European Dream


Finally that day much more mild than the last,
with the light showering
generously through the clouds that just
yesterday we thought to have left.
On the café terrace we sit and feel small
compared to the title held by the beautiful sky,
and suddenly though time is swallowed by the
patrolling thunder of our hearts, we are cast again
to wander the streets with shrill whistles of wonder
and awe. We listened from the hushed talk
of the café like two timid travelers empowered
by this eastern central European theme.
Flying above white herons remind us again
of yesterday, of the nuns, and our encounter
in the field. They had begged for anything,
for rice, and at dusk our slow pace made us weak
and systematically introvert the pains of
the outside world. Erasing our emotional outline of
yesterdays and medieval houses that sprung to life.
Olive trees and little hills engulf our picture
reminders that guide us through our abandoned thoughts.
The wind drives through our clothes and we long
for heat. Together we head towards an unknown
story, one of a princess that people saw
and admired. We dream she lived somewhere like the
Louvre and are captivated at what she must have seen,
stained glass windows the shape of butterfly wings.
We feel sprinkled like the pollen of a flower all over the country-
side and little, our song smaller than the nightingale practicing
in private speech, and we are beside ourselves.
A highway separates our lovely town from the river
that journeys past on a trip of pure and simple mysticism.
Beginners we were, on this journey life, too elementary
to understand, the prelude of our test which had been
given, lives postponed.

A tribute to “Mysticism for Beginners”
-Adam Zagajewski
 

I heard a rumor the other day...



That if you whisper to a butterfly,
it will float away.
To heaven and help your dream come through.
I wanted to know if this was true.

I thought of those I miss, the ones I wish were near.
I thought of those in heaven,
I can’t wait to talk to them.

Leaping and bounding I floated through the garden,
and looked and searched,
I had to find one
I needed to find one.

And there beneath the folds of a silky bed of pink,
stealthily sat a beautiful butterfly.
Those around me may have seen me smell a simple flower,
I won’t uncover what I said.

Softly I lift the flower out from within its bed,
and peel away the sheets that held it.
At first I thought it was not a real thing,
with a tiny breeze a flutter of its wings.

My wish is lifted, floating, flying.
It’s as if I can’t but keep from wondering
I watch and wait and want to tag along.
what is going to happen? Will it really sing my song?

Folds and Fires



I fall deeper
into the purple folds of my chair.
Floating into the comfortable cotton,
sinking deeper away from the eyes.
My cheeks
bright red fire flowing, engulfing me.
To be the quarter hidden bellow the billowy velvet cushion,
I fall through, enveloped in black
fade the cheeks to ash and float away,
with the warm, flowing breeze.
With the suddenness of a quietly escaped bomb,
the secret I had kept,
its explosions apparent in my flame revealing eyes.
I try to escape,
there is not a fold or fire extinguisher that can put this out.