Yesterday, I dozed
in the mid-afternoon heat.
I awoke to find myself
lying on my arm & wrist.
And for a full fifteen minutes
my fingers were numb
& wouldn't work.
And my wrist wouldn't
hold upright
the weight of my hand.
This morning I awoke
at 6.12am,
without an alarm.
I was asleep.
I am not sleeping
anymore.
It is time to get to work,
begin the dream;
Dream the dream.
You know the one,
the one with
eyes opened wide.
Start
what it is
I came here to do.
It took me
nineteen years
to get back here.
The world is watching...
The world is waiting...
Begin.
Now.
This morning I awoke
at 6.12am,
without an alarm.
I was asleep.
I am not sleeping
anymore.
And you're no longer
the first thing I think of
when I awake.
It took me
nineteen years
to get back here.
It took me
nineteen years
to
get
back
here.
(c)Brent M Harpur, 2012.
- for E.S.
"Here we lie, waiting for something to startle, to shake us from gravity's pull. And so the sleeping hours are through. What can we do? / So loosen your shoulderblades. This is your hour to make do. Because there on the timberline, deep cold November shines through, soft and absolute."
'Cocoon.' Words (c) Colin Meloy,The Decemberists.
Tonight,
while we sleep,
our blankets will tug at the foots of our beds;
threatening to
(all at once)
fly skyward through
half-opened windows
& block out the stars.
The bucket fountain
in Cuba Mall will cry
a few more joyfilled, sad tears
before morning.
The tiled streets that you called your home,
they are a littler emptier now.
Can you hear
the Capital's wind singing
just for you
a long overdue
song of redemption?
May you find a new street corner
in the fiery heavens,
just below the Southern Cross.
Here, the Maker
will weave anew
for you
a new blanket
out of comets' tails,
supernovas
& bleeding constellations.
Kia-Kaha, Ben.
Rest easy now,
forgive yourself,
and know
that while you made these
streets your home,
You were
a King amongst men.
- For Ben Hana, 'Blanket Man'.
(c) Brent M Harpur, 15/1/2012.
"Much of your pain is self chosen: It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you
heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, & drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy & hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the
Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears."
- Khalil Gibran.
and there is
still
a tiny piece
of you
in everything
I do.
someone once told me
that every
relationship we have
gifts us something
&
equally
takes something away.
I hope you liked the movie photos.
I bought them
the day you got the job.
I so wanted to keep them
for myself,
but everytime I looked at them,
they reminded me
of you...
And last Xmas,
sitting by your side,
while you intensely looked
at a movie poster
of 'the Dark Crystal'.
I felt a tingle,
goosebumps in my hair,
intuition,
or perhaps
a good disturbance in the Force.
There's a partial eclipse today.
It got me thinking:
Why is it so easy
to find company,
but so much harder to find
someone
that wants
to share
their life with you?
So much has happened in the last eight weeks!
I am blessed.
Blessed beyond belief!
I have more in my life
right now
than I have ever had.
And I'm
finally back in that place
I was (in June of last year):
Truly living in the moment.
And there is
still
a tiny piece
of you
in everything
I do.
(c) Brent M Harpur, 2011.
"Wings? I don't have wings."
"Of course not! You're a boy!!"
(Jen & Kira, 'The Dark Crystal'.)
I was blessed
(cursed?)
with
a head that
thinks
too much
& a heart that
feels
too much.
although
(I have discovered)
kissing
seems to be
a healthy
method of distraction
from the two.
and it appears
(of late)
my lips have been blessed
to discover
another great kisser!
(c) Brent M Harpur, 2011.
"Then I did the simplest thing in the world. I leaned down... and kissed him. And the world cracked open."
Agnes De Mille
if it
is indeed true
that we
forget what it is
we really want to remember
and remember
what we'd rather forget
then let me
write this down,
on today of all days,
so this ink
and
this paper
shall remember
long after I forget.
I remember...
blue paper butterflies
dancing in the tree,
mud cake & ice cream
melting in late afternoon sun,
a woollen picnic blanket,
your yellow dress,
you complementing my red shirt,
Oliver Jeffers,
a tiny bottle of bubbles
and the delight in discovering
why I hadn't bought you that book
finding another believer
in the (last) known Gospel
according to Theodore Geisel.
From afar,
wherever you are
on this very
auspicious day...
I wish you:
MANY
HAPPY
RETURNS.
(c) Brent M Harpur, 11/11/2011.
"So, be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So... get on your way!"
(Dr. Seuss)
And I long
for that ancient
astronomer's song;
I turn my telescope
inward,
beneath skin
and chest
and bone...
You shine
oh so brightly in there,
my dear!
Oh!
To kiss you in that place
when Van gogh painted
'Starry Starry Night'.
You know the place I mean:
That sacred place,
where paint-stained brush
it kisses the blank canvas
for the very first time.
But until
your tender fever burn &
eventual return;
the first bird of dawn,
its sweet song
will be all to keep me warm
come distant morning.
And, as I close my eyes,
maybe tonight
I'll be entertained by your company
(and sweet touch) -
In slumber.
For, since tasting
your lips
that (first) sweet time,
I now:
live in dream
and
dream in life.
(is this what it feels like to be a Pisces star?)
I relax (a little)
in comfort, knowing...
that even though
(from this earthbound window
& failing cornea)
I cannot see your star:
I sense (by intuition alone)
that you are out there...
Spinning!
Dancing!!
Shining!!!
Igniting the heavens
in a million shades of
purple, red & blue!
Beyond compare!! -
All the other stars in the night sky
pale (and quiver and sigh)
by your
wondrous
& unique beauty.
And
even though
I have a funny way of showing it
(in my shy & private way):
I am truly blessed
to have you here...
in my
slightly
expanding
universe. *
(c) Brent M Harpur, 2011.
* PS: (I make no apologies at this point for appearing the sentimental fool...)
"If the Sun and Moon should ever doubt/
They'd immediately go out."
(William Blake)
i.
Oh!
Precious night, she trembles!!
Star-fire
light my way.
If I'm not destined
to move inside her
heavenly skies tonight,
let me instead lie here
- close, yet far...
At her gentle-loud side.
Drink from fierce tide
& ragged constellation;
Sup from heavenly core,
leave her wanting
more.
Remember:
Tongue in bellybutton,
fingers in mouth,
lips nibbling ear,
warm breath on perfect back.
Let me
feast upon her shame,
replace it with
fiery-wet kisses & heart tremors;
Oh! Precious night,
she trembles!!
Goosebumps rise,
a perfect disguise:
Sun rise,
Sun set,
Sun rise!!
I can feel her heart beating
in her fingerprints.
Taste her DNA in the salty sweat
on her swan-like neck.
Catch a glimpse of heaven now
in her star-fire eyes.
Her touch ignites this blank canvas.
ii.
God, he has forsaken me -
or perhaps I him?
But maybe (through her) he has returned?
Her kisses awaken me,
like Lazarus.
Maybe he is offering this heathen
one last chance
(one last heavenly dance)...?
To see.
And to walk together,
hand in trembling hand;
skip, run, laugh, sing
& have a picnic
(feast on unending avocado & mango):
Here,
in Paradise's Garden.
Oh!
Precious night, she trembles!!
Star-fire
light my (her/our)
way.
(c) Brent M Harpur, October, 2011.
(This is not a poem. Merely words that I recently transcribed from the goosebumps/braille that rose on someone's perfect shoulders & upper back, while giving them a massage...)
"I'm an hour from arriving,
Three from where I rose to go -
And maybe two from where I'll find you,
Between the world and all I know."
(Joe Henry)
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