Muse Descendent

With a whisper,
she descended and,
as I turned my head,
she dropt a letter
in the street,
just as Whitman said.

FreeFriday: Le Train de Nulle Part

For some time, I have been enjoying FreeFriday from Jennifer Valentine at Sacred Cake, and so, today, I just had to join in on that fun. Here is a manipulated image that I made for one of my collage pieces, and if you can find your own use for it, please do. The sky, the balloon, the circle, and several of the signs and pedestrians have been added to the original photograph of 9th Street in Washington, DC.

The Book of My Father

The Book of My Father

If we look closely, everywhere, there is stardust.
If we touch softly, everywhere, there is stardust.
Everywhere we look, stardust;
everything we touch, stardust.

All around the world, in front of us, inside of us;
the dust of stars, exploded in creation,
showering like seeds of love from heaven,
growing in galaxies, flowering as our ancient mother,
whom first we loved.
Growing as the strength of our ancient father,
throughout the land, at our feet, in our eyes,
these seeds of love, this stardust.

This dust, like powders, mixed into potions,
from the first formula, forgotten over time.
All we ever wanted, all we ever needed;
every longing for love is stardust, mixed like powders
into potions, kept in secret, waiting for the moment
when the time would be better, when we were more deserving,
when we were ready.

This dust, like powder, mixed into potions,
stoppered in bottles and stored in the darkness.
In the cupboard of the Irish immigrant serving girl,
in the pantry of the Queen; each and all, everyone,
hoping to make potions for love, for paradise.

Potions, like paradise, stoppered in bottles
and stored in the darkness, waiting for the moment
when we would be ready.

The first formula, forgotten over time,
cryptically written in the book of my father,
the beautiful dreamer, the doer of deeds.

The good book of my father, cryptically written
and passed down to me;
its words underlined with pencil and pen,
filled with his questions that the book could not answer.


Over time, the pencils were traded for potions
and the book of my father lay covered
with dust, like powder, like stardust.
His paradise potion, mixed with peaches,
sealed with paraffin on the cabinet shelf,
with his good book, covered with dust,
and passed down to me.

The book and my father
sitting with bottles
there in the darkness, waiting for the moment
when the time would be better,
when he would be more deserving,
when he would be ready,
and he saw dust
everywhere he looked;
everything he touched;
dust to dust
was the circle he saw;
the circle never ending.

As the circle never ending, you and I;
we are that, that always was
and always will be.

From the seed comes the flower;
from the flower comes the seed,
as perfect love that always is,
always was, and always will be.

Inside seed was always flower;
inside flower was always seed;
first came not the one, nor the other;
always was, always will be;
like powder,
like stardust.
We are not a secret
cryptically written.

Your Last Thoughts

Journal Entry: May 23, 1862

We have been posted along the Fredericksburg roads for weeks; we are so familiar with these roads and farms that we start to forget the storm approaching. This morning, Shortcake and I were ambling between camps, along the tree line, moving to the northwest along the Rappahannock River, and I thought, perhaps, I would ride out to see my Marianna. The smell of honeysuckle in the breeze of a beautiful late spring morning; I could close my eyes and amble, imagining Marianna on her horse beside me, as though life was now as it always was before; before the world pushed in on us. I can close my eyes and it feels real, riding along in the silence.

Suddenly, a white-tailed deer sprang out of the trees, not ten feet in front of me; a magnificent buck, he was gone in a second. Shortcake reared back, and I, well, I thought I was dead. That could have been an ambush; a Federal cavalryman with a saber or pistol; not one moment to reflect; not one moment to remember. Reality, or what serves as reality in these times, washed over me like a warm rain that still chills, and I looked down to see my sawed-off shotgun already in my right hand. I don’t remember pulling it from behind me; it was instinct; drills; flight or fight. What would have happened; what could have been? I won’t allow myself to think about what might have been; there could have been an infinite number of outcomes. I shall only remember that the last thought in my mind was, and shall always be, my Marianna.


Letter Home, June 25, 1862:

Dearest Marianna,


The journey away from home has become much more than I imagined. There have been sights I hope you never see. I hope no one that comes into this world shall see the horrors that I have witnessed. Yet, there are people I have met, sights I have seen and lessons I have learned that are more beautiful than this pilgrim can describe. I shall never be the same boy that I was in the Wilderness. I am a part of all of this now; I am all of this now, and for always; in all ways.

As a courier, my horse and I must remain the fastest of the fleet; we travel quick; travel light. I have collected more books than I can carry, so I must bury my parcels of knowledge as my collection becomes unwieldy. Only you and my brother know this, and in the event that I do not return from this journey, only you two will know the locations of these parcels. Upon my person will be a list of latitudes, longitudes, and landmarks. Go there, if you wish to find them; if you wish to find me. What you find there will be a part of who I have become, who I am.

An immensely large battle waits tonight for its players to arrive at dawn. We may return, or we may completely extinguish a generation of boys; whichever it shall be, remember me to all you meet, for within their eyes, you shall see me smiling, and almost speechless in my love for you.


So, no more. I still remain
Yours until death,
and beyond that as well.