The Currency of Words

And those gathered asked many questions
thinking that as he was a poet
he would surely give them comfort

He ignored them until at length
they spake
‘Tell us poet
are words not the essence of all things
known and unknown?’

Fearlessly Poetry’s Idiot
turned to face the crowd

Cheered they asked
“Are words not the means by which we may control everything?
If we know the true words
then our power is without limit.”

The smile of a ghost played across his features
His voice deep and strong said
“You seek to control what you don’t understand.
A recipe for disaster. . .”


He continued
“Words are but a poor currency
A trifling means of representing something substantial.
Show me a dollar. . .”

“These are pictures of men that no longer exist
Not real living men.
This. . .”
He pulled a dollar from one
poked two holes in it
and placed it over the face of its owner so that the bill was a mask
“This is the problem.
You no longer see the world as it is
You see the world through the paper currency of your words.”


“Better that words had never been employed
for this habit of using words
has made you all lazy.”

And he was never seen again

The Lady

Secret hearts and tales of sorrow
Patina of her world
Once an eon ago her eyes could see color
Could see the way the world turned in both day and night
Now she sees only darkness and sorrow

One should never cast spells of love
for such devices need something to push against
lest balance be lost
and the world spiral into the suns

She holds the pain in her abdomen
for fear of losing it
and in that
losing herself

She navigates the residence
by the increments of her pain compass
Steers herself through the passages and catacombs
by the memories of the seas in night

Something moves in the yard
and she stands in shock. . .

Something has happened and she didn’t see it
Donzela (her tyro) is bringing a. . .
is bringing a man through the wards?
What can this mean?
What can this portend?

Careless in the way she passes through the walls
the Lady enters the kitchen

Donzela is cleaning his face with a dishrag

Day 12 ~ Names ~ Voyages of a Ship Named Heart

With steely determination
She climbs into the part of the ship
That no one speaks of

A slight tingling sensation prickles
all over her body
This part of the ship is invisible and she
Must grope toward this unknown goal

Her finger-tips brush against a barrier
Pushing through the barrier
She moves into a room that a dusty
rich and aged smell
The room was silent
save a disquieting sub-sonic hum

In the center stands a massive marble table
The rest of the room contains only a reading chair
a massive bookcase
hunting tapestries
and a few other odd pieces

As her eyes adapt
She makes out four semi-sentient watchers
Stationed at strategic points around the seven-sided table
Their inhumanly intense regard focused on the center
Where a woman’s pearl-handled
Silver mirror floats within a pale violet amethyst crystal

Air circulating through the room
Makes the watchers’ gossamer hair ripple
Like sea weed dancing as the waves pass
Sensing the watcher’s attention is only for the thing inside the crystal
She ventures into the room

She sees the mirror holds the likeness
of a rather plain looking woman beside a lake
As the crystal and mirror revolve
The woman scoops a handful of water
and offers it to someone off to the right

She feels somehow strangely compelled
to feel sorrow for the woman

The Pilot is beside her
He says
“Her name is . . .”
And his voice breaks
She can’t hear the name

The Metamorph ~ Voyages of a Ship Named Heart

The Metamorph lays in bed
Listening to the rain . . .
She likes the staccato of rain
Pounding on a tin roof
She remembers it from her childhood

She remembers watching rain
Falling in sheets
The stroboscopic patterns of rain falling
on the standing waters of the parking lot
Watching rain cling to barren branches
In winter mist
Trees so dark and stark
Like frozen lightning forking up from the Earth

She turns under the covers
Mumbles something not unlike a song fragment
And quietly drifts off into dreams of Love
Under a sky that doesn’t change

She was poetry to me

The color of her hair
Was so many shades of brunette
tiny contrails of golden brown
Shades of dark amber
Mahogany and teak
And it flowed through my fingers
Bits of flesh tone
and those earth hued ribbons she gave me
When I took down her hair

She was poetry to me
The way she moved through the room
Fashioned verse and universe
On every reflecting surface
On clear nights
The waxing moon highlighted
the twin black holes in her eyes
The smoke of her words
filling my senses with
A delightful madness
That I would dive into
Even in this sad reflection of a day lost

We spent days
rainy winter days
Nuzzling in puzzle sex
Dreaming dreams of days by the Sea
naked and breathless
Running with the Even-tide waves
The sound of the Sea
Her laughter mingling with my own

She was poetry to me

If I Wish To See ~ I must be like water

If I wish to see
I must open my eyes
Must open my hands and release my death grip
on my assumptions

I must dial my perception filters back to zero
Must make the walls of my world transparent
I must be like water. . .

How strange
that the water in this lake is transparent
Yet holds the reflection of the sky

Not hold
Nor capture the image of the flying geese
The reflection lasts only a moment
and then its gone

To reflect
To truly see
I must be like water