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

Where will we Go

I have found, upon venturing the experience, a new perception of You.

We have wandered through fields in our dreams. The wheat brushed against our thighs . We skipped and ran. Footfalls on endless seas of golden stalks, our own private celebration. Shades of lion. Whisps of gray. The sky. The land. The dirt turned to mud as the solstice comes, and quickly goes. Two worlds emerge, two hands submerged under the cover of our ocean of dreams. Sometimes I dance. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes it seems like I could fly. In the field, the sum of spring, summer, winter, fall. Fall down in the shades and bathe in tubs of beauty. We come here to never wish precious moments of life away. Always want to stay, safe in the embraces of earthen aroma. Hint of heart, scent of the mark. The mark on the hand that embraces the world, swallows experiences whole. Desperately dragging the depths of existence from the depths of the soul. To savor. To regret. To share and shave away the darker parts of our walled off hearts. We open. Extrapolate. Symbolically appropriate. The steps in the dark that reached the ears of children hoping for praise. Dreams filled with gardens. Trees filled with birds. Their song drifts to us, familiar yet unheard. Our field. My venue. Our stage. I stand and produce sound. Celebrated gifts and dandellion whips. Streams and flows. The mind keeps working and waiting and laughing. They laughed at your simplicity. Folds of the scarf gripped so tightly around necks to hold in the warmth. To hide until the skin is open to the field in which we lay. Lay down your head. What do you dream of when you have a world of everything?

पास
Mandy