iSkei

her eyes were like dreams of sacred &

Golden

I shivered slightly whilst contemplating

These ideas

It left me baffled and confused

The cormoran saw all of this

It did not care

The pale blue curtain by the window

Moved ever so slightly in the wind

There could be seen a cormoran

Dancing high above amongst

the clouds for evermore

Ophelia smiled and her eyes talked to

Me

The sun whispered words of

Care, construction sites and

Consideration

One could almost touch the

Feeling

There was magic in the air

-The grass and the plants

Swayed delightfully in

The wind or so it would seem

The blue sky smelled of 

Salt from the sea

All was like a dream

There was also the white

Delivery van from Mornington

Carpet & Artificial Plants Inc

Contaminatedly sticky the wicket fell

There were also a chinaman

Mullygrubber to be

Considered

Luncheon, however, 

Beckoned

A packed bag on the floor by the door

Your hands so soft

Holding on to memory and

      Passion

A yesterday almost lost in

Dreams and hope, the blue sky

Like an ocean of sweetness inside

The museum to the soul

-Where was it at?

Tell me

-Why did it go away?

The books and your letter

They walk by themselves, you know

Like having a life of their own

A cottage at Cape Cod

A mansion on a hill

Alive like the wind, like love at 

First sight, like

A dreamer in a prison of demand and

Forlorn hope

Cut wings

But all I’ll remember is your red dress and that

Bag waiting by the door

The chair seemed a bit out of place

Just laying there

The bucket of dreams rested stoutly

On a ray of hope dimmed ever so 

Little by the hint of a growing

Doubt

Your complexion was that of one who 

Knows its worth

The window to the bay half open

You reading that morning paper

Tapping the table with a pen

The sounds of gulls over the water

You were so beautiful the sun cried

White boats on the water

One going out, two on their way in

A gull traversed the dock by the café

We were in no hurry whatsoever

The off-white deck by the key 

And the pale sun added to the 

Feeling of detached calm

A bell somewhere complained discretely

From being struck twice

The light like desert sand

Ophelia’s smile and complexion

Smooth like silk

Her eyes like diamonds 

A perfect day

The door, pale green, half open

Looked as if sprung from a hopper 

Watercolor

Ophelia by the window, left arm raised,

Hand resting on the window-sill

Looking out at the boats in the bay?

The sun was also Hopperian

The wind was warm

And it was a dream

‘We shall have to see about that’

The words had something sinister about them

We missed the bus

That too was sinister

Or so we figured

The sun spoke of destiny, whispered tales of 

Permanent bliss

The mailman delivered his mail, did his

Routine

A sad looking cormoran

Swept across the bay

Ophelia smiled, looked at

A ray of sunshine 

Dancing the

waves

This was on a tuesday

The garden displayed such well cared for appearance

-We understood there must be living a person

Of great integrity and willpower in the green

House by the end of that meticulously kept lawn

 The Simca on the driveway spoke quite another

Language

It spoke of rust and bad maintenance, it also 

Mentioned disrespect and to some degree

Hatred

 Ophelia turned away rather hastily: ‘Awful’

Was the only word she whispered

 Tears in her eyes

‘Awful’…

Did you ever dance with eternity

To the tune of a million

Stars ablaze?

Tell me, did you embrace the future, like

An old friend, new each time you met,

Yet strangely familiar somehow?

Or did you ever kiss destiny, holding

On to surprise

In the morning sun?

-I did, I enjoyed every second of it.

It’s this wild dance we call ‘love’…

Ophelia turned the pages looking at the

Sea

‘There’s always room for improvement, you

Know.’

The accuracy of her observation cut like a

Knife

A blue sky and a table in the garden

Agreed

The bike just sat there leaning to the brick-

Wall

We had seen this before

‘Come now, do not, repeat ‘not’, give it the satisfaction 

Of a second glance.’

Moreover, there were the geese to 

Consider

The little table lay tipped over, a wine-bottle,

Half empty, out on the grass some four feet

Away

The Societé Generale would have to be 

Approached and

Our secretary would probably have to send

The telegram

Other than that, however, there was no

Cause for alarm

The geese seemed sturdy 

We served the paté with a light salad and 

Some bread

The wine had exactly the right temperature

A person unknown to those attending 

Approached the premises

It was either that or the

Heat

The red Fiat lay stoutly on its left side in the ditch

By the shrubbery

We discussed the outcome of the Italian election

As such

Interest rates were on their way up, according to

Some

Business was slow

Flowing like a stolen kiss through space from my lips

To yours

It left ground, exiting the atmosphere at a million 

Universes a day, and more

Or was it forever and some way got mixed up with

Infinity confusion it said

Then landed on your smile, not one inkling of an inch

too far from reality

And still being a heartbeat apart, ocean-wide

Electrified

Burning all the same hoping to explode your world

As well as it be mine

Violently red and flashing yellow fire and heat like 

The Sirocco desert wind

Too hot to breathe, too violently crude, yet burning

by passion, yes passion

Inevitably yours

Evidently yours

The sun was warm, the wind did little to cool things

Off.

A sunshade was the only way to cool the air. 

The ice-tea on the tray was ever so nice,

The small aeroplane crossing the bay appeared

Peaceful

Some called it the ‘epitome of joy’

The bank clerk called it ‘madness’.

Down at the club there were at least seven people 

At the bar, none of whom would ever admit to having

Read the book, or - heaven forbid - seen the movie.

The black sedan stopped by the train station. A lady

In red walked hurriedly towards the station building.

They say she was quite happy, and I know for a fact

She had had a very nice cup of Darjeeling prior to

Leaving.

And that was the last time any of us ever saw her.

She was glowing.

The tree by the little plaza where local people met

Looked sad

A bird looking for bread crumbs outside the café

Chirped happily

There were people passing by, on their way to 

The harbour

They were smiling

The red chair by the door to the cantina had a

Little table by it

The table was blue

Enrico Mazarelli, the owner, had things to do,

People to see

A broken car stood parked across the street from

The drugstore

The air was warm, almost hot, and a leopard skin

Pillbox hat lay on a table

It had been forgotten half an hour ago when a 

Guest left the café

Other than that, everything seemed pretty much

As usual

The shorter shadow indicated a mid day hour. It was 

Hot

Flies buzzing around a glass of

Lemon Juice

A plate with melting icecream

The songs from somebody washing up in

The kitchen

The characteristic sound from 

The fishermen’s boats heading out

Towards the horizon

Ophelia half asleep in the deck chair on the 

Lawn

Her dark hair on her shoulder

The warm, humid, almost hot, wind 

From the dunes

The crickets also serenaded

Her

If I was a letter on your paper, a carrier of meaning so delicate,

If all things good and bad, all colors black to white, could be 

Read upon my surface.

If all the millions and millions of sounds and articulations that are

You

Could be pronounced and sung by and through me

Then would you believe me if I wrote to you

Telling the story of life and whence it all began?

Would you trust me to know the truth of what 

Makes up existence and all desire and excuse, all

Rivers and seas, all oceans and clouds?

Would it make any difference to you if it all wasn’t so

Acute?

If it was all a dream?

I am quite sure it should,

I know it should to me

“Each pebble a million years”

I always figured whoever wrote that line,

Will Berkshire, they say, had pretty poor

Imagination.

Then I started thinking, looking at the thing,

Looking at the sky, the trees, a straw on a 

field.

“Each pebble a million years”

Amazing.

Gives one vertigo, that does.

The stars shone like the beacon of

Angst

They slid across a marble lip

Like

Henrietta Palmer’s

Smile

And her perfect, brown hair

Another piece of life softly 

Disappearing in the night

The ink pen on the table, by a

Set of fine Italian paper &

Envelopes

had a story to write

We didn’t mind -

    The window half open

    There was also a sweet wind from the sea

     And

     A gasping candle

The old lighthouse sat there on that rock

As if waiting

It was desolate

The night made it scream

The waves like heartbeat

And like tears

So lonely

So sad

There used to be an old man living in it. 

Now there was a computer link

But it still cried each night

Through the mist and through the dark

So sad

So lonely

The caravan of mind went by, as desolate as ever

Jumbled together lay a director of finances and

The paradise lost

A violently brown almost black held her

Together

       (We did not know where to cry or 

           Dry our eyes from fear…)

   -Deception comes by morning train

     It calls for B Major, whining like the 

      Lost madonna searching for virginity

Our wedding day smile 

&

Sadly not much more

-but

      We will always have the sea

The gate swung open, a dog waiting by the door

And

A crimson sky telling a story of rain or possibly of

Snow.

The tiny car, a Messerschmitt, lay on its side in the 

Ditch

There were bloodstains on the grass and broken 

Windshield

‘How sad’ was cried, ‘Destiny’ replied, but all along

A silent rain

Softly like the morning sun the wave swept across

Eternal ocean

The stars left for wherever stars leave when the night

Is over

Also there was a smile across infinite distance of 

Time and space - a universe

Her ruby lips and those brown eyes, the magic

Of it all

Still echoed by the sands of time, the winds of destiny

At work

There could be noted a window open to the sea, it was

Wonderful, a dream

The colour remembered is emerald green, with a hint 

Of Venetian

   -By the sea a lonely grain of sand, as white as the sun

A soft kiss goodbye and a smile later there was nothing

More than her perfume left

The coffee sat nicely on the sideboard, a few memories

Dancing in a corner

What exactly had happened that night, I don’t remember

Clearly, except

I was there, she was there, and we two together were

There at times

But most of the time there was only a dream, a wish, a

Desperate hope

Well, that’s life and there’s nothing much to it, as they say

Unfortunately

They knew most of the night, and some of the day,

Was only memory

The phone called for attention, while the red scarf 

Flew the distance

It was all more or less imaginary, and yet there was 

A hint of truth

Behind her smile 

Wild as a morning in June, she interrupted

The breeze

Pointed to the horizon far beyond all those 

Miles of sea

‘There’ she whispered, ‘that’s the way you

Have to swim’

The Dolphin of revenge snickered and wove

A fabric lesser known

To mankind or was it Spirit aimed at while

A Cormoran smiled

We kissed beneath a silver cloud of fear

Or was it lust?

It dissolved into nothingness like tears

Of joy and rust

A broken promise and a sigh cried onto

Her lips red

A caravan of spoken word, a wall of sand

And there

Created from our inmost selves, then reaching

Out to be

A touch, a remnant of our past, to wash into

The sea

-And open up the door, at last, to set our spirits

Free

The crickets sang their 

Monotonous hymn to

The sun

Ophelia greeted the morning

She was a

Miracle

The summer winds at Juan-Les-Pins

Were like the ‘bop’ in 

Bebop

Our feet went this way and

That

George Benson did ‘Take Five’

Brubeck smiled approvingly

The wine was sweet like the 

Morning Breeze

I swear I saw Anita O´Day

Wearing that 

Pillbox hat

Love was more than a

Four letter 

Word

The sweet evening air had that certain something about it which sometimes Separates truth from fantasy and sends truth a one way ticket to oblivion.

The men in blue all agreed it was best left alone, and called for another Round of cards.

A needle could be heard falling to some floor somewhere else, while the Trio opened for interpretation of their latest piece.

Ophelia looked kind of sad, like she used to do at times. Not every day.    More like once every third month, perhaps, but anyway.

  ‘I hope they all go away,’ she whispered, ‘I don’t like the way they wear Their hats.’

Something dark brown, almost black, suddenly entered the hall.

It was desolation. None of us said it, but we all realized - I think - the dream Was

Over…

One of the bikes lay neatly folded ‘round a tree, 

The other was placed just below the restroom

Window.

‘I don’t think we should disturb, really, looks

Like they’re on to something big.’

‘Yeah, sure, like that mongolian desert, the 

Kalahari.’

We simply had no way of telling what was

What, so the logical next thing to do involved

Coffee, pastries and some jazz.

‘I’m ok with that. You say when.’

‘When.’

For sure, there are not words

Enough 

To paint her 

Portrait

There be no colours, shadows, light that

Bright

To write, paint, sing her

Beauty

Except darkening the day, 

Shading the stars,

Breaking each law of 

Nature

-Sculpting

Ophelia

From the sun

The raindrops seemed to hesitate just a bit

Before hitting the ground

There were also a sea-gull watching the

Situation from afar

Henry Clarkson VII left home for another

Day at the office

Nancy Clarkson opened up a window to

The world

The cormoran saw all this, it really didn’t 

Care a lot

A few daffodils discussed the nature of

Existence as such

The sun hid behind a cloud, and it was

Thursday

The portrait seemed to pay attention whenever 

People looked at it

‘It’s the sign of the ancients’ Said George

‘There is much more than you think, to oil.’

He often said things like that, like he knew

Something others didn’t

‘I suppose’ He’d say, 

‘One has to have a certain finesse…’

George wasn’t very popular

Silently the wind swept across the field

A hare ran for shelter

My heart went into what might be deemed a 

Restful stanze

The wall of conscient goodbye

Waved the closest to a hand - a

Broken promise - at the 

Horizon

We didn’t even consider it

Nor was it judged

Worthy

As such

The cormoran swept across the

Sky

It had nothing better to do, it would

Seem

It was, after all,a mere bird

The red door was wide open

A few shrubberies marked the edge

Of town

The woman carrying her baby did 

That

While a plumber seeked solitude in

The shade

All the while a lofty view could be

Noted

Providing rest for weary souls and

Minds

You were always my escape, always

From burning up inside-

Being eaten all through

Always there to shine, when my eyes

Lost their light

Your mellow voice, that timbre

- An echo from the past

The roadmap for the ride

A guide for tomorrow

       But tomorrow is just a dream

(Yesterday is but a memory)

If I don’t see your smile,

my sweet escape

The woman in the long, black dress threw the piece of paper

In the trash bin

A poodle of undistinguishable age passed by Rizzoli’s  

At 57th street

A green sedan stopped by the 2nd Avenue deli and the driver

Shot his wife, then himself

There could be heard a cat blowing Giant Steps, he was never 

Better than this, never

They all took part in this play called ‘A day in the life of Hank & Bob’

A tribute to life

‎’The morning, it would seem, is upon us.’ The middle aged man by the window had a somewhat gloomy face, and his view to the world outside appeared to be mirroring this his disposition. 
‘Our garden should be tended to, Stanley.’ Said the woman who, for all intents and purposes, was his wife Wilhelmina Cartridge Summons.
The cat on the lawn arranged its left front leg accordingly

Her eyes made me

Shiver

-I knew I had to paint her

Never ignore an open window, 

It might lead in to

The realm of dreams

The plastic bag just lay there

It was rather insignificant

I believe it had - in one way or 

Another - found its purpose;

Its meaning with regards to the

Cosmos

It lay there and it knew that

Nothing could ever be performing

That particular expression of

Volition better than itself

Now hear this:

‘Plastic bags are inanimate objects,

And cannot express anything’

Gibberish

Look at the little carbon based fellar,

The musing wrinkles ‘round its handles,

Look at that, and tell me it doesn’t speak

Volumes to you

You do that

I saw the piece of paper on the sidewalk

And I knew

It had been through a lot

On its way from Amazonas

To wherever

I could touch the beauty of the 

Idea behind, the ‘plan’ structuring

It

I saw it and I knew

It was important

The wind had that certain something

About it

There were also fallen leaves