This is a place to be to be, this is a place to be
This is a place to be to be, this is a place to be
Skopelos and Virgin
-by Skorda
Swallow that campari moonwhen first you see itacross the water,rising round and new above the mountain.Open your mouth and swallowwhile youth holds its roundness near,and you are running fearless in the dark.Hold it inside, it is still warmand you will need its light,there, inside you.Down the road of time, somewhereafter you’ve aged, traveled,Explored, discovered.And the dust around your doorwayhas been pounded hard and smooth under your feet.When you find yourself growing weary and bored,when your eyes see only ruins,and your heart is empty.You may believe, in your exhaustion,that this is truth, at last.That the mystery has unraveled,leaving no wilderness to explore or tame.All secrets have been shared,the frontier has dissolved.Know then, with these thoughts,you have been swallowed.The warm belly of the beastcomforts with confining darknessand lulls with rhythmic soundsMurmuring to you,Curl up and sleep,just go to sleep.Shake your head,stretch your legs,do not sleep now.Remember what you know.You swallowed the moon,you hold it inside you.Not as a magpie hoarding shiny things,or wearing the moon for beautyor bartering the moon for wealth.You swallowed the moon for this moment.When you will walk to the water’s edge,open your mouth, release the moonand let its light build you a pathwayacross the wine dark sea.©Skorda 2008
note
I do love having these postings on one scrollable page, but alas, there are now too many. I am dividing this blog into pages of 50 posts. Please click on "older posts" (just above Erase Fetish) to see what is no longer on this page. And please sign my guestbook, to your left, just under "Fata Morgana". Thanks!
MY NOVEMBER GUEST
- MY Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
- Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
- Are beautiful as days can be;
- She loves the bare, the withered tree;
- She walks the sodden pasture lane.
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- Her pleasure will not let me stay.
- She talks and I am fain to list:
- She’s glad the birds are gone away,
- She’s glad her simple worsted gray
- Is silver now with clinging mist.
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- The desolate, deserted trees,
- The faded earth, the heavy sky,
- The beauties she so truly sees,
- She thinks I have no eye for these,
- And vexes me for reason why.
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- Not yesterday I learned to know
- The love of bare November days
- Before the coming of the snow,
- But it were vain to tell her so,
- And they are better for her praise.
- by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
See green birds of paradise.
ReplyDeleteAntigua.