:: :: :: :: terrible dragon: slaying the world one poem at a time :: :: :: ::
Monday, October 31, 2011
As it does with everything
I blame the moon for making things obvious. ~Kyle Kimberlin Belluna
It must be the rotund starkness against unerring black that allows for such contrast to swallow both eye and reason. She was gone from my side a long time before I noticed and for a long time before that. Standing as we did there on a cliff, salted light on the sea below us racing with worry all the way to a horizon that swelled unseen in the distant darkness, our words snapping off peaked reflections that brought us to such departure.
Early October and summer gone, she went with it and that was that. I might have written poems and songs that tore bits of fabric laid out with love in craterglow. The scent of hyacinth and lavender, anise rising up in a coil of chaparral dragon that blew wind from a desert we could not see from here. I wanted the moon to lie, to tell me love would continue until sweet ruin came to take it all back as it does with everything.
It will surely be gone by morning, what I saw coiled in the road on the way up the hill tonight. Some owl or coyote will find it, a rat perhaps, and it will make for a cold small morsel. It was the first of its kind I’ve come across this season. Someone in their haste either didn’t see it trying to cross the road, its marked rings unmistakably serpentine, a little king of California barely a foot in length, bleeding out there in the lane, caught by its own misfootedness as it searched the creek or tomato field for the smallness of mice along the glass meridian of its rough belly, scenting by the minutest quaver, the instinctive twitch, the scurried rustle, the signature that spells organic combustion within living biology, the abatement of hunger that forks the will to do what it must.
I stopped to look down at it, observe if there might yet be any snake left, but there wasn’t. Too much had leaked out to glisten under the sweep of my headlights, would continue to under a three-quarter moon after I closed the car door to leave it with a, “Poor fella.” So many kings have been left behind with far less. The one in the temple ruins, the one on that small hill of crosses. This one will be left to the whims of elements as all the others were. No prayer to sweeten the journey, no song to sugar the tremble of scale or shiver of bone, no disciple to carry the spirit of a message that was never left beyond repeating that a snake of kings was killed tonight, that’s all, a poor king of snakes.
brings you an apple and the stain of a kiss. The apple is from Cassie, who, realizing she is running late, plucks a red one from the autumn basket in her hotel room to give to the driver waiting patiently for his last charge to arrive, the others excited to begin the half-day’s tour in the back of the Jeep.
She appears at last, the round ripeness of her lips poised and rouged behind the extended fruit that as I take it in my hand releases the catch of a kiss as morning sun clears the trees to light the stain of a scarlet butterfly that stays ‘til noon on my cheek.
These are the gifts given and received when the season turns its business to the ripeness of dying, when all that was delivered for two seasons comes due, the becoming given over now to taking, when bees and sugarwasps feast on the crush of what swelled so long on the vine.
I take these and keep them for as long as they are mine, the red feast of eating apples, the rich banquet of a single kiss, the short season that gathers in the human heart, the long season that surrenders it up, the deep harvest that yields its brief nectar of living to savor through the winterbearing to come. Joseph Gallo October 2, 2011
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.