wet silk
i whispered, again passing through, eyes
floating in a lonely sea with your own,
a moment, an hour, this night, eternity, no
matter how little, how much time
no matter what freezing depths sleep
below, what death lay near
at hand, what dawn may never
come to my heart again,
without your presence, your heat,
there would be no life within my
breast, no beating of blood in my
heart, no breaking day in the east…
and with that, i tasted your kiss and
danced with you in under the heavens and
cried at the pain of how you felt
inside of me in the moonlight.
as the dark waters thundered over
us where we lay, signaling the coming of
antarctica, i pulled you deeper into and through
me and our tears were one with the ocean
like the wind you passed through me as
i stood high upon the bow
arms outstretched, yes, and yours fell through mine
upon the sea’s lulling waltz.
i threw my magic shoes of oz overboard
into the tangled surf. we darted among the
deckchairs, my salt-watered dress clung
to me in the dark and we laughed.
the glaciers shone under the smooth
skin of the moon that night.
the smell of antarctica filled our veins as
we fearless sailed past icebergs.
strains of music from below and a
wave threw you against me in the salty sea spray.
pulling you into me, feeling your
heat the length of my body through the wet silk
i whispered, again passing through, eyes
floating in a lonely sea with your own,
a moment, an hour, this night, eternity, no
matter how little, how much time
no matter what freezing depths sleep
below, what death lay near
at hand, what dawn may never
come to my heart again,
without your presence, your heat,
there would be no life within my
breast, no beating of blood in my
heart, no breaking day in the east…
and with that, i tasted your kiss and
danced with you in under the heavens and
cried at the pain of how you felt
inside of me in the moonlight.
as the dark waters thundered over
us where we lay, signaling the coming of
antarctica, i pulled you deeper into and through
me and our tears were one with the ocean
Postcard #2: From Spirit Antarctica
by Karyn Huntting Peters
graphics by Michael Corrado
Dead of night in Spirit Antarctica, time rolled to stillness as the voices of Neanderthalensis faded into soundless echos of memory. Movie reels in the projection room began to hum and two surrogate suns appeared within a shimmering, bounded rectangle of flickering purple light, cast low on the horizon against the ancient snows of the polar caps of the mountains of pseudo-existence. The crunch of quiet feet breaking through crusted ice became louder as it neared, and I tossed some buttered popcorn your way knowing just who it was came to see the movie. Thanks, you said, laughing. Raisinettes? There was an empty seat.
Movies, even in Spirit Antarctica, end too soon for the price we pay for admission. Soon the suns were but tomorrow's memory and yesterday's foreknowledge, as they must always have been. I heard the squish of popcorn under your feet as we got up to leave, and remembered the sound of the Neanderthal's cry. Raisinette? Here, the last one is for you. No, bite off half and we'll share. Sated by raisin thoughts, we were ready for winter's sleep, but never for the uncertainty of what lay beyond the mask of death.
As you turned to go, you stopped. Crunch went the ice. I opened my eyes so that I could not peek, and held out my hand. From the blackness came one glimpse of a dog-eared photo postcard. A daisy! For me? Here, in Post-apocalyptic Ice Age III? Remember me, you said, frozen tears in your eyes and the smell of Raisinettes on your breath.
Reaching out, I grabbed the rough canvas of your Spirit Antarctica patrol coat. When, I asked? Remember you when we're asleep, for God's sake? Yes. Yes. Asleep, awake. Just always. And the wisps of hair around your face fluttered as you turned to fall into the snow and to the center of the earth.
Would the suns ever rise again? Would we ever feel the popcorn beneath our feet? It didn't matter. My best friend was gone. All that was left was a daisy from a postcard, freezing now as the projector bulbs cooled. The purple-blue of dawn's first whimper began to peek out above the drive-in screen and soon, the suns began to rise, coloring the sky pages with their tawny pink glow.
I reached a cold hand under my Spirit Antarctica patrol coat and gently nestled my postcard daisy next to my heart to warm it. Closing my eyes, I took one last look at the suns, turned, and fell into the hole you had left in the snow. The brilliant, bright blackness of the center of the earth engulfed me as I spun forever downward, listening for the crunch of popcorn and longing to taste the other half of the last Raisinette in Antarctica.
graphics by Michael Corrado
Dead of night in Spirit Antarctica, time rolled to stillness as the voices of Neanderthalensis faded into soundless echos of memory. Movie reels in the projection room began to hum and two surrogate suns appeared within a shimmering, bounded rectangle of flickering purple light, cast low on the horizon against the ancient snows of the polar caps of the mountains of pseudo-existence. The crunch of quiet feet breaking through crusted ice became louder as it neared, and I tossed some buttered popcorn your way knowing just who it was came to see the movie. Thanks, you said, laughing. Raisinettes? There was an empty seat.
Movies, even in Spirit Antarctica, end too soon for the price we pay for admission. Soon the suns were but tomorrow's memory and yesterday's foreknowledge, as they must always have been. I heard the squish of popcorn under your feet as we got up to leave, and remembered the sound of the Neanderthal's cry. Raisinette? Here, the last one is for you. No, bite off half and we'll share. Sated by raisin thoughts, we were ready for winter's sleep, but never for the uncertainty of what lay beyond the mask of death.
As you turned to go, you stopped. Crunch went the ice. I opened my eyes so that I could not peek, and held out my hand. From the blackness came one glimpse of a dog-eared photo postcard. A daisy! For me? Here, in Post-apocalyptic Ice Age III? Remember me, you said, frozen tears in your eyes and the smell of Raisinettes on your breath.
Reaching out, I grabbed the rough canvas of your Spirit Antarctica patrol coat. When, I asked? Remember you when we're asleep, for God's sake? Yes. Yes. Asleep, awake. Just always. And the wisps of hair around your face fluttered as you turned to fall into the snow and to the center of the earth.
Would the suns ever rise again? Would we ever feel the popcorn beneath our feet? It didn't matter. My best friend was gone. All that was left was a daisy from a postcard, freezing now as the projector bulbs cooled. The purple-blue of dawn's first whimper began to peek out above the drive-in screen and soon, the suns began to rise, coloring the sky pages with their tawny pink glow.
I reached a cold hand under my Spirit Antarctica patrol coat and gently nestled my postcard daisy next to my heart to warm it. Closing my eyes, I took one last look at the suns, turned, and fell into the hole you had left in the snow. The brilliant, bright blackness of the center of the earth engulfed me as I spun forever downward, listening for the crunch of popcorn and longing to taste the other half of the last Raisinette in Antarctica.
Postcard #3: From The Splitting Pane Window
by Karyn Huntting Peters
It took time for my eyes to adjust to the fact that the only light came through the splitting pane windows from the hazy twilight, showing every dancing particle of dust in its path as it fell to the floor at my feet. His harpsichord began to take shape as it sat quietly on the green shag carpet in the darkened corner beside the 1959 Kelvinator Electric Icebox.
I used to play concerts, he breathed, stroking his graying beard with one hand while the other held a chipped mug of Folger's. I nodded, taking a sip from the only unchipped mug. But that was so long ago. Still stroking, as if he were keeping time to some unknown metronome in his memory. I nodded again.
Raisinette? Thanks, I said, taking three from the painted purple candy dish he had gingerly placed between us on the couch. He pulled his hand from his beard, and the shock of it caused my metronome to stop. Silence, yet the dancing dust kept on as if the music had never ended.
It's getting dark out. I really must be going. So soon? I hardly ever have company, you know. Yes, I really must. But thank you for the coffee. Oh, and the Raisinettes. I was hungry.
Will you visit me again soon? One hand on the grey beard, still in anticipation. His eyes stepped into the dust dance as he rose to see me out. I saw the tiredness in the brown coffee saucers as they blinked at me.
Of course, of course. He no more believed me than he could play concert harpsichord. I slipped into his outstretched arms and held him. Trust me, I whispered in his ear. His head nuzzled my neck and I stroked his hair over and over. The metronome was such a jester.
As I walked out onto the freshly wet street below, I was haunted by the brown coffee saucers. What day was today? Oh, yes. Thursday. I looked down at my watch. Reaching my left hand into my coat pocket, I pulled out the crumpled receipt from the electric company.
Yes, Thursday. I turned and looked up at the darkened splitting pane window on the second floor. He was there, watching, hand still on his beard in the darkness.
Two silent waves. I spun around, still waving, and began to walk away, heels echoing off the pavement. Just then my shadow suddenly appeared before me, backlit by the warmth of incandescent light.
The paper fell from my fingers. Goodbye, I whispered.
It took time for my eyes to adjust to the fact that the only light came through the splitting pane windows from the hazy twilight, showing every dancing particle of dust in its path as it fell to the floor at my feet. His harpsichord began to take shape as it sat quietly on the green shag carpet in the darkened corner beside the 1959 Kelvinator Electric Icebox.
I used to play concerts, he breathed, stroking his graying beard with one hand while the other held a chipped mug of Folger's. I nodded, taking a sip from the only unchipped mug. But that was so long ago. Still stroking, as if he were keeping time to some unknown metronome in his memory. I nodded again.
Raisinette? Thanks, I said, taking three from the painted purple candy dish he had gingerly placed between us on the couch. He pulled his hand from his beard, and the shock of it caused my metronome to stop. Silence, yet the dancing dust kept on as if the music had never ended.
It's getting dark out. I really must be going. So soon? I hardly ever have company, you know. Yes, I really must. But thank you for the coffee. Oh, and the Raisinettes. I was hungry.
Will you visit me again soon? One hand on the grey beard, still in anticipation. His eyes stepped into the dust dance as he rose to see me out. I saw the tiredness in the brown coffee saucers as they blinked at me.
Of course, of course. He no more believed me than he could play concert harpsichord. I slipped into his outstretched arms and held him. Trust me, I whispered in his ear. His head nuzzled my neck and I stroked his hair over and over. The metronome was such a jester.
As I walked out onto the freshly wet street below, I was haunted by the brown coffee saucers. What day was today? Oh, yes. Thursday. I looked down at my watch. Reaching my left hand into my coat pocket, I pulled out the crumpled receipt from the electric company.
Yes, Thursday. I turned and looked up at the darkened splitting pane window on the second floor. He was there, watching, hand still on his beard in the darkness.
Two silent waves. I spun around, still waving, and began to walk away, heels echoing off the pavement. Just then my shadow suddenly appeared before me, backlit by the warmth of incandescent light.
The paper fell from my fingers. Goodbye, I whispered.
Postcard #4: From The Liquid Mirror
by Karyn Huntting Peters
(The Continuing Tale of Spirit Antarctica)
Falling to the center of the earth can be endless and dark. I reach down, pick a flattened kernel of Jiffy Pop from my left shoe. Italian leather. I inhale the memories of the gourmet pesto and the serviettes that kept the wine from staining the marble floors. So long ago. We saw our reflection in the window, smiled, and it was almost enough. Remember how we didn’t wear rough canvas then? How the feel of silk, of warm skin, quieted the screaming agony of Neanderthal’s cry in the forest?
Falling, falling. My mind jests at scars freshly feeling wounds. You’ll wake up soon, it chides. The ice age never came. You are sailing, the lighthouse off the foredeck. One sun only, and it is the lighthouse. I see it in the window, too, but how? The fire, its reflection the same? We touched our fingers to the reflection that night after dinner. The window wasn’t entirely solid. We reminisced about looking glasses and ships sailing through the cool clear.
Falling, falling. Slowing. I open my eyes and I am awake. Relief, nostalgia. It’s gone, all gone. My alarm clock must have jarred my dream. I have to get dressed for work. Italian leather shoes, I think for some reason. Slipping on the right one, then the left. How annoying! What’s this? She stuck in her thumb and pulled out a kernel of Jiffy Pop. Flash!
I hear you whisper: Close your eyes now and wake up. Where am I? Cannot see. Adjusting to the light of inside earth’s blackness. Is it you? Yes, you say, reaching out half of the window reflection. Your skin is warm, fingers long and gentle. Are we close now? Mmm hmm. No vowels. I shiver nearer, encase my coldness in the rough canvas I know so well.
It is here, that last vestige of Raisinettes. I look up. Into your eyes. Is this the way through the looking glass? Your breath tumbles over my face. Yes. Stay where you are, listen for an alarm clock, and you will forget this place forever. Taste the Raisinette and there is no turning back.
I remember the projection room. What was that purple rectangle, who were those suns? You once gave me a birthday card with a daisy on it. A single transparent daisy. I carried it with me always. There is nothing under my feet now. No snow. No popcorn. Neanderthal’s cry. The ancient pain. Lost. At once I understand it. No. No! I will not forsake what is real!
I clutch your canvas sleeves as they begin to fade to silk. Wait! Yes, yes, Raisinette! Kiss me now, full and gentle, let me taste the other half from Spirit Antarctica. Your mouth is warm, soft upon mine. Slide shows of eternity, Neanderthal, Antarctica. The white grows brighter, brighter still. I swim in crystal lagoons, deliquesce in your kiss. Patrol coats melting, I hold you close. I see your heartbeat. Gravity is drawing us closer to the inevitable. Light of the liquid mirror fades in as the projector bulb, warm again, grins onto the Cheshire screen.
Our restaurant window reflections reach out. We smile. Touching the liquid of the looking glass, ripples flow out, surround us. Can you breathe it in, live without the oxygen? Yes, I think so. It will be different on the other side. I laugh. I trust you! No fear, you ask? No. The drawbridge between us is lowered. Ripples closing in. We feel the pressure as we begin to melt into the mirror. No fear.
I’ll count, you whisper. Then we breathe in. Don’t fight it and it’ll be easier. No, no, I won’t. Three… time bending. Two… heartbeats drowning Neanderthal cries. One last kiss, the taste of Raisinettes... ONE.
Down the rabbit hole.
(The Continuing Tale of Spirit Antarctica)
Falling to the center of the earth can be endless and dark. I reach down, pick a flattened kernel of Jiffy Pop from my left shoe. Italian leather. I inhale the memories of the gourmet pesto and the serviettes that kept the wine from staining the marble floors. So long ago. We saw our reflection in the window, smiled, and it was almost enough. Remember how we didn’t wear rough canvas then? How the feel of silk, of warm skin, quieted the screaming agony of Neanderthal’s cry in the forest?
Falling, falling. My mind jests at scars freshly feeling wounds. You’ll wake up soon, it chides. The ice age never came. You are sailing, the lighthouse off the foredeck. One sun only, and it is the lighthouse. I see it in the window, too, but how? The fire, its reflection the same? We touched our fingers to the reflection that night after dinner. The window wasn’t entirely solid. We reminisced about looking glasses and ships sailing through the cool clear.
Falling, falling. Slowing. I open my eyes and I am awake. Relief, nostalgia. It’s gone, all gone. My alarm clock must have jarred my dream. I have to get dressed for work. Italian leather shoes, I think for some reason. Slipping on the right one, then the left. How annoying! What’s this? She stuck in her thumb and pulled out a kernel of Jiffy Pop. Flash!
I hear you whisper: Close your eyes now and wake up. Where am I? Cannot see. Adjusting to the light of inside earth’s blackness. Is it you? Yes, you say, reaching out half of the window reflection. Your skin is warm, fingers long and gentle. Are we close now? Mmm hmm. No vowels. I shiver nearer, encase my coldness in the rough canvas I know so well.
It is here, that last vestige of Raisinettes. I look up. Into your eyes. Is this the way through the looking glass? Your breath tumbles over my face. Yes. Stay where you are, listen for an alarm clock, and you will forget this place forever. Taste the Raisinette and there is no turning back.
I remember the projection room. What was that purple rectangle, who were those suns? You once gave me a birthday card with a daisy on it. A single transparent daisy. I carried it with me always. There is nothing under my feet now. No snow. No popcorn. Neanderthal’s cry. The ancient pain. Lost. At once I understand it. No. No! I will not forsake what is real!
I clutch your canvas sleeves as they begin to fade to silk. Wait! Yes, yes, Raisinette! Kiss me now, full and gentle, let me taste the other half from Spirit Antarctica. Your mouth is warm, soft upon mine. Slide shows of eternity, Neanderthal, Antarctica. The white grows brighter, brighter still. I swim in crystal lagoons, deliquesce in your kiss. Patrol coats melting, I hold you close. I see your heartbeat. Gravity is drawing us closer to the inevitable. Light of the liquid mirror fades in as the projector bulb, warm again, grins onto the Cheshire screen.
Our restaurant window reflections reach out. We smile. Touching the liquid of the looking glass, ripples flow out, surround us. Can you breathe it in, live without the oxygen? Yes, I think so. It will be different on the other side. I laugh. I trust you! No fear, you ask? No. The drawbridge between us is lowered. Ripples closing in. We feel the pressure as we begin to melt into the mirror. No fear.
I’ll count, you whisper. Then we breathe in. Don’t fight it and it’ll be easier. No, no, I won’t. Three… time bending. Two… heartbeats drowning Neanderthal cries. One last kiss, the taste of Raisinettes... ONE.
Down the rabbit hole.
Postcard #5: From The Shape-Shifting Dreamplate
by Karyn Huntting Peters
Down so, so far it shimmered and waved. The copper drain was never a circle at all. It would never be one. It would never be anything but a shape-shifting metal dreamplate swimming down in the turquoise.
What things to ponder. How could I know what shape the dreamplate really was? If I assumed a circle, did that make it so? Look up, look up! The bamboo trees groved together along the far end of the pool, all the way to the fence. The sky so blue. Cumulous clouds were white. Was there a heaven like people said there was? Was it above the clouds?
My hands clutched the rough concrete, held it tightly. Don't fall, they say. Don't fall in. You'll drown. Kicking your feet in the water is okay, though. If you stopped kicking for a few minutes, the water slowed to a wave tank. All the cumulous clouds were there, the blue, and maybe a reflection of a maybe heaven? It was all transparent. Less real than the shape-shifting dreamplate, and it wouldn't stay still. It was all moving. Look up. Look down. Close your eyes. Mmm. Yes, maybe that's it.
It's dizzying. I have some ideas now. I can see … wait! Falling, cold, turning, screaming. Open your eyes. Now. This is reality. See it, dammit! This is it! The water no longer moved. The dreamplate was a perfect circle, shiny copper. Everything placid until this moment-bamboo, sky, cumulous, concrete, house, fence-now shimmered and moved. Nothing was solid anymore. All of it, a grand illusion! A façade! Laugh if you can, fools! It's not solid!
But nothing came out of my open mouth. I knew now that tears were just like warm water, that they were only natural and lost in the heart of it all. In reality. The copper was smooth. I could feel it with my fingers. I cried. I asked why, but I knew not to whom I posed my question.
Answers came to questions not asked. I sat for the first time in some Antarctic movie theater to watch a film of strange progression. Pictures, and pictures of answers. But the plot was tragic, senseless. It was all wrong, I screamed in silence. All wrong!
But nobody was listening. There was pressure, so much pressure. So sad to have to go, now that I knew the secret of cotton ball clouds and their reflections. Say goodbye to your self, say it in silence. Nobody else can year you. Or maybe everyone can. Yes. I felt a bit of a smile.
The answers are so tragic and simple. Everyone. One. Yes, that's it. It just didn't matter. Those who understood the secrets of the tragic answers would hear me even if I never uttered the words. Goodbye. Goodbye. I'm not afraid anymore.
The voices were far away and growing louder. And then there was the pain. Choking, gasping, a stabbing pain in my chest. They were talking to me. Open your eyes, can you hear me, breathe, oh God please breathe….
Down so, so far it shimmered and waved. The copper drain was never a circle at all. It would never be one. It would never be anything but a shape-shifting metal dreamplate swimming down in the turquoise.
What things to ponder. How could I know what shape the dreamplate really was? If I assumed a circle, did that make it so? Look up, look up! The bamboo trees groved together along the far end of the pool, all the way to the fence. The sky so blue. Cumulous clouds were white. Was there a heaven like people said there was? Was it above the clouds?
My hands clutched the rough concrete, held it tightly. Don't fall, they say. Don't fall in. You'll drown. Kicking your feet in the water is okay, though. If you stopped kicking for a few minutes, the water slowed to a wave tank. All the cumulous clouds were there, the blue, and maybe a reflection of a maybe heaven? It was all transparent. Less real than the shape-shifting dreamplate, and it wouldn't stay still. It was all moving. Look up. Look down. Close your eyes. Mmm. Yes, maybe that's it.
It's dizzying. I have some ideas now. I can see … wait! Falling, cold, turning, screaming. Open your eyes. Now. This is reality. See it, dammit! This is it! The water no longer moved. The dreamplate was a perfect circle, shiny copper. Everything placid until this moment-bamboo, sky, cumulous, concrete, house, fence-now shimmered and moved. Nothing was solid anymore. All of it, a grand illusion! A façade! Laugh if you can, fools! It's not solid!
But nothing came out of my open mouth. I knew now that tears were just like warm water, that they were only natural and lost in the heart of it all. In reality. The copper was smooth. I could feel it with my fingers. I cried. I asked why, but I knew not to whom I posed my question.
Answers came to questions not asked. I sat for the first time in some Antarctic movie theater to watch a film of strange progression. Pictures, and pictures of answers. But the plot was tragic, senseless. It was all wrong, I screamed in silence. All wrong!
But nobody was listening. There was pressure, so much pressure. So sad to have to go, now that I knew the secret of cotton ball clouds and their reflections. Say goodbye to your self, say it in silence. Nobody else can year you. Or maybe everyone can. Yes. I felt a bit of a smile.
The answers are so tragic and simple. Everyone. One. Yes, that's it. It just didn't matter. Those who understood the secrets of the tragic answers would hear me even if I never uttered the words. Goodbye. Goodbye. I'm not afraid anymore.
The voices were far away and growing louder. And then there was the pain. Choking, gasping, a stabbing pain in my chest. They were talking to me. Open your eyes, can you hear me, breathe, oh God please breathe….
pegasus
by Karyn Huntting Peters
pegasus! o beloved horse of muses
who silent plead in cloak of night
to heart’s sharpest darts
of longing unfulfilled!
light outside my
darkened window this eve
that I may climb astride thee
to stealth in starry night
to that verdant glen where
purple irises wave in the moon
and my lover lies naked
in the yielding grass
pegasus! o beloved horse of muses
who silent plead in cloak of night
to heart’s sharpest darts
of longing unfulfilled!
light outside my
darkened window this eve
that I may climb astride thee
to stealth in starry night
to that verdant glen where
purple irises wave in the moon
and my lover lies naked
in the yielding grass
an empty space
by Karyn Huntting Peters
an empty space seemed
to appear just now
where yesterday
no such place existed.
it is shaped like you.
an empty space seemed
to appear just now
where yesterday
no such place existed.
it is shaped like you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)