Wednesday, August 15, 2012

A Sensorial Reckoning

I can see the freckles of light spackled subtly across the canvassed sky
Soft yellow soirees mingle contentedly with lavender dreams while maroon tinged eyes examine the sepia tinted clippings intently arranged in separation, scattering adjacent images unto distant frames of grey…

Unremarkable scents stir forth the borrowed time, mahogany blended aftershave musky in apparition, begs, for forgiveness, as the lilies and lavender shun, offering only follicular lilting, as the answers dispersed throughout the directionless wind.

The coarseness of the carpentry, return our illustrations to the evenings spent under moon-tipped stars, prominently peering through the old dilapidated toolshed where he’d tinker, until dawn anoints a new day upon the dwindling moments left by last nights staid.

…tis the moment all time paused except for one.  With all the glittering composure of enthusiastic fireflies lightening the dark dales beside the summer woods, she danced in hovering sidesteps and through symbols situated mostly upon the waves often surfed moments before dreams fully inhabited the imaginations that swirl about your head.  Rhythmically nonchalant, as you appear to every gaze that is not mine, focus can only make pretend, what the taste would be in actuality.

The synapse fires, pulsating forth infatuation through the rationally nervous protector the romantics inside so desperately despise.

…and watching the room move anew, a dizzy bluster reels the soul, into tracts of disbelief…fore when the eyes gained balance once more, it was as if, her ambiance never had appeared at all

If she had, I would’ve known, for my skin always glistened when she grew close, building sweetly until the space between was impossible to define…

Every year, at this time, I envision this empty space, complete as it was five years before, swimming with inhabitance, full as it ever was, alive, with humanity celebrating the music of the time

Every year, at that moment, the space again returns, as it was, with you gliding across the room, dancing upon the fairies dust invisible to the eyes, all, that is, but mine

And as the seconds merge into the last recalled, the field grows back to how it appears to all who pass it now, empty, replete with dandelions and tall weeds, ever a reminder why I allowed repression to steal from me, those moments alone, in the dark of your sedan, anticipating the evening yet to come, where two would unite entirely becoming singular and one

But I remember nonesuch visions painted besides that shore, overturned and crawling, overtaken by instinct, instinct which would revert to guilt, eyes blinded from the smoke and flame…I do not dare remember…my voice calling out for you, but for the first and only time, your refusing to return my call…and the scene that would soon fill, blanket placed about my shoulders, a cotton I felt nothing for, as ghosts tended to the wounds accrued…but where, where were you….I do not remember them spending two days before they declared the permanent void that forever devours each my waking days…I remember none of the events that followed, the decorative but empty pine, lowered deep beneath the upturned ground…Nor the faces of the townsfolk, as if, this was partly my fault…Never recalling her father, chastising me, so vehemently, for never having been worthy of her love, that there never would have been such a day, if I did not so passionately pursue her in such convincing ways…I do not remember purchasing this property, these endless fields, overflowing high for evermore, an endeavor miles long, the creek and that shore, the trees and this beautifully fucked up sky…I cannot remember…NO, I choose to not, cry, not a single tear, for if I would dare to do such a deed, all hope of a return would disappear and overrun me as these weeds do this field…

That is but a part of me…for the other refuses to remember, as such events never happened, and as for the rationale resident to the rest, well that, I never cared to examine, for lately, it does seem, that decisions are something I don’t do best, for I adamantly swear to any and all who still, choose to lend their ears to my words, that every morning I still hear your laughter, still envelop in your scent, feel your arms caressing as they always had, and then, from time to time, more the often than the naught, I am positive I still catch your sight, dancing, gleaming brilliantly amongst the wildflowers under the serenade of an ever luminescent night time sky.

I thought I'd share this piece of prose poetry that I'd been working on a little here and there over the past couple weeks.  What started as one thing, took on a life of it's own and a story materialized.  Hope you all enjoyed.

It's Tuesday, well it was a few hours ago, but still, Open Link Night is still in full swing.  Stop on over to D'Verse to join the party, read all the amazing poetry on display and hey, if you feel inspired, which I'm certain you will, write a poem or prose poem and share it for everyone to enjoy.  Cheers.


  1. a very sensory read indeed with the inclusion of the colors, scents, thick with emotions actually that they jump from the page...esp. loved...If she had, I would’ve known, for my skin always glistened when she grew close, building sweetly until the space between was impossible to define.... a felt write fred

  2. Awww... fairies, moonlight, fireflies, the fires of passion. Depression, Lost love. The pain of losing love is like no other. Deep thoughts here Fred. Amazing write.

  3. smiles....really nice scene to end on the imaginings of them still dancing in that field....def lots of emotion, moderns but on some levels this has some very classical touches as well....felt longing....nice...

  4. It's an amazing thing, isn't it, when one of our creations acquires a life of its own, grows beyond the boundaries we thought we'd set for it, surprising even ourselves.

  5. Wow that was very story esque indeed. Should write a book at your feed. Stuck with the emotions lingering and wanting to tell all who will hear can be a cruel fate indeed.

  6. Wow, Fred--I was thinking this was all flowing along in the Impressionist vein, lovely pictures and sweet nostalgia and phrases like "offering only follicular lilting," for backbone--then we get the Poe treatment, often imitated, never duplicated, as the saying goes, but when true homage to it is incorporated as part of the muse, it comes out in its own way, as here, still alive and full of pain, longing and an austere, decorative (as it were) horror. Like this very much.

  7. you paints such a vivid and captivating picture.

    "the space between...swimming with inhabitance...alive" I can't say what it is about this, but it's as if I can feel her myself.

    the end took my breath away. hauntingly beautiful.