Letters of the Atlantic

collections of photographs
will tell a story like a book
-only through color and form

i will collect a million photographs
and meet you on the bench below
the streetlamp that i once made my
own emblem, a photographic plea
to save a dying memory

it was beside the river
that once was crossed in snow

i have attained my hand-made
adventure cap that brings advantages
to the wandering whimsical woman
who whispers in the dark about the
willow trees and weathered dreams

i replace the old with the new


she requires a cream colored parasol for
the idealistic, perfected pose- a picture
-one to add to the million;
a million and one and the last will tell it all

she awoke with letters of the Atlantic
imprinted upon her porcelain skin
volumes of oceans and continents coalesce
upon the covers of her night

argentina quietly slipped into her lucid
forgotten dreams-
like scenes from buenos aires could cure
her restless soul

she knew no other way to fold or unfold
the map and there are no creases yet it is
prepared for storage and upon arrival
will be freed of its bounds and hung above
the covers in a new town. with a new house
and a new name for how it has been.

the forecast called for rain and so she brought
her parasol in case of the photograph and in
case her red stockings became wet it would never match
the cream of the cover and she would never be the same

after the rain she found a bottle with
a foreign name and shattered it against the dumpster
because it felt like it needed to be changed
for the sake of one less perfect bottle;
the lack of a sign of grace



http://daisyrainbow.deviantart.com/art/Map-to-Adventure-98226999

We Are Changing in the Sun Rise

it came in the morning, but the sun did not rise and the light did not illuminate our faces. the water did not flood the room and the lack of windows disappeared the rest of the world. enclosed, infinite, given in and our eyes are giving in to the pull of sleep- but it said awake. awake and find yourself among the petals and remnants, among the materials and qualifications. you do not come to this place in immortality; you are a face that rises and changes and ages- and always the sun will rise. the room with four walls, four barriers, only four of the million and a nondescript electrical box against the wall. something powers the world, rooms without windows have electrical boxes for the light- just in case.
may is our own private island, beyond us lies the sea. the sailboat turns the bend; the lighthouse guides in. the solitary soul guides beams across us, bring the ships in, against barriers unnecessary. hoist the sails, push off for the island. my island, our island, may upon the breeze. even in the four we see the light.
i see the light; it is escaping from the edges of our minds. i think we will remember how the sun did or didn't rise. and how it did or didn't wake us in the morning. the showers come with shifting mountain air; even when the clouds cover the sun, it rises. when the sun does not rise it is actually rising just like yesterday and tomorrow. and the walls are solid still and we will navigate the dark. we will kiss the shores upon arrival.

http://cookiemonstah.deviantart.com/art/The-lighthouse-lovers-94521084