Ghosts of Love

And when she calls, he’s ready, set to go,
And when he comes, she’s there, prepared to give
Her lips, the world, their universe – although
She gives him all, he cannot all forgive.
She stands inside the threshold of her house,
The door’s ajar, the iron gate’s unlocked;
He floats upon the wind, a flying mouse,
With dreams, full moons and kisses to concoct.
And their embraces just inside the door
Below the moon, within a midnight dream,
Give nothing other than their more and more
Until, at last, all ends with dark’s extreme.
It’s then, at dawn, that he remembers that
If he’s the mouse, then she’s the toothsome cat.

Leda Waiting

Fair Leda waits for her beaked king’s advance
Within her palace on her silky bed
Or draped in moonlight and the moon’s romance
Hard by a lake or river heaven fed –
Or dark in forest and its dappling shield
Where fairies play on branch or swaying leaf
With all the magic of their queen revealed
While her white king comes as a changeling thief –
Or as her supper in a covered dish
That, lifted, shows his tender flesh to her
That, after many kisses, to her wish,
Consumed within an orgiastic blur,
Waits nascent for her mouth to call again
To room or shoreline, wood or dish domain.

Third Avatar, One

Leda Lamour,
Pandora Waiting

This box contains the beauty of the world –
It sits upon my desk untouched in place,
With paisley galaxies or fractals swirled
Upon a dark cerulean embrace.
It is, indeed, so starry to behold
I’m spellbound as I near this little shrine
Where mouldings worked in deeply burnished gold
Frame cobalt walls where whirling rubies shine.
It was a gift from someone I once knew,
Someone I loved, the last I loved, that now
Sits handsome, hard and coldly porcelain – through
Those waiting years I wait to disavow.
So like Pandora, yes, I know I will –
Someday, this sky will break; I wait until.

The Island of the Black Swans

Before my entrance to their magic realm
A pensive lake spreads into shimmering haze,
Then, tethered, two approach; they overwhelm –
With beauty, strength, cob whiteness, they amaze.
We land upon an island in their lake –
They signal that my foot should fall right here;
And as they wait behind, alone, I make
Towards a chapel looming very near.
Inside the gloom, a cobwebbed candle waits
Upon perusal of an open book;
All this – dream candle, gloom, and book – creates

An invitation for a closer look.
I read: “We left this place on Whitsunday;
Come worship us in Oz when end of May.”

Pilgrim's Regress

Although Jack deeply yearned and bravely fought
The serpent dragon of his soul’s torment,
From all his pilgrim travels, all he brought
Were portmanteaus of disillusionment.
He’d walked barefoot the Santiago Trail,
And climbed Lourdes’ holy stairs upon his knees,

But, everywhere, though feeling every nail
Of sun and light, his sleep produced disease.
At night, Jack travelled to far fields ablaze
With singing flowers loud with every hue;
Then in these dreams, a distant wood in haze
Would lose him and obscure his starry view.
And sinking into softness, he’d awake
With Venus rising sans that common ache.

Second Avatar, Seven

Earl Pascoe,
Difficulty with Birds

The bird in flight calls me upon its wing
As it itself, for its unbounded ride;
Its beauty turns and cuts; it swells to sing,
Just when I shut my eyes and turn aside.
On raising them again, the bird has left –
All that remains is infinitely blue;
But still impressed upon my eyes, where it once cleft:
A shadow haunts, its presence breaking through.
I want to be a wolf heard by the moon,
I want to be a tiger of the dark,
I want the stars to see, recoil and swoon
Before my howl, shriek, growl, bay, bawl or bark.
But I choose to confine that that I saw
And watch the moving skies as through a straw.

Jerome and the Flower Maidens

The fairy girls behind a daisy’s leaf
Stare, jostle, stumble, wave, jump, call, and point
Toward me as I look for my relief
Upon a silver tree and mushroom’s joint.
“Why do you call?” I ask, and one responds,
“We know the little guy who lives within
That mushroom there. He’s gone to gather fronds
For some dread spell. Oh, fear, boy, his chagrin.”
But I continue to anoint with gold
The absent fairy man’s proud little home
In spite of every scary thing I’m told
About this magic guy they call Jerome.
It ends, I shake, and just as he appears,
His mushroom home collapses into tears.