Big Sky (Part 1)

Barefoot steps on dirt paths carried me deeper into the wooded area where I was greeted by hordes of people slithering between and grazing one another. Their sun-baked faces turned blue in the starlight, contrasting the drench of sepia and terra cotta that soaked their cotton, burlap and linen garb draped across their bodies. Sipping whiskey before gulping fresh air I stopped noticing where my steps were, and following the brightest lamppost made of moonlight I took my gaze toward the sky. I stopped in my tracks and settled, cross-legged, on the mossy mess of dirt and grass, to draw a line connecting all of the silver specks in the sky. Being under Big Sky meant the changing of gratitude swept in overwhelmingly with the changing of the seasons. The rows of trees were not just trees, but homes for little life, simple life, or companions to the dazed people weaving in and out of them looking for the path. People were not just people under Big Sky either, but friends and gentle faces to stop and hug and wish a happy harvest too. In the short distance beyond the clusters of tent cities was a bon fire whose flames stretched upward, so tall they could have reached over the heads of giants.

TDM

Hug from Nonna

I hug my Nonna twice a year:

On her birthday

And on mine

But only because I engage

I announce the occasion

Buon compleano!

Lean in

And wrap one arm around her shoulders

I love you

I love you too

A kiss on the cheek

Maybe

But more likely reserved

For milestone occasions

 

TDM

Lying on a Rock

I disengaged myself

And let every tender vertebra

Feel as pious as

The stone

They were held upon

And reaching overhead

In my supinated situation

I gasped

And let my hands fall to

The pate of the rock

Connecting them like

A halo

Twisting my fingers

Around my own locks

Tangling them between the crown

On my head

Where the coolness of

The stone had met my skull

Supporting it

 

TDM

Andrew

You were trying to be

a Kerouac

When you led me

from subway to streetcar

To marbled sidewalk

and thought you were adventure

Looking for old doorways on Bay

Where I knew there were none

And you were trying to make me

your Queen Anne’s Lace

So I would be

gentle with your secrets

sooth your eccentricities

and unravel your spirit

But I was the seedling of

a dogwood flower

And led you

From subway to streetcar

To tall grass footpath

And thought I was adventure

In convincing you

to cascade backwards between

dandelion and dew

to match my wavelength

which was unravelling itself between

the blades of grass

as though the meadow were

a maze leading straight

to your disposition

 

TDM

Word Vomit of the Imaginary Traveler

I have gone on many paper adventures, pages and pages of text have carried me up and up, far, far away. Daydreams and sleepy dreams have comforted my thoughts and set an imaginary trail behind me. Footsteps through cobblestone pathways, sipping dark coffee, following lamppost moons. Then tracking through snowy banks, heavy feet and runny nose, breathing in crisp frost, windy tears wiping away snowflakes that land on cheeks. Sun baked faces turning red as gazes are lifted, trailing the side of ancient monument and sand castle. Silk or linen draped across wandering eyes, highlighted colours amongst sepia and terra cotta. Crickets keeping souls awake in the night, a reminder to feed the fire to keep the warmth from escaping the tent, so that catching fireflies is a little bit more interesting. Though harder to see them in flame light, it is better for roasting marshmallows. Stopping by a stream to sip or splash water in the cracking faces and worn boots. Stopping by the side and peeling off jackets to rest heads on, stones to prop tired feet upon. And finally listening to ocean swells with active ears and quiet faces, being sprayed with salty mist. Then to squish toes in the sand when the water has not covered them, scraping a heal on a little shell, a tiny home built in repetitive beauty, swirling and twirling curves. The shell made of soft pinks and yellows, like the canvas stretching far beyond the rolling and bouncing waves, going going on until hidden by blues, lighter, then darker, then burst of silver overhead. Twinkle to preserve some light for walking home in, howls to bid goodnight.

TDM