In the Rain

He smiles
sky tears running the wrinkles in his warm
smiling face
 
Drenched
he waits for me to speak
 
“Old man
why are you out here in the rain?”
He says
“My thoughts were a bit dry
Needed a little watering.”
 
“Aren’t you guys supposed to wear a pointed hat?”
He says
“I doubt it would do much in this deluge.”
 
A time passes
 
He says
“You are walking in a darkness
and though you can’t see it now
You are not alone.”
 
“Old man
why are you out here in the rain?”
He says
“A dear friend is standing in the rain
and she looks so lost and alone.”
 
“Maybe your friend is cursed
Has no right to happiness
Has no need for society.”
 
And he laughs
(might be a cough)
“Not this one, she lives on the edge
She is spirited and gifted
She is a swan raised by ducks. . .
Indignant, resourceless ducks with really bad attitudes
but she is not cursed.”
 
“Old man
get in out of the rain.”
He says
“I’m am far too old to do as I’m told
Never done it before
Not gonna start now
 
Gentle one, your soul, your heart are not dead.
Love never dies
Even if you resign
it will not leave you.”
 
And just like that the old fool starts dancing
Dancing in the rain

Nedd Decides to go to Iceland

Nedd says, “A regular cup of coffee?”
The barista says, “Americano?”
Nedd nods the affirmative, says, “Where’s Jeremy?
“He called in sick.”

The barista says, “American soldiers WWII couldn’t handle espresso.
Raised on that drip-coffee boiled in aluminum pots. . .
Italian espresso was just too strong.
They did the thing they do with everything.
They watered the espresso down.”

Nedd says, “Americano, ‘dirty water’, please.”

The barista says nothing

Iceland?
Why did the entrance to the House of 12 Doors
have to be in Iceland?
Karl said something about it’s the opposite side of the world
from the Aboriginals

Nedd pulls a rumpled piece of parchment from his pack
Places it on a table and tries to flatten it

In spattered ink and cracks in scribbles
A map of a room
a room that is a dodecahedron

Notations on the map:
Alegria Paixão ~ Ivory Door of Joys and Passions
Ansiar ~ The Green Door of the Great Yearning
Calabria ~ The Teakwood Door of The World of Flowers
Casati ~ The Bronze Door of the Dancing Shadows
Cor ~ The Blue Steel Door ~ the Soul of the Machine
D’l Kyrug ~ The Oaken door the Mages
Devlin Ra ~ The Silver & Black Door of the Night Wanderer
Exu Hector ~ The Azure Door of Science
Höðr ~ The Bone and Ivory Door
La Profondità ~ The Turquoise Door of Pressure in the Depths
Paixão ~ The Crimson Door of the Heart-Song
Te Ao Koraha ~ The Ebon door of the Angels and Demons

And in the lower right corner
a mahogany table, an ancient chair
a silver bowl
and a window, the sun slanting in from the left

His coffee is ready
He wishes Karl was here
and Jeremy made a better cup of coffee

Nedd Wants a Passport

Nedd A’Egwen is trying to get a passport
at a post office
somewhere in the dark corner
of the northwestern part of the southeast

And the clerk is trying to be helpful
(honest, she is)
“Nedd Egan?”

“A’Egwen.”

“I’m not sure how you’re spelling this.
This apostrophe. . .?”

“This is the spelling they gave my grandfather
when he emigrated in 1863.
He was Welsh.”

“So it’s A. . .’. . .E. . .gwen?”
I swear I’m typing this right.”
The computer keeping putting typos in all his data.

“Do you have a picture for your passport?”

“They told me you could take one here.”

“It will cost you extra.”

“That’s fine.
Please.”

And the camera refuses to work correctly

She looks at Nedd
He is not really tall or short
His hair is very dark but. . . silky?
It’s like there are these electric blue highlights moving
across the world of his head

Its strangely hard to meet his eyes
Turquoise
the color of robin’s eggs
and his face is strangely regular

But the camera just can’t seem to focus on his features
and when she uses the Auto-Smart-Fix tab
it gives him a different face every time she takes a picture
Some of the portraits are angelic
others frightening
and most are just boring

Nedd walks up to the camera and says something
that sounds like he is quietly barking at it
(he is actually speaking pulse-width modulated binary
into the audio pickup of the digital camera)
then pets it like it’s a good animal

He returns to the stool
and she snaps a perfect picture of his features
She quietly slides a copy of his photo
into one of her private files. . .
for later

Transitions

I stand in the door
one more transition
one more shape
one more becoming before i rest

i’ve endured the darkness
and beheld the stars
i’ve committed the blasphemy
of bending time and space
i have lifted the seas from their beds
and beheld the treasures hidden there

i have wept an ocean
and walked it dry
i have run the spine of the night
and held the winds in balance
I have walked though the hole in the zero

i have cast light and shadow
i have forged weapons that few can even imagine
and i have given blood to the earth

storm and shadow
i am
and ever shall master the skies
and lift the fallen precious ones
into a new light
a new
dawn

Amid Bracken, Along the Brae

In another Place
One of the Far Places

I walk the Deep Forest of Xu-Hector
For I am often found amid bracken along the brae
And this is indeed my favorite Season

I poke this rotted stump
With my staff . . .
I guess I am never so sane as I am here
Under these patient oaks
Under these cyan skies
I toil not nor do i spin . . .

I look up into a cathedral of scarlet oak leaves
And bear witness to the day
To the laugh slash of this brook
To the undulation of the grasses
As they whisper hissy secrets to the wind
To the dance dancing leaf shadows dappling
The meandering waters

The wind
Playful as a pup
Tugs at my clothing
And then runs on ahead

I can feel it before I see it
Something is here
Something . . .
Something is here . . .

The Artist

 

She pictures an open door
the Sun when its spent
She pictures the corridor
now vacant with lament

She pictures the empty shelf
no leaves upon the tree
She draws me outside myself
but never pictures me

My Quickening

In the crackle-sharp air of that blazing Autumn afternoon
I stood on my Grandfather’s porch
and felt myself ‘feeling’ for the very first time

The grey, porch paint
The dust in the driveway
The skies burning
Azure edged
Sharp enough to cut you
The flaxen-gold collage of the maples and oaks
and ever-dying apple trees

The wind was walking the hillside
and something sonorous sang me into Awareness
Somehow my hands had become things of strange and surreal beauty
as I pressed them into the wrinkling membrane covering the Universe
My child heart shuddered under the enormity of Reality
and everything took on a texture like something out of a DMT vision

Somehow I knew without knowing how I knew
that I was everything I could see, hear, smell and more
I was the child standing
and something standing beyond
And the man I am now

All watching

All at once
Yet . . .
In a place outside Time . . .

I have walked under many skies
But never again
one so Real