For Satie and Chopin and So Forth
Bouvier?
Meaning the dog,
the drunken queen or the beautiful,
plain, dead woman?
By grey area:
the vague, the uncolored
or hidden rainbows?
We must define each garden
by style and intent.
Declare and fulfill our plans,
letter by letter.
I didn’t expect the ducks
plashing the pool,
a flood turned to lake
reflecting grey clouds
at what would have been sunset
if we could see sun,
there anyway
whether or not we see it, so,
anyway,
sunset.
The startled ducks rose, startling
me, so it happened,
whatever my vision
or intention,
as if a lake had been planned,
ducks invited,
and me arriving
at the wrong party
except it was right
because we were there.
There is only here,
just what we see and feel,
the everlasting now,
a reality grown so fierce
I flinch at attempts to define,
determined minimization
of infinity
as if shoe boxes could hold
the slimmest necks,
tiny hands of beings
that don’t exist
unless they follow sudden lakes
like guardian angels,
a flight of whimsy too absurd
for this reality board game
unless we see it,
suddenly knocking dead the
loneliness
of singing into the
infinite, a well of
blue so beautiful
you could die
for lack of sharing.
A Certain Blue
We are born to see
a certain blue: falling at dusk
like eyelashes, exhausted children,
sleeping indigo bellies of rocks.
We are born to see our star,
white flashlight filtered
through parasol of cornflower
so our skin may feel warm hands of God;
Sun peering through leaves of emerald bushes
to pool dark forest floor in patches.
We are born to lick icy waterfall,
throats parched as hot rocks,
sure to burn from midday sun
as we trudge the desert
shaking from visions,
in pursuit of dreams,
reach for an ocean we have never seen,
a huge wet body that cannot be owned or overtaken,
seeking only to reclaim or
devour, drink us up
until we float
like mushrooms, blossoming.
We are born to dissolve
into white, eyeless fragments,
sensing only the rocking rocking
as we are pummeled by thick
aqueous
foam, wrapped in
deep purple
arms we're
born to die to.
Again, February, Anita
The make. The love. The sun
setting kite
lighting wings of starlings
flitting tips of pines,
to and from
ruby cove. Place to glow
and huddle from hands of winter
pressing hard upon us
as ghosts in shadows
of once-lush branches
hold clouds slow or static
between deep marine curtains.
Weak hands painting
pastel pictures
on swiftly passing souls
of others. Some look.
Some know
how it feels to turn
without expectation,
smile sweetly
at things grasped as if
never heard, at
emerging from death
for surely
there is some breath,
this long month cannot flatten
all life, leave it
to this dense sunset
to hold all hope.
Behind Paper Curtains
Lowering into the horizon,
candles flaming
against cloudy violet;
smoky blue layers skirted gently
by evergreen tips,
rushes of white cherry tree branches,
apple buds blossoming cool relief
with two prancing cats and
me, glowing with the clumsy attempt
to repaint twilight entrancement
but trying
that souls and hearts might keep time
with divine pressure
to enlarge and fly easily as starlings
eager for dusk-time dances
punctuated by berries
rich with the everyday brilliance
of East Indian art; colors seemingly mixed
with virginal blood or deep blues and greens
dredged up with coral
from the sea;
pinkest pearl of love
singing something like "Om."
I have never been able to read The Gita
but know all is forgiven
if we are mere children
placed like shadow puppets
behind any and all of this
everyday enchantment.
Breaking the Fall
Between falling
from soft arms of clouds
into the loud splash of the bassinet
and being pulled
into death’s cold jaws
we can only do what we can do
to break the fall:
Listen to a man who sings the ocean.
Remove shoes, find an old pier’s splinters.
Mimic moons drowning in cold water.
Lost again, we fall from innocence,
bare feet and faces.
We pause, look around, then
add some rock ‘n’ roll and whiskey,
throw on the cloak of darkness,
paint the night with neon wishes.
At three a.m. we listen,
in the morning dew we feel for,
in the scent of lilacs smell for
the faint song of our beloved,
through endless darkness probing
for the joy of bodies merging. Add
some jazz and bossa nova,
stacks of steaming wheat and maple
on plates shining with blue morning.
Traveling nights through eyes of lovers,
dreaming their dreams, holding loose and tight,
then feeling them fall away
and ourselves,
alone again.
We can only do what we can do:
Add a little classical music.
Paint snow-covered trees in the background.
Listen:
Add a sprinkling of piano.
Look:
Another soul rises, raining love
upon its mourners.
Plant a tree
without counting the rings around your neck.
Call it a second childhood.
© Copyright Mary Leary. All Rights Reserved.
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