A Night to Dance, Part One

Here up on the balcony
the sounds below seem
as far as the ocean in a desert,
with just the barest vibrations
humming their way up
the spiral staircase
and through the thick curtains.
It is a pleasant waltz
the band is playing now,
a familiar one from my childhood
that I used to daydream to,
imagining a night
much like this one,
with the ballroom full to bursting,
soft silks and ruffled lace
like gossamer adorning all the
fashionable ladies' corset-made forms,
crystal goblets delicately tinkling
and jeweled skirts and necks
twinkling in the starlight,
and the soft murmur
of conversation in the garden.
Tonight, it seems,
is a fulfillment of that long-held
dream of childish fantasy.

And yet, all is not
as I would have it;
for there is, in my heart,
an element missing.

Despite my efforts
to plunge myself into the
massive shifting ocean of taffeta
and lace,
notwithstanding my attempts
to converse intelligently with
the great lords and ladies,
in spite of endeavoring to appear
as the great and gentle hostess
and lady that my mother
had reared me to be,
not one of the faces I encountered
possessed a single line
in their visage that bespoke
a friendly, amiable disposition,
but rather the polar opposite
of contempt, disdain,
and a vicious foible
to smoothly lie and deceive
in order to gain a higher placement
with the loftier nobility.

Gazing out upon
the winking garden lights,
I find my spirits sinking ever lower,
ever deeper,
reducing so to the point
that the beginnings of salty diamonds
appear in the corner of my eyes.
A sigh escapes my lungs,
a silent plea to the passive night
to release me from this
involuntary isolation.

Just as I resign
to a night of seclusion,
a rustle of the embroidered drapery
catches my sharp attention.
From behind the cloth divider
appears the greatest glimmer of hope
that I have had all evening,
which appears to me
the most beautiful and heroic form.

It is a young man,
about my own age,
muscular and trim,
and finely dressed to boot.
His hair is wavy and thick,
falling across his clear forehead
in the most pleasant way possible,
just above a pair of the most
exotic and expressive eyes
in a hue most akin to the ocean on
a perfect sunny day in a tropical cove.

A Line

keep calm when life happens

as it does most days of the year

Marsh Lights

How gently now the lights do bob
up and down in the balmy air
suspended by naught in sight-
neither hand nor sconce
doth claim the golden glow.

"Watch carefully, my son, and note
the pattern and habit of these
the floating lights.
Can you see- now, there it is!-
see that one that winked out
and in again?"

"I see it, papa, I truly do;
and is it always so with these?"

"Always, dear boy, since
a time before- long before-
you had ever a thought
of entering this enchanted world."

"But what is it that holds them there?
Is there a rope from which these
lamps do swing? A piece of fairy gossamer
that keeps them steady in the air?"

"I do not know, I cannot tell.
I am so sorry, my dear son. This
has ever been a mystery, and even
the wisest men in town do not possess
the knowledge which you seek."

"But Grandpapa- he knows, yes?
I heard him speak of it not a day ago.
He said that these are the lights
of the dead, the spirits that protect
our home, our village, our family
from the evil that lurks within the bog."

"Grandpapa is a such a storyteller;
he was a bard, you know, when
he traveled the land."

"But is he right?"

"I suppose he is, in part...
Yes, in part he is correct, at least,
so far as any village myths are concerned.
Legends tell of a hero long ago
who rescued an entire city
from a grave and terrible destruction.
In return, their spirits guard his tomb."

"Who was the hero, papa?
Do I know him?"

"He would not be in your lessons,
son."

"Then he was not famous?"

"Not enough for a school book, no."

"I should think such a deed
would be worthy of the praises
of the entire world! If I were him,
I should want my name known
throughout the villages and towns
across the plains and hills and oceans."

"Indeed, his act was worthy of such note."

"Why did he not spread the news?"

"I think he preferred to remain
a humble, unknown doer of good,
my son."

"Well, I think he is great, greater
than any wise man in the town."

"Me too, son."

How gently now the lights do bob
up and down in the balmy air
guarding the secret
of the shallow marsh
wherein their savior doth lie.

Excerpt from my "Verse for the Road"

Outside my door today I found

a winding path that led too far for my eyes to see,

just wide enough for me and a few thoughts to gather.

So I set off with a spring in my step,

the lure of adventure and mystery leading on

to strange roads and long-forgotten avenues.

How Beautiful the Day

How beautiful the day
when the sun rises early
in a splendor of mango
and strawberry cream,
and the sky lightens
from a deep, pensive slumber
to an ocean in suspension
over the earth
with streaks of clouds
like cotton and paint
smeared across its dyed canvas,
and the silhouettes of trees-
dark and joyous shadows
that they are-
reveal their true colors
in a brilliant display of springtime,
drops of sparkling diamond dew
still clinging to each budding pine,
each delicate vein,
and a ruffle of warmth
flows through the wild meadow,
where daffodils, lilies, and violets
have just taken root, striving
to make their way past
the moist, fertile earth,
heavy with that early-morning shower,
a daily gift which spring presents
in modesty and pleasure,
accompanied at times
with a gentle, soothing zephyr,
or, when she is passionate,
a roaring gale and sprinkling hail,
overshadowed with thunderheads
dark with anticipation and excitement,
and a flash of violet lightning too,
just to accentuate
her token of coming.
How beautiful the day
when the world spins round its axis
at its leisure, letting the seasons
come and go in perfect liberty,
and all things come to a close
with a matchless sunset
sinking in grapefruit and pomegranate,
giving way to a violet sky
painted with roses and
scattered with gems
sparkling and glimmering across
the dark expanses of the endless
mystery called space-
empty, perhaps, but certainly filled
with pictures sketched by the gods
of their favored mortals, lively still,
and trailing through the heavens
each unique history and tale,
legends of old-
this, then, is the grandest end
to the grandest beginning
of the grandest day
that ever was,
a mere score and four hours long,
but lingering still
in the memory of those who
took the time
to cherish each moment,
each grand moment,
which then can be retold
and enjoyed, in part,
by the next generation, and
posterity ever after, until
the most perfect day that ever was
comes again
in the most perfect beginning,
entering in quietly, nobly, gloriously,
continuing in such a fashion,
until the most perfect end,
the most perfect sunset, arrives
in a matching nobility and glory,
falling into a perfect,
quiet,
noble,
glorious
grave.