The Song of the Reed

On the quayside; huddling under a

unanimous robe of midday dust that binds

Dreams to Souls. All thought of attraction secondary

to notions of what, whom, can aid in the completion of the self.

 

Clouds huddle at a western end of savage azure void.

A future Dream scans empty horizon for

us, our incoming ship. The womb in which we rest

once more on the far side of fleeting emptiness

smug in its infinity,

to be made whole by our next coming.

 

Figurehead slices dark tropical seas leading triangular canvas sail over

sailors skilled in dark tales of mockery and brutal happiness –

their eyes burnt dazzling blue by brutal God Sun –

who soon will sell Souls and Merchants tales of perfumed Princesses reclining on palakis

borne on glistening Bihari shoulders

 

to gardens cooled by fountains and the shade of orange, pomegranate.

Pennants of Frangipani shielding gentle excess.

 

The joy-merge of Dream and Soul as sails on cinnamon wind nursing

hints of chili, clove and pepper

draw us closer, among foam horses and rhythmic whispers.

 

Crows peck at washed up ghost fish and sing away the mystery.

 

Cargo net drops, heaving onto quay,

a loose knot of empty bodies, our limbs barely moving.

dreamless, our Dreams watch the first firing of nervous system twitching.

 

We offer tender footsteps to the packed dirt, stand wide open to receive,

blinded by midday and not yet afraid.

 

I, a fragile dream of a subservient Dream,

choke on that hot eternal midday, gasping for comprehension.

As awareness of my body comes, so full understanding slips away.

 

Most is forgotten, this is the stillpoint between

Complete Illumination and the veiled human view of existence.

A simple trade; Physical Existence for Knowing.

 

Poems writhe in the spilt wine of leering heroes and Merchants

barter the sorcery of fear and lies to crowds of Dreams

full of love and confusion waiting to receive us, their physical forms.

 

Grasping for solid ground we rub our eyes as we soon will do as babes in arms

and once again life begins.

Chemical and atomic reactions assume form and description,

the joyous, loving, nourishing wow!

 

The golden hue in our moon-shot eyes.

 

I see you across the marketplace,

gently beckoning our Dream.

In you, all those who came before are realized.

 

I understand that it doesn’t matter who gets to

lay beside you this life around, I’ve always known that.

We’re all the same, all one, all part of the same swell.

Yet birth is coming, and so soon will that petty sense of individual-ness,

jealousy and envy that is given to balance the magnificence of life.

 

Who would be the fool who reaches for her!!

I, I thought, as though it were I making any choices.

As though it was even me, thinking.

 

“You drink from this ocean, you resign to being drowned.”

It is so.

 

You stumble looping circles in the quay dust,

I see the first motions of a waltz.

 

You restore the Rose with a single word of poetry.

Distilled truth.

 

No wonder I fell on my sword last time around.

Here we all revel harmlessly in the word, the single word,

yet in human existence who can take such honesty?

 

Closed eyes given up to scripted farewells.

Until impending death once more attempts foolishly to cancel out our Dream,

against which mere finality is powerless.

 

Every gull and hint of spice is witness to the reunion, to the irrefutable fact that

we loved once, twice, forever.

 

My turn, I call your Dream, it seems so pleased to be wanted.

You too; you smile and dance the dance of the unseen now seen,

you present our past as a garland of the lightest flowers

and jewels fashioned of lead.

 

“I’ll give you 10 years of hatred for that garland!” a Merchant yells, weighing the value of us expectantly on his rusty scales.

And I see your young eyes flicker interest.

 

It seems this dream of our Dream is not your dream.

At least not this coming lifetime.

 

On occasion the dimension fails. We know this.

Dreams project specifics onto bodies that those Souls aren’t ready to enact.

Dead mouths fall into fear smiles,

the sign of many wave-swells yet to travel.

 

My Dream feels failure, has been lulled by what you could be

rather that what you’re ready to become.

Feels the burn of your low expectations, shrugs off the contentment of right union.

“I’ll wait for you at the far end of the other side,” one of us says.

 

“Ah, love, I’m so glad you can see me, I’ve been searching for you across 400 years.

Why the avoidance?” As if it’s her choice to do anything at all.

 

And yet, faced with this, knowing that a broken heart is written, changes nothing at all.

Were I to turn away it’d be a crime against all that matters, and I’ll not be guilty of such things.

I may be a dream of a Dream, but that’s no excuse.

 

We do this every few centuries or so and anyway,

we share the one Dream, when that Dream isn’t fooling us, and isn’t that something?

 

Next time around let’s cut free from this circle,

Let’s dream ourselves and our future into existence.

 

And perhaps next time the idea of being

Touched by greatness will not be enough.

 

The touch need not be so fleeting,

you’ll know that it can be more,

Forever.

 

Clouds huddle at the western end of a frighteningly blue void,

I lose sight of you among the crowds, my story is sold for thirty wreathes of silver –

Judas always seemed the bravest man in the room, for who else would shoulder that forever-banishment for an idea, for a chance of an eternal love? Me –

and then we are gone.

 

Our future Dream scans empty horizon

For us, our incoming ship. The womb in which we rest

once more on the far side of fleeting emptiness

smug in its infinity, hoping to be

made whole by our next coming.

 

The waltz of Dream and Soul when they sight the sails,

cinnamon wind nursing hints of chili, clove and pepper

draw our figurehead among foam horses and rhythmic whispers.

 

Crows peck at washed up ghost fish and sing away the mystery.

 

 

Modern lovers, walkers of foggy London streets at tea time,
friends of barking dogs, dead authors and mute leaves dancing around

waddling swans in twilit parks,

no abstinence for us, no distant observation,
just a subtle sort of desperate madness.

We see intellectual connection in base lust

and mystical experience in sorrow,
ignoring the breath of wind that was shared

with the spark of life 10 seconds away.

Low hanging fruit, clouded vision and low expectations.

A crowd scene when only a solo walk will suffice.
Without Dreams, and effort, we fish the shallowest of waters.

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