Virgo, Prose Poems for Tara 


Like the Ascent of the Sun (once there was just the salted sea and you and yes me) 


the northern morns’ mourn like death of life, a silent lamentation if possible. crisp and unwavering darkness and Saturn rules the universe. but, once there was the southern seas, salted of course, and the breezes, a chorus of angels, kissed us and protected us and gave us secret gnosis and mystical insights hardly imagined. and the idea of the tides receded like the tides themselves and we appeared on northern shores again, - oh no! but between the winter lands and the summer lands there was something else, a sign and signal, that waited in your eyes, or rather in a quiet subtle sparkle of light there. this is what to concentrate on, maybe it is your soul. like the right holy scripture, like green chakra, like the special found rain-washed river stone, like the ascent of the sun. 


sky and earth

the long sky, wide also, infinite in fact, and down here opaque for the mist and fog. mysterious. grey. a dream. the silhouettes of certain birds seen out of the corner of the eye, quick, fast, darting, agile, gnostic, full of strength and wisdom. then gone back into the firmament beyond the tree line, the hidden worlds. and the earth. what of it? rain makes long snake-like shapes in the precious and precarious snow. everything melting. fields. loams. tree farms. wooden fences. beige. brown. sometimes stones water washed, hundreds. fallen trees for old summer and winter storms. strange mushrooms watch the worlds out there. step and step. the structure of peculiar shrubs or wildflowers that froze in mid-growth as if waiting for something. the talk of the little streams loquacious. ravine. woodland. do you remember spring, summer, or fall, like old dreams? curving path take me and us under the evergreens that wait and are still, quiet, non-boastful and meditative. verdant. chaparral in the sudden winter wind. 


terra Tara terrene, doncha know the earth is a virgo queen (of the long roads and the sun, or tractors and loams on the edge of the world)


the last of small towns in figurative and literal sunsets. the winter dusk waiting in some line of dusks to have its descent upon vast, vast, impossibly vast lands. also, to a discerning eye, a notification sign affixed to a pole or stick denoting the future conversion of the vast lands to business, residential, or other designations. but first the king winter moment of seconds and years,- roads like causeways and the old barns sometimes peaking up,- hill, flatland, on concrete forms. pastel blue. garden variety red. muted green and also grey. river, lake, estuary. many towns have the same street names. old church. little store. eatery. bus station. outskirts are factory, train tracks, old buildings for lease or sale but some just abandoned,- concrete ghosts and some paper or drape dances in the cold wind alone outside a single pane broken window. way back the tree line, evergreens, birches, other. the ancient sun still strong, slightly warming. feed corn fields. aren’t the dwellers of houses alone, lonesome, melancholic, ruefully ruled by Saturn even on an otherwise sunny Saturday? maybe. maybe not. blackbird. owl. hawk. water flows and other water is frozen. frozen and flow. flow and frozen. I watch the clouds. I look for a sign or marker perhaps metaphysical. I don’t know why. everything crisp and still and clean. the rains and snow have attached to millions of branches and stayed. a sudden gust and a sudden guest. the spirit of some thing that stretches beyond the length of the road, and that lives longer and stronger than the sun itself, and is larger than philosophy religion and all art forms, is watching.


the turquoise telegraph, or of watching the water whimsical


the island was immediately friendly and light, the inhabitants welcoming and joyful. an open aired bus traversed the market framed roads for a while and made for its destination the white sand coastline that married constantly a sea that was first turquoise and then further out, dark hued blue. 


how agile the small fish that swam through there like bits of colourful dream remnants and how atmospheric the myriad clouds that still allowed enough sun to gather upon the small gentle waves and the fine grain sand. sometimes birds could be heard chatting distantly about something and this conversation mingled w/three men softly sounding tin drums, pan drums. 


verdant palm leaves and indigenous shrubs, relaxed people and the noonday ease. the turtles are in the ocean and vessels roam,- motor boats, cruise ships, sailboats, yachts, and the world then is for long moments like a painting pastel and uplifting, meditative and contemplative. watch the turquoise water ripple just a little. can you see it? do you sense it’s mystery that has opened somewhat for you to read? and can the sea be read, discerned, known, like some story or poem, or like a kind letter home? 


the woman, the dreamer, the world 


one time I had a dream and I was beside you walking and you were smiling and at ease. we passed all the people and the people never knew anyone such as you. I do think there was a sea, and the wind in front and trees behind somehow sang songs of magic and visions and prayers. the palm leaves spoke w/the moon. you seemed happy and strong in spirit. slowly in the dream there was some problem and the world became gray and not multi-coloured. and the dream ceased. yet…but…still…nevertheless…one time I had a dream and we didn’t need literature or art or anything because we walked happily. we were our own music. for a moment anyhow. 


You Are the Sun 


there was the super flower blood moon and the nocturnal rains like bad dreams. but you are the sun. there was the world, oh my god and word, how miserable and low, petty and shallow. but you are the sun. there was the witching hour and grey dawn, w/the angel absent and the psychic discord of mean souls in the air. but you are the sun. there was the world frozen, the hopeful and inspiring wildflower of the pastoral field gone long ago, as if it never existed, and I told whoever I could about it’s beauty but nobody believed me at all. but you are the sun. there was dismay, discord, even death and no re-birth, just a thousand bad memories. yet you are the sun. there was the long lonesome sky even the birds gone far away, trading winter’s dark for summer day, and the wind vexatious, the towns unwelcoming and acrimonious, the cities saturnine and sinister. but you are the sun. all the major and minor arcana disappeared save for the Tower card. it painted itself upon the world everywhere. I went to the loam and stream, the sea and lake, the earthy valley and ridge and even to where fires tried to burn brightly. but there was nothing really, truth be known, and I could hardly see the earth. it was as if even day was night. because you are sun. because you are the light.