messages: august

Chapter 8 of my book: "An owl on the moon..."

A furnace of fire erupts

with cascading heat

and burning breezes.

 

     At a cricket’s call the front door cries open and two figures pass presently into the lobby.  Above all thunder their movements speak.  Quiet shudder.  Voices silent.

     “Sir?”  he speaks.  “I would like a room for my daughter.  She will be here six nights.”

     Candles burn and drift through the pale clouds in her eyes, yet her mouth is still.  Her hands, once more in motion, speak words incomprehensible to me.  She picks up a pen and in ink her life is etched: Silence.

     “She is quite able to attend to herself.  Please let her do so.”  This her father says with quiet assurance.

     The scent of dust and ash breathes through the doors and she speaks farewell with streams and flowing motion.

 

Her voice is as silent as dust on the wind,

but her hands and her eyes speak the verse.

 

     The blue expanse drifts across as she grasps her key and the transparent man melts from sight in the heat.  I bow my knee under the fire of the furnace.  This wind, a screaming flame, scalds my face and assaults my lungs.

     All seems white as the waves are silenced.  I stumble to my door.  Consuming heat blankets my body as I lie on my bed and swallow the salt of my skin.

          I close my eyes...

 

     Silent circling seabirds stroke the air.  Beneath their shadows granite statues line the shore.

     This girl with her golden hair speaks with her eyes and hands but I cannot hear.  The brilliance of light engulfs us.

 

Alabaster walls;

a cardinal ceiling.

Solemn statues fill the void.

I turn to her eyes.

Eyes of hunger, eyes of rage,

a dying horror in a cage.

Freedom cries without a voice;

a muted scream to stain her choice.

 

     “Be honest in your waking times or the truth will haunt your dreams.”

     “You speak...I did not know you were able.”

     “I have always spoken.  You simply could not understand.  But I am dream fabric here.  In this place, the impossible is probable.  This moment is yours.”  With this she turns to face a statue and becomes stone.

     “Please.  Would you speak to me again?  Why do I find you here?” I say.  “Here in this wasteland I am barren and empty.  Have you no word for me?”

     Grey stone becomes flesh.

 

“A pebble thrown in a pool

may ripple from end to end,

but tossed into the sea,

it is swallowed by enormity.”

 

     A screaming silence surrounds us.  The waves claw the shore in hushed strokes.  My words claw at my throat.  “In silent words, you speak so much.”

     “And you, though you speak volumes, say precious little.  Don’t you know that words are actors set in motion, and you are the playwright.  They can create a mood of harmony or destroy peace in violent isolation.  Words are civilians or soldiers; artists or autocrats; worshippers or pagans.  They make you rich or sell you into poverty.  Master them and you rule, or be mastered by them and serve.”  She pauses as if in reflection.

     “Words can sway the masses; words can sway your own soul.”

     I turn my back to the sea.  Its’ salt is sour.  “What minded madness!  Is life so opaque that you must war against it?

 

To sense the fire, to see the flame;

to taste the ashes that fill your shame.

Your fire is fragrant but the flame is pale,

the ink on the pages of your pungent tale.”

 

     As she turns away, the statues topple on the shore, and all fades to white and whispers.

 

      I open my eyes...

     Through my window stoops the silent girl.  She kneels on the shore collecting shells and sea dust.  My hand on the glass frames her figure and halts her movement, if for a moment.

     I pass into approaching night to speak to her.  Even the ocean seems hushed.  She turns to me startled, then rests on the reeds.  Her smile dances with her eyes.

     “Can you really speak to me,” I say, truly expecting my vision to become enfleshed.  She looks up at me, then motions with her hands for me to sit beside her.  Then her motions speak.

     “Your words are motion and rhythm, like the words of the sea.”  She takes out a pad of paper and a pen and she writes:

     “The words of the sea - So beautiful.”

     “You can read my words, but can you read my thoughts as well?” I ask.

     She writes again and turns to me. 

     “You are afraid.  Your eyes tremble.  Do I frighten you?”  Her honesty disturbs my heart.  I turn and gaze beyond her eyes to speak.

     “No, you do not frighten me.  You alone seem to be at peace on this shore.  Why have you come to my wasteland?  Are you an oasis that travels on wind?”

     She smiles, placing the palm of her hand on her head.  She then writes again with quick, dark strokes.

     “Providence is the strongest wind.”  With this she stands and walks into the sea.

      In muffled moments the light flees the coming darkness, and clouds hurry to stifle the sun.  Her figure is draped in night as the waves absorb her shadow.

     Daniel Wirth strides the winded path and stands above me.

     “The sun had left no air to breathe,” he says, now noticing the silent girl dancing in the darking sea.  “Could an ancient Siren have said more?”

     “She is no sailor spirit, only blood in flesh,” I respond.  “But she can read my transparency. In her silence she has peace.”  In a moment a wave swallows her, then I see her body rise above the cresting foam.

     Daniel and I walk toward the inn, and he speaks.

 

“Leave your summering senses,

and wander the shimmering heights.

Here in the sheltered silence,

take unnatural, winged flight.

Birth comes to all by nature,

but walking must be learned.

So holding to the future,

climb the sacred staircase spurned.”

 

      There is a quiet pause, then I speak

.

“The waning day in a golden hue

has passed us by, and spoken little.

My eyes did not see a dozen blessings,

and my ears could not hear the holy hushings.

When will the dust be sanctified?

And when will death be defeated?

The summer is silenced and I am still a hollow echo.”

 

     Daniel pauses as he glances at the moon’s rusting reflection. He steps away, but speaks in hushed tones:

 

“The wind has no voice.

Its muted strain is movement,

in chords of shifting silence.

And through breathless rhythm

and measureless melody,

it plays across earth’s landscape.

Even here, the mundane gives birth to the mysterious.”

 

     We rest beside the sea in wonder, waiting for the stars to lace the moon.

 

Reviews

[Pax]

A puzzling start to a magical amusing conversation with these strange being…

“be honest in your waking times or the truth will haunt your dreams”
~ I say this again wow, what a deep insight that buried deep within me.... so profoundly true, for it will create an image in our head over and over till we got used to it and becomes numb to the aching pain…

“the impossible is probable”
~ yes, indeed… it’s just a matter on how we cope-up with the impossible times…

“In silent words, you speak so much.” “And you, though you speak volumes, say precious little. Don’t you know that words are actors set in motion, and you are the playwright. They can create a mood of harmony or destroy peace in violent isolation. Words are civilians or soldiers; artists or autocrats; worshippers or pagans. They make you rich or sell you into poverty. Master them and you rule, or be mastered by them and serve.”
~ this speak so much that it makes me breathless because of its in-depth motion of words…. What a brilliant poet you are my friend… what an awesome insight it is I found here… our words heals us but at the same time it can be our destroyer… no matter what, the answers are just within us if we serve or we are the masters of our creation… we just have to see and feel it through our heart with a little help with our mind…

“Providence is the strongest wind”
~ I believe so as well…

“When will the dust be sanctified?
And when will death be defeated?
The summer is silenced and I am still a hollow echo.”
~I felt you here in full blown… like why, why must be my life in a hollowed echo… well my friend your sadness in this chapter is dripping with emotion that I can’t comprehend maybe because of its depth that you dug deep within you…

I want to say you are strong and very creative person, you have dealt with your hollow pain and letting it drip through your pen… I say your awesome and brilliant…
A shinning topaz!!!
You are the master of your words my dear friend…
Be strong and hopeful like you always have….

[Jenny Nelson]

“Be honest in your waking times or the truth will haunt your dreams.”

...In so many ways, for sure. I've always loved the name Daniel, that's why I have a son named that. You're writing is just so descriptive. I can see it in my head as if I'm watching a play.

[Tracie Skarbo]

"And you, though you speak volumes, say precious little. Don't you know that words are actors set in motion, and you are the playwright. They can create a mood of harmony or destroy peace in violent isolation. Words are civilians or soldiers; artists or autocrats; worshippers or pagans. They make you rich or sell you into poverty. Master them and you rule, or be mastered by them and serve."

What a wonderful lesson coming from the mouth of a babe. It is as though she is an old sage come to save him from destruction. Her words are such wonderful wisdom for all of us as we go throughout our day to day...I love the lessons woven in this chapter...again this is brilliant. Going on to the next after dinner...