Midsummer

 
 
 
Of course you come to listen.
My tales tell your secrets.
Whispered primal code from vivid crystal.
Warmly floating on cool jazz,
mellow wine
intimate little garden party
‘midst harvests of simpler time.
Back from the rabbit hole.
Back from New York City, Boston,
Detroit, LA …
from always another backstabbing
grind everyday.
Rewind, recall.
Fog dense morning walking
along a rocky roadside,
unruly hair, distant eyes.
Fall
into
song singing hallelujahs,
place of play, haunted
by happy memories
exhorting sunlight.
Midsummer early twilight,
fairytales brought back from sleep.
Sprinting across that abyss,
tiny images, hungry ghosts.
No longer keeper of my brethren’s sorrows,
I don mischievous costume,
stamp out power, glory,
love gentle as a summer evening’s rain.
Blossoming countryside,
dandelions and clover,
bounty of Earth blooms in stories.
Listless children whine
“Why does no one let us play?”
A world of sullen children
overdue for naps and coddling,
blueberry jam at teatime.
Flowering prophets,
delectable, potent, wise
in the ways of demons,
oracles, gypsy Queens,
ascend into sacred muse-ways.
Every day a new day,
standing ground against a grinding
down to profit’s dust.
It can’t be a secret
if nobody’s listening.
But, listen:
places in your mind
will answer.
 
Each bounding leap more distant.
Inviting opulence, opening vistas
vastly
flowering.
.
.
.
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