in the wake of dreams

my head held high 
my stance deliberate
in order to command upon the sea
the destination that this vessel seeks
I wear my confidence arranged and bold
a Monarch's gown bound
tight around my heart
embellished with embroideries of gold
with skirts that fall
to sweep the heavy deck
I cloak my battle wounds in quarantine
my thoughts and plans
my agonies and tears
protected by the armor of a Queen
 
with silks and linens lifted from my skin
and my defense undone I disappear
an Empress only visible adorned
and no pride for the princess deep within
my past will soak the pillow and my mind
will lay there questioning
how I should dare
to claim to be an heir inheriting
the right to name my journey after me
yet I will point
my compass on a star
and dress myself in my authority

before the night
there blooms a buoyant day
behind the sails
there leans a lusty wind
beneath the hull the frothy sea is cold
and there is turmoil in the wake of dreams
but I possess the garments of a Queen.
beside the sea two stones in the sand
one jasper warmed within my grasp
restitution never reimbursed
the verdict is mine, my accidental life
is claimed by me

ghostly and ungraspable man
shrouded from reality what have you done
relinquished trust and signed your name
in ruthless disregard cold-blooded and unjust

an agate washed clean of volcanic skin
- that fiery womb that hardened cold 
and unforgiving -
my existence held up to the light
irregular and lovely and unshared

I speak this pain and she responds
semi-precious words in her warm hands
this tug of war is not a game
with teams of hearty men 
or teams of laughing children
my idea of what defines a man will fight
mismatched against the power of who you are
until you are completely gone
perception smooth and fixed in my palm
your death like amber 
honey colored and imperfect

she finds truth for I have grieved 
it in advance the man I lost
before his child was ever born

Of “Troublous Dreams” and ”Truth of Valor”

(King Lear and Henry V, by William Shakespeare)

My dreams continue to unfold within the setting of my childhood. The tall old house, white and peeling in a ragged yard, is the stage. It stands narrow and imposing in dilapidated imitation the open air Elizabethan Theatre that joined its neighborhood when the house had already seen the drama of 35 years. The story is confusing, as if the players have individually chosen which act they will perform, responding to each other with the wrong words and gestures. Incongruous even within themselves, they flit among the scenes undirected while the me-child seems to constantly throw them off by reciting the correct lines.

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Of Color and Contemplation

The bed is covered in a sheet of plastic and the low bookcase is shoved to one side so that two walls are unobstructed. I wind my way carefully toward those walls with a wet brush and a small tray of paint while strategizing the next moves in the furniture game that will provide access to the remaining walls. It is a puzzle and it occurs to me that there is too much furniture in this house. I scowl inwardly in frustration and then laugh. Yes, there is too much furniture. I just like furniture! Admitting this to myself opens up memories and my mind wanders through them as I work the rich color into the heavily textured plaster. 

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