A STILLNESS JUST BEFORE MORNING

 McClelland Barkeley

Atkinson Grimshaw 1836-1893

Here is a poem from my forthcoming book from Crisis Chronicles Press, Cleveland Ohio. The cover and interior artwork is by Gozion.  It should be out soon.  About  66 pages.

A STILLNESS JUST BEFORE MORNING

There is certain majesty

That lives still in the

Highest places where

There remain the palaces

And magic lands of story

Books.  Birds of light,

Even golden light and

Clouds of many colors

Piled up against each other.

The whole place seems a

Stage for fairy tales

And diadems. Oh single

Rose, oh song of the day

Is true and of fair

Maidens and spells and

The best of manners

These things grew.

*

We were sitting on the edge

Of the meadow just 

Where it begins to lift

Toward the high lakes and

The stoney outcroppings and

Small woods and copses.

A certain crystalline glaze of colors

Was left wandering across the

Best of evening.  I was

Going to chase it but found myself

Full of a sadness

That may have been of the season

But probably had thicker roots.

Something prompted by the color

Of the day? What the breeze had said?

(A flush of quail showing pure gold

And amethyst with silver beaks, ruby eyes.)

The sky a million doors

Opening and closing constantly.

All is revealed.  All is concealed.

Even the continents moved

Beneath our feet.

O trees, oh grace of

The dream revealed.

We walk among you as you

Do among us,  The brink

Shines upon us every minute.

The light moving.  Oh, its

Jagged lines across the

Edge of the horizon,

Just above the ground.

These trees move.  They are

Not stone.  I have seen

Them migrate through

The tongues of sailor songs

Touching the edges of the clouds

At night.

And when they thought,

They thought in trance

And could not be harmed,

For the grace of protection

Kept them safe from all danger.

In this state they could

Travel and rule without

Being seen to have moved.

Such was the gift of trancing.

It was rain, or it was fog.

It was lifting from the streets.

It was lifting from the fields.

I could stand here all night

And talk to you about

Which roads came down

From the mountains,

Which ones led to the cities

Or the sea, where we were

Required to be blind and

At what moment we must

Open both our eyes to sea.

And you shall be golden in the morning.

And the light will pour down on you.

And there will be millions 

Of drops of water in the air.

And they may or may not

Have come from tears.

Or they may or may not

Just have blown here 

By some wind.

Just as we may or may

Not have been where we

Woke this morning and

Saw the fog or the rain

Or the tears of an entire

Nation as we sat without moving. 

A BLUE TRANSPARENT LAKE THAT WAS OUR LIVES

A BLUE TRANSPARENT LAKE THAT WAS OUR LIVES

There, right where the clouds are

Coming apart, see, it’s blue, a perfect

Blue like drowning or almost drowning,

When the stillness comes upon one believing

You have made a wish, trying to convince

You that it really has something here,

Something you will want.  It will teach 

You to remember, so it says, so it says.

I trail my fingers in the river as the boat

Moves down the river.  See, just up ahead

The night is putting that cloud in our way

So we think that it is dressing.  You point

Out the stars and we do not notice that

The sky has turned completely black.

I start to weep but you tell me there will be more

Stars shortly and perhaps a moon.  Swarms

Of insects fly around the lantern you have lit.

“Don’t worry.”, you say, “They will not bite you.

They have only come to see the light.  Soon

They will fly to the stars.”  I don’t believe you,

Deciding that this is all a mirror and I am on

One side of it and you are on the other. 

Finally, nothing is reflected.  I believe I can

Hear you breathing and gaze hard at the glass.

It is like we have been cut in half and no one

Has noticed this, least of all ourselves.

I begin to sing you a song.  It is very beautiful

But we do not even speak the same language

And you are unable to know what is being said.

The moon is about to rise.  You hold my hand,

Point to the dark at the tops of the trees

Where it is just coming into view.  The clouds

Make it look red for awhile, then an intense yellow. 

Right then: We decide we both have been dreaming.