The River Stigmata

 

in the river

where one must

love floating

beyond; below the blue

while beneath; lower

where the raging draws

one into a vortex; abyss

and calm runs - 

free from the stigma

of drowning

to be free.

The Muse Constance

 

The Muse Constance

A boarding pass on the good ship.

A breath to behold upon the horizon.

Promise of a long and fateful trip

Upon the decorous Steamer – Kismet.

The open sea - calm without strait.

The first dance to celebrate

As the muse plays on into the late

For there is no inevitable to forget.

No eventual; no certainty; no end.

The edge is infinite - beyond the planets;

The stars; the galaxies – the eternity

Of seas where the knowns offend.

‘Tis an infinitesimal flicker of light

Across the timeless dark of existence.

Come my traveling delight

We will dance to the muse Constance.

Terminal - Final

Terminal - Final

“It is terminal…”

The words lingered

As her eyes wavered

At the acceptance

Of such a sentence.

The heart stilled -

And for a moment filled

With ponderous weight

Of the final; of the eventual. It is late

At the terminal stop of await.

She is a beautiful fragile vase

Life is rampant in that lovely face

And her grace is her space

A gift to the crestfallen at her state.

We sit, we laugh and toast against life’s fate.

We bid farewell - until we meet again.

Yet, that word, terminal rumbles its fain!

Shall we wait at the station

Arrival and wonder if damnation?

Or run to the departure gate carrying hopes of redemption.

At the window’s ledge high above 

Heaven’s vestibule sits a white dove 

Calling home lost souls and spirits of love.

Many have come and gone through this place

Where young and old wait in pain or grace

For a last-second of song or prayer

To save one more breath; one last sayer

Before the departure reaches time.

 Ahh! Anne’s beautiful eyes find eternal rhyme!

While we travelers – we must cross the same terminal line.

   

For friend Anne - rest in peace.