I bit into an anchovy. Brine dissolved across my tongue. Salt and sea marrying into the myriad effervescence of it all. The wine settling deep within my belly, then rising, awakening the uninhibited within. I raised my head back and sucked at the sharp edged mother of pearl
Will you embark upon our honeyed rendezvous?
Will you drink this strange brew?
Inhale the perfumery of day glow grain?
Heed the invitation East?
Happy Autumn. Happy Fall. Happy Hop-tu-Naa! Happy Harvest. Happy Samhain. There is something stirring in the airs of Autumn. Gets me every year. To celebrate the skies of an ever shifting twilight, when the spirits soar through the liminal film between this world and that of the beyond. When the night parade of daemons and tricksters travel and trove.
Sunday Morning BY WALLACE STEVENS I Complacencies of the peignoir, and lateCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,And the green freedom of a cockatooUpon a rug mingle to dissipateThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.She dreams a little, and she feels the darkEncroachment of that old catastrophe,As a calm darkens among water-lights.The pungent oranges andContinue reading “Sunday Morning – A Poem”
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling
Our story is never-ending.
That to say, I will always love you.
Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.