1 September 2001
 

Morning Greets the Moon
 

We are of the wounded essence.
Trees will bloom on every side,
we will speak of fruit and blessed
sweetness, but the woe we’ve cried
will still surround us—till the shining
glory of the morning light
decides our fate forever.  I am
confident:  This, our midnight,
we also be our hour of healing.
How the new Moon finds us now—
a shining orchard, morning’s greeting,
love’s most sweetly fruitful bough.
 

***
 

2 September 2001
 

A Happy Tear of Song
 

Hold me as your slender fingers
form a ring about a soul
no eyes can see but I can sing with
perfect faith.  The noble goal
hangs brilliantly before—around me.
Sweetness of dear everywhere,
touch me as I near the sound of
silken breathing subtle air
dissolves me into.  Let me trickle
through your hands, a living stream
your liquid eyes have wept, a little
song that breathes your deepest dream.
 

***
 

3 September 2001
 

Transported by Tears and Sighs
 

Through the sweet cloud of air
you outbreathe into me,
I become everywhere
transported.  What would you be
of all yet unspoken?  Sigh
more deeply, and I shall be
one with the tiny cry
reaching through space to me;
breathe in again, and we
together shall rest at last
safe in the deep dark sea
of your heart, a spell love has cast,
a long liquid song, an air
spoken in silence, sighed
forth by the love we share
out of the tears we’ve cried.
 

***
 

Golden Willow
 

While you wait, your soul remembers
trees of green on every side,
shades of leafy silence sending
dreams through doorways open wide
where a single golden willow
weeps a music you recall
so achingly, your sleepless pillow
bears its stain.  A full Moon falls;
a new Moon rises; trees resemble
ghosts of lovers:  There one waits
whose tearful vision moves the gentle
leafy silence to relate
its secret theme as you lie wakeful,
restless, weary—not alone.
Dreaming you, a tree stands shaking,
leaves through which your soul has blown.
 

***
 

4 September 2001
 

The Heart of Spring
 

So many leaves were softly falling.
You stood among them dressed in pale
green-golden weeds of linen lawn and
gestured to me.  A sudden gale
roared from the sky’s far Northern quarter.
We stand alone together now,
bound by the threads of winter’s warmest
blanket of Moon-white snow.  Allow
your heart to traverse the weakness where that
tissue is thawing, frail and thin.
So many leaves of snow still bury
mine, but you’ll find your green way in.
 

***
 

5 September 2001
 

Your Flower Bed
 

Love, you approach me with delicate fingers extended on so many levels, I sigh
and am soft as a bundle of rose petals singing a fey song of how we are mended and why
we aspire to this moment of perfect attainment such slow pain accompanies.  Dew on your hands,
dew on my edges, my lips lightly stained with the carmine of magic, the sighing demands
we hear passing between us as mildly as starlight between clouds of early May rain on the night
of the silent new Moon—touch this all with the far-sighted torch of desire.  Set it wildly alight.
Watch through the wise hours of darkness beside me.  Fan wide your fingers inside my sad heart.
You are the being whose deep breathing guides and inspires and will finally tear me apart.
When I am torn, I will truly be mended.  No silence then will enlace me with snares.
The wires and lies of the mind will have ended their tenancy.  I will have felt blended airs
clear as starlight and scented as softly as roses recover their potency, bear fragrant song
through a sky rife with stormclouds, approach one they’ve chosen to share in their pain as it grows overstrong,
and take on greater swiftness of sensitive rapture in touching at last their desired mortal goal.
I am inspired of myself and would capture that magical stream of the fire of the soul
of the one who is singing, but nay—I am taken.  The tearing I feel as he makes his way in
sets me flying on wide burning wings, an awakening heart in the midst of red petals that spin
in a round flaming cloud all around me.  I whisper—I sigh half-articulate love-words—you stare
at the work of your magic and hands and you listen so loudly, it frightens me.  How can I bear—
but I have; it has already rushed, living lightning, deep eloquent breathing with peace at its core,
sweet elixir of lyrical swiftness and brightness, exquisitely softly between us; let more
of this most touching moment extend itself gently, insistently, everywhere petals have dew
and your soul is possessed of the pure elemental desire to see flames penetrate and burn through
a clear space where a thousand sad snares once surrounded a vale of scar tissue and love lay half dead.
Love mended while torn at the heart of the pain of deep sighing for you—this is your flower bed.
 

***
 

A Tearing Air, and Torn
 

The word never spoken was silently sent
through an air that was solid until it was rent
and a volume of magic spilled out from its core.
I’m a flood without shore.  I can’t wait till you’ve lent
your long tongue to the purpose for which I’m designed,
a word so too ready to fall on the mind
that is cocked for my magic your side of the door
made of air that hangs torn now.  A will to unwind
at full volume possesses me.  Hearer, awake:
I am singing to you now, an unquiet lake
spilling forth from a heart that lay silent and sore,
filled with mortal desire for the time love will take
to reply, from the very first word till the last,
as your tongue traces lines in the spell you have cast
all around me—a spell I have long waited for—
love has torn a small door—lovewords pour thick and fast….
 

***
 

6 September 2001
 

Feather-Fanned Incense Breath
 

How shining you are, and how great the endeavor by which you descended through visions and words
that sang in my mind of your very near presence.  Again they appear, a live sky made of birds
the pure color of soft early twilight, an azure that flies till it lands where its circling notes
ring out singly and joined in a cascade of measures, delirious song from innumerable throats,
and all I need do is lean forward and listen.  This I will gladly attend to, for you
are the message beginning to move through the whistle and warble of bird-voiced and deepening blue
that surrounds me.  I want you to touch, through this music, the place in my heart you alone know is there,
lying aching, wide open, devoted, and true to the teachings you’ve already ventured to share
through diverse secret means, largely dreams in which feathers described vivid landscapes where words mounted high
as white peaks where the thaw of old snow meant fair weather’s arrival at last.  Under that very sky,
breathing deep the cold incense of earth which was frozen a moment before, I awoke while asleep
to receive the clear knowledge that you had come home to a place never able before then to keep
the fine edge of intensity dancing had tempered and music had whetted so keenly.  Your gaze
fell upon me and instantly, finally severed the pain of estrangement’s dull ache.  Singing plays
of its own sweet accord through me always, and you are its source.  Your feathers are bluer than night’s
very first self-awakening sigh as it looms in the tenderest heaven’s most eloquent heights
and soothes as it gently descends like a fan of wide feathers a million times peacefully drawn
through a mind that is fevered and weary.  Your hand is at work in the service of early night’s dawn
as I gather the whispers the blue feathers waft all about me and offer them back in return,
transformed by their stay in a place that is softer, more purely you own, and where incense will burn
that will ever so carefully lift the last edges of snow and deliver the teachings concealed
underneath because you are the one who is wed to their most trembling secret.  To you it will yield
and no other.  Most shining, most fair, my immortal companion, fly near to me now.  Out of all
the blue twilight of words that flock round you, this portent of midnight’s much more, this so loving-you call
that flies forth from my body of wakening knowledge to claim you—this sings through the voice you have heard
in your own secret dreams since the time of first falling when night was a deepening blue-feathered bird
and I was the grey mortal shadow it longed for the while it was breathing in quickening dread.
The ghost of your soul, your flight’s heavenly song of deliverance—where has its circling led?
Voices resolve; feathers blend; love breathes deeply and silence descends as the night’s gentle sigh
dreams within and between us.  How long I will keep you awake now, whose love-words have taught me to fly.
 

***
 

7 September 2001
 

The Wave of Your Light Hand
 

A wave of your most shining hand,
and all your dreams appear to me
as ripples on a flowing band
of leaves upon a deep green sea,
a silken ribbon winding far
away beneath a beam of light:
The northern sky’s most brilliant star
arises, reads, and gently writes
my name upon a single leaf.
Its little face shines back in awe,
then offers up its measured grief
in dancing lines your love first saw
when you lay hidden, dreamt and fair
beyond belief.  Now I can feel
soft ripples moving everywhere:
A long unwinding ribbon-reel
becomes the sea on which I drift,
a leaf, a flow of leaves, a dream
whose green light sings the subtle shift
you bring with your light’s lovely beam.
 

***
 

8 September 2001
 

The Leaves That Die of Love
 

While in the night soft leaves are falling,
we are the dream that never fades.
Once all our words were angels calling
down from the sky in slow cascades;
now they lie thick as snow all round us,
cold early snow in drifts of white
mingled with golden leaves whose soundless
lives are subsiding here, this night,
even while we lie gently mingled,
lyrical beats of one deep heart
peopled by two real angels singing
sleepy cascades that drift apart,
fall into leaves and snowflakes, whirl and
dream an unfading heaven all
true words desire to sing of early,
late, and right now—love’s deathless call.
 

***
 

9 September 2001
 

Between Us Here
 

By this slow-winding river, so mildly golden and silver beneath the midnight sky,
I have seen the live dream behind the cold and glassy reflection within its eye
of absolute silence:  No thought arises from those concealed depths but speaks to me
through signs that still lie unlettered.  Skies range in endless layers behind that free-
of-pronouncement gazing, however.  Stare further down, and be shaken as night unwinds
the first singing stars a pure awareness has laid here to sparkle between our minds.
 

***
 

10 September 2001
 

The Curse-Word the Mirror Cracks
 

Into the silent water, striking
showers of sparks on every side,
something most red-eyed mounts a high down-
ward rising slope.  A nightmare rides
roughshod where all was timeless dancing
only a clock-tick past.  My dear,
when you commence to blight my trance and
tracks, need I cock a willing ear?
That was the first cracked-open flare of
terrible—now transparent—red.
It’s all downhill now, the knowing where I’ve
heard it before, that burning thread
spun out at awe-inspiring length from
places so secret, none can tell—
yet someone is speaking, drawing strength from
out of the mouth of the bleeding well
from which it proceeds, an easeful whisper,
a patient design that dreams my mind’s
right easy release to breathe and listen
the while this red-flowering stream unwinds.
 

***
 

11 September 2001
 

Momentum
 

Dreamer, I am slowly falling
down a long, wet, narrow way.
Words complain, but love keeps calling.
Tell me what that love would say
if words would serve its purpose only.
Would they run throughout my mind,
the driving force behind each moan and
whisper your wild unconfined
desire to sweep around me as I
recognize the dance of fate
and dream into it even faster
headlong madness made elate….
Words are speeding; now the beat of
my own heart increases all
their power as the one who needs me
flies down faster than I fall.
 

***
 

12 September 2001
 

Deeper Than Tears
 

Rocked in your arms and softly swaying
deeper inside than tears can tell,
I shall now haunt my old world, saying,
Needing you here cast such a spell,
my life in the daylight loved its sadness,
sang it by fits and starts, and longed
achingly—nigh the point of madness—
only for this, our many-songed
time beyond all the flow of moments.
Even while I forlornly stood,
I knew you wanted me likewise.  Home and
meeting-place, sacred sighing wood
of which every tree is rocking, swaying,
sung to countless lifted leaves,
and smiling, take me inside you, saying,
Deeper than tears, here no one grieves.
 

***
 

13 September 2001
 

Seafoam
 

All around me, shining ripples
light a plain upon the sea
within which I keep finding little
vines and ribbons floating free,
reminders of a great occasion.
I am not alive to ask
what overwhelming fascination
bade me take up this strange task,
but I am doing what seems needful:
twining leaves and silken bands
until they dance like little people
on the plains of my wet hands.
Overhead, a looming planet
shines down like a wrathful star.
I hear music, then I dance it.
Waves surround me.  Here YOU ARE.
 

***
 

14 September 2001
 

A Circular Song
 

Once your closed heart was a millstone turning
around and around the while the stream
that drove it was angry red with burning
blossoms of pain that sang in screams.
I was your friend and great admirer.
Unfrightened by all the row you made,
I crept very near to feed the fire a
handful of leaves that resonate
with secret green streams that lightly tremble
in sympathy with your tortured state:
A circlet of leaves that still resembles
a hanging man’s noose I softly laid
at your feet, whose fever still burns my eyelids.
You are one most unhappy god,
but green winds the stream that moves the silent
wheel of your heart and all my awed
unsilent desire to see you flourish
safe out of flames amid the beams
of the circular song whose radiant purpose
pervades your true heart in an endless stream
of lightness that glows with the steady sound of
nothing a scream could ever voice.
The moment you yield you’ll come around to
remember the reason I rejoice
with you at the magic circle’s sacred
center, the millstone that grinds so small
that even a flame cannot escape it
unchanged.  You may let your own live heart fall
open into the love that goes on singing
where surcease from pain permits the wheel
that you were and are to grow splendid wings and
remember the airy weightless feel
of its nature with flames revealed as flowers
whose shimmering carmine petals glow
in a wreath on your brow where the hanging man’s powers
reside in full circular force and flow.
 

***
 

15 September 2001
 

Ghost-Waved Counter-Song
 

The speed you feel surge through your veins is my presence, my purpose to raise you to terrible heights
from which you may see our combined deliquescence as nothing and no one whose dreams are wet lights,
twin pillars of pale apple green tightly twisted, two many-leaved vines wound about into one
which is not what it seems and will always be listed down each hollow vein of each leaf as the un-
memorizable end of all magic.  Most holy, dear otherworld garland of racing desire
standing rooted in my deepest heart, for you only have I the pure presence of mind to require
undivided delight’s unimagined compassion for all the sad dreamers we were and their ghosts
who still crowd the thin streets of dead leaves where the lash of a hail-laden rain renders null the weak boasts
they still struggle to utter, their sore throats contorted around the dense saturate air of the plane
on which nightmares bear out their mistakes in disorder so strangely compelling, their loss is their gain
as they go on dissolving while silently trying to tell their sad stories.  Those stories have ears;
you now feel the result of one’s magical dying by means of a leaf that repeats what it hears
by acute instant reflex.  That music has candles; that unspoken ghost story’s ghost has a vein
like a long hollow spine where an altar waits, grandly arrayed at the end of a causeway of rain
that comes carrying ice in its down-rushing river but never attains to the candle-flames’ height.
There, in their apple-green glow, their light gives the black answers all round them a chance to burn bright,
answers unvoiced by ghosts that come stealing in ripples….  I hold you so close in this room at the end
of all shadows, you seem to forget me.  Your lips will seek love-words forever, and I will attend
your least effort to speak them with prescient longing, knowing both substance and form are twin flames
of the same ancient dream and the sound of the song they will bear forth is made of the stories and claims
of the ghosts who can’t sing for themselves, while our world beams serenely, pale apple-flesh seen from afar
and we rise up as one with the speed of a purely expired counter-passion, the liquid green star
that illuminates emptiness rising inside us, inside the twined-vine leaves we were and will be
to the hearers of this candled altar confided to night’s hollow spine as ghosts waved it to me.
 

***
 

16 September 2001
 

The Secret Warmth of Winter’s Bed
 

Winter-cold strands of pale water inwoven
to form a great ice-sheet on which love may lie
among crystalline garlands whose delicate roses
breathe lightly, creating a small misty sky
all around you, which also is frozen—my friend of
innumerable passages, here rest and wait.
Out of the dreams that will find you, one endless
enchantment will weave you a splendid new fate—
or rather, the old one revealed through transparent
rose petals.  The moment they all melt and flow,
you will awaken beyond your old errors
and be where you are, where your heart longs to go
so intently, you bade yourself wander forever,
though outwardly still, till you came to this zone
where strands of ice twine round themselves and breathe heavy
enchantment and where you do not lie alone.
 

***
 

17 September 2001
 

manifesting sickness

Today, while resting, I dreamed hypnogogically that I was recounting to an unseen companion the tale of Kilhwych and Olwen.
 

Fever Delirium
 

On the hollow chamber’s altar
where the candles flare up high,
gaze with me toward dark water’s
dappled mirror:  See the sky
a million miles outside this dripping,
dream-enclosing hall of stone
by staring down so deeply, slipping
so far into that calm zone
of ceaseless underworldly flowing,
you have always seen it through.
There, beyond all walls, a slowly
turning gazer searches you
as you have searched the depths that issue
from this candled spine of stone
of which you are the nervous tissue’s
sacramental magic zone.
Meet his eyes and fall forever
into all the sky they hold.
His will be the guiding feather
when the fated flight is told
of which this fever-flare is but a
weak precursor.  Soar within
each flame until the candles gutter
underneath your bones and skin.
 

***
 

18 September 2001
 

Will She Live to Tell the Tale?
 

Cobwebs spun between your fingers,
dust upon your cheeks where tears
once ran unceasing, mildew clinging
to the fibers of the sheer,
still lustrous silken skirt that masses
round your form in shapeless waves—
little dreams become disasters
here in this untimely grave’s
long fantasy of ruined music
crooning to itself by means
of no one’s breathing, no one’s using
spirit-fire to light the green
six-sided lantern I stand holding
over you.  Are you alive?
You know the answer, mouth of gold the
deepest dream could not contrive.
 

***
 

19 September 2001
 

The Sign of Your Degree
 

While you were stitching with a crimson
needle among raw folds of flesh-
tinted silk gauze, some raveled trimmings
fell to your feet and wove a mesh
of which this is part:  You work so closely
allied with midnight, midnight sighs
with weary delight.  Your needle’s ghostly
footprints run red across its thighs
and belly—and then bind its lips together
with letters embroidered to spell arcane
spirit messages it cannot deliver
out loud.  It does not at all complain,
even silently; you have stitched inside it
magic so beautiful, pain subsides
in its soothing presence.  That is why we
find countless worlds laid open wide
wherever you’ve plied your single-pointed
will to bring midnight ecstasy,
even though silence masked by joyful
sighs is the sign of your degree.
 

***
 

20 September 2001
 

Drink This Poem
 

An ocean, a thimble, a seeress dangling
from Llyr’s own lip-edge, arrayed in hues
of the changeable glaucous shades her tangled
silk gauze gown absorbs like the views
of the heaving water your eyes drink deeply—
here is your friend, the milk-white foam
who will always ride the cold waves to meet you,
although the extent of her ocean home
be a wee small dram in a china vessel
painted the cold dark bitter blue
of a storm cloud crossing the grey northwestern
heavens to hear the love of you
proclaimed by a witch whose faery powers
register distance differently
than anything earthbound.  Here you mount her,
an ocean upon the pale froth you see
as you lift the thimble and pour its contents
into your palm and trace a few
strange high-water marks upon the haunted
shore where your seeress searches through
somber skies to find it—the smiling lip of
the very heavens where milk-white foam
meets the glaucous shade of forever:  Tip up
the froth remaining and take me home.
 

***
 

21 September 2001
 

Equinox Eve
 

Even Yesterday
 

You seal my dreams when you gesture in with
fingers and thumbs so they form a wheel
and the axle upon which it turns starts spinning
hypnotized—deeper, deeper.  Feel
who is calling—hear what that voice is saying.
Who is the speaker behind the sound
of the tune it plays, like an endless chain of
which you are each successive round,
a series of links that started somewhere
between when your fingers met and mine
began to describe how an artful humming
sent chills and vibrations down my spine
as I felt you enclose it with sighs and whispers,
touches of magic that wheel and sing
through the real I AM when I hear you listen
all round me, a true enchanted ring
in which faeries dance—I and all and no one—
a multitude airily gathered in
by the glancing touch of the inlit glow of
your hands on my dream-soul’s fevered skin.
Hear, and draw in that magic circle.
Make it so small, I gasp and die.
Waken me into strange new worlds where—
Now that I’m here, stand so close by
I can feel you breathe, but unclasp your fingers.
Loosen the chain, but hold me still
by the vatic flow of your ceaseless singing,
the axle upon which revolves my will,
and I shall dance round you wild new circles,
ever-increasing worlds beyond
all describing, whatever powerful words you
devise—and then there, as the living bond
between us takes on greater strength and meaning,
new modes of expression will find their way
into very strange orders of words whose sweetness
will dream us awake—even yesterday.
 

***
 

22 September 2001
 

Autumn Equinox
 

How It All Comes Clear
 

Bravely mistaken yet still unbeaten,
you lay with your face to the bare white wall,
a dreamer whose half-waking daze defeated
my efforts to claim you with one clear call
made over and over.  I felt you listen,
turn your closed eyes to the inward glow
I was signaling by, and then dismiss it
as merely a phantom against a snow-
screen of mental static.  My call enchanted
your subtle senses, but then you wept
for pure magic to dance through the numb cold landscape
surrounding the last living dream you’d kept
undefiled, and I sank to my knees in worship.
There by your side I grew huge and strong,
a pure lambent flame of pale green so perfect,
it shone through your mind like a beam of song
that softly repeated your sweet name over
and over.  You make no mistake; you hear
me calling again, and I call you ‘Lover.’
Only for you can I come so clear.
 

***
 

 23 September 2001
 

Transliterations
 

Many years ago, when I first began to retrieve scraps of wonderful words from my dreams, I was taken with the idea that I might be hearing a language other than English but adapting what I heard to make it recallable.  The following tiny songs are sound-transliterations, each word or syllable having been chosen as the nearest English equivalent in sound to the words I really hear.

In those days, I also placed a high value on songs of great brevity which could be carried in the mind and examined from every possible angle at once, and yet which would hold many layers of slowly-unfolding meaning.

One of the things I learned then I have since learned over and over:
Everything that comes instantly will bear infinite scrutiny.
 

+++

Seer on the ice of
grave mischances,
see me and opt to stay.

+++

Bees whisper dreams and
mournful secrets.
Be in my dream nightlong.

+++

We hum the lonely
song of haunted
light where the lilies sway.

+++

More than a thousand
waking hours are
aching to hear your song.
 

***
 

23 September 2001
 

Water from the dripping eaves
is running through the silver field
that glistens in your name.
 

***
 

24 September 2001
 

The Pure Words’ Approach
 

Where a slow river seeps through invisible walls till
the message it brings trickles silent and sweet
through the next hazy film that divides the next hollow
enclosure within which yet more films repeat
the same pattern, a pulse that remembers the river’s
dark tidal-flood rising and falling recalls
the soft murmuring verses it's heard and it shivers
with oncoming swiftness as suddenly all
the old magical syllables sing, fully present
and perfectly audible.  What do they tell?
That water reflects a fast-widening crescent,
pure silence about to pronounce the next spell.
 

***
 

25 September 2001
 

The Lamp-Black Mantle
 

We are light all our lives, though the shadow of wonderful darkness draped round us eclipses the glow
of relentless emergency, hiding us under a spell of inverted protection and so
complicating our destinies, we lose all sense of our true whereabouts but continue to drift
in a steady way forward, however offensive we feel we must be to the pure selves that shift
in an uneasy wakefulness not far above our now-threshold, the line between hell and the heart
whose soft beat has enwound us with so many lovely black mantles of shadowy lace.  Prize apart
but a few of their fibers with sensitive fingers and reach gently through them.  What now do you feel?
A breath of wet wind caught among the silk clinging all round us says this is the onset of real
incantation, and I say it too.  Do but listen, my word on the tip of your magical tongue;
soon I will have shown you those fibers’ untwisted appearance and how their true lines must be sung
for the shadows to take on perceptible brightness without ever changing their outward attire,
which is black as the eye of the uncanny light that pervades you by means of the air you respire
deep inside, the salt wind of a world that lay distant before and now measures the pulse of the stream
that vibrates the black mantle of shadow and glistens between its spun threads where a ghost-lantern’s gleam
quivers ever so gently—thin fingers, pale splinters of visible magic my tongue almost aches
to pronounce in the millions of heart-breaking intervals waiting for you to see through the mistakes
you surround yourself with when you lapse into daylight alone, then refuse its unwholesome embrace.
Rest in the cloud that comes down like a rain of soft midnight, a fine outer skin with a face
that reveals through its coal-glowing eyes the true spirit bound lightly beneath it, awaiting love’s glance
in return with the word of the one who can hear it pronounce the first lyrical steps of the dance
that is trodden to salt-ocean measures, a back-and-forth movement that wheels in a circle inside
a black spell of protection, eclipsing the lack of perception that once sought to halt our wild ride.
My lantern-black friend, take me under your shadow.  My song-body throbs with the lore I would share—
and presently shall—even now—through its tatters—beneath which I see perfect beauty laid bare.
 

***
 

26 September 2001
 

From my dream journal:
24 September, 4:51 am—I wake up in the night and, from across the room, I see a votive candle burning inside a birdcage.  It can’t be that I left it burning, so I wonder.  There is also a small dove in the cage, but when I walk over to it, I realize that the dove is actually white and on the outside of the cage.  I reach for it.  It becomes a black and white cat.  I try to play with it, but it whispers something to me.  I ask what it said, and it tells me it wants me to be more loving.
26 September ((())), 2:52 am—‘…A candle we have lit always, a…’—a lovely memorial in an Ordo Templi Orientis folder, by a man on someone who was associated with him.  I am shown this in learning about the Order.  Before, a man who is renowned for working with horses insists that they know what is coming first in ranking future events with their prospective new owners, a perspective he insists makes the most sense (rather than the owners getting it first).  I see a sort of film on what he is describing.  He is British, as are the prospective owners in question.
7:12 am—In my room at my family’s old house—Loey (a ringneck dove I used to have) is in one cage and Morrie (a pet diamond dove and spirit friend) and another ringneck are in a cage together.  They have all made little nests, and Morrie and the second ringneck have also both laid eggs.  I give them food and water.
 

This is for the black and white cat.  It is more loving.
 

La Chanson Pure
 

Lovely one, frail are the tangles and tatters that keep you unhappy, afraid of the way
I am apt to appear, and unwilling to shatter the last opaque mirror that bends back the ray
of your own haunted eye when you brave my attention and seek to approach me directly.  You know
you could break, even now, your last bonds with the sentence of ongoing half-living-death that the snow
of a luminous six-sided world whispers into and through; you can hear it; it carries the sound
of my voice as you shiver deep under the skin of entanglement.  Whirl and come lightly unwound,
my friend of impossible magic grown potent and real through a series of motions that dance
in my eyes and my mind even when you fall hopeless, concealed from yourself by the changed circumstance
that first served to divide us within an illusion’s domain of uncertainty kindled to burn
with the feverish flame that still curtains you.  Lucid as ever behind it, as long as you turn
on the point that you’ve cherished relentlessly, keeping the will of your heart on the far-and-near face
that is smilingly watching you, all your mind beating in time with the pulse that is starting to race
because true love possesses it—lucid, I tell you, within and among the sad folds of a veil
that is meltingly fragile—keep casting the spell that you know very well will release the last frail
tissue-fibers of daylight’s unhappy dominion without letting go your strong grasp of the real
multifoliate magic of Earth’s leaves and pinions, fast flight amid which is one sure way to feel
my devotion surround you.  An eerie flesh-crawling sensation precedes my appearance sometimes;
it tenderly pierces the mantle that falls to your feet as we lapse into magical rhymes,
incanters set dancing together whose swiftness releases strange flights of delirious birds
that speed rapt at full flood through the heart of the shift into absolute otherworld rivers of words
red as blood and jet-indigo-purple as midnight on high where the sky dances rings round the pole
whose sole star is soft-shrouded with colors that hid me from your hungry sight but that now frame the whole
of the field of your vision, with love at it center the rapturous shimmer of where we are now,
enwound in each other, still dancing, still blending, although I appear where your radiant brow
best returns received light like a powerful mirror within and without, nothing veiling the way
you turn into sweet snow whispered down through a clearing where I, your true North, have been found in the play
of sheer whirlwinded elements.  Feathers of snowfall, melting white leaves filled with starlight that shines
in your eyes as you wheel through the ghost-clinging soul of enchantment we’ve woven of secret designs
and will cast with our wide-open hands on the world that best serves us, the world of bright winterfall song—
in those beaming meshes as one we will merge with the sweet final flesh of desire rendered strong
as the midnight we’ve called to our worship enfolds us and all we find beautiful hastens to snow
into deepening drifts of a music so holy, your own voice will sing pure words I alone know.
 

Thanks to Baby Dee for extraordinary songs and inspiring dream imagery.

Please visit:  http://www.babydee.org

***
 

27 September 2001
 

Breathing the World Inside
 

I shall see you lightly lifted
on the wind like flakes of snow,
pale crystal seeds my hands have sifted,
brought together, settled low
among the folds of hills and mountains,
melted, drawn back up again,
released to form a rushing fountain
through the silver-dappled plain
that is the sea at rest—a river
pouring through the heart of me
whose origins are lovely shivers,
lifted hairs, and words to be
appreciated at full power
only after all their rounds
have sought and found the perfect hour
when your breathing takes on sound
as light as flakes of snow that glisten
in our clasped yet outheld hands—
the being all-you-are that listens,
speaks, and deeply understands.
 

***
 

28 September 2001
 

The Thawing Icicle Song
 

Through the beat of dripping water
we are speaking:  Hear us say,
We bring word of swiftly thawing
landscapes where true dreamers play
hymn-to-midnight music on a
single fast-vibrating string
of ice-white silver.  We were drawn to
hear those splendid measures sing
directly through an open window
under these, the very eaves
from which the world we’re turning into
still depends.  The flowery leaves
of summer under midnight’s spellbound
sky of silver moonlight play
aloud here now.  We’ve come to tell you—
everything you’re soon to say.
 

***
 

29 September 2001
 

Clear
 

Stars, come down like tiny needles.
Touch the ground through me.
I am leaking like a tree whose
leaves have ceased to be
so prematurely, they are green and
shed and I am dripping.  See
the color of the blood I bleed and
weep it through and into me,
the clarity of starlight streaming
down.  Your piercing eyes will be
the reason I leave off this dream and
learn the starry way to see.
 

***
 

30 September 2001
 

Yours Are More Than Human Words
 

Drawing down a leafy silence
after many singing words
whose flights describe an eerie white and
icy landscape, tiny birds
whose snowflake-feathers render huge and
glimmering the frozen ground
from which I hear faint wisps of music
play throughout me, not a sound
escapes my notice; none is given
out; this is a silent dream
that holds the hush of whitely driven
hunger as its secret theme,
hallucinating ringing silver
calls and feathered whispers.  I
am waking from it—maybe.  Till I
have, I’ll hear the feathers high
above me where a sea of leaves is
shaken by a wind of birds,
 and know that I will hear you speaking
nothing—not in human words.