Between here and there is a great darkness
beyond the blue into deathly cold, breathless deep
space – empty but for the ceaseless tug of home.

I see them brightly hanging
celestial ornaments adorning the tree of life itself
on infinite branches in curves and shadows,
on ghostly clouds spun as silk by the setting sun.

I am but one of many opening my eyes
to the movements and lights of the night sky
adoring the lovely pair as they swoon
to the sounds of an ancient melody played
on lyre and harp fitted with cosmic strings.

I would go there, to the moon
to the dreamy dark chill of Venus
to look back on the earth
to see where from I came.
There it was just beneath a warm calm
summer evening, velvet dusk fading slow to night
waves stringing along a blissful shore.
Not far away. Not far away at all.

Portland, Oregon – June 19,2018

Photo is my own, taken from our upstairs west facing window, on June 16, 2018.

Before the creation of the earth
I fell into a crack in creation
falling through the stars
in a cosmic cradle careening
in timeless and empty space.

I landed at last on a wide beach
in waves of blue water and clouds
swirling above my naked head.
I stood, looked about me,  breathed.
I walked up into the headland
to the brow of a cliff and there
below me, the wondrous beach –
the monotony of waves one after another.

I was afraid to explore more
the leafy interior – its sounds
movements in the slithering underbrush
of those also fallen into this place.

I fear I have never left the beach
but, enthralled, watch over the ceaseless waves
letting the clouds pour over my naked head
as if not a thought or care had I.

Portland, Oregon – June 12, 2018

My inspiration for this comes from a piece in Parabola, Winter issue, 2017-18 entitled “A True Story.”  The author is a teacher of writing who asks students, at the beginning of the year, to  “lie to me” or, to write a “false biography.”  She says that “…it reveals more about its participants than a standard autobiography.” So my writing here is a bit of stream of consciousness, to see what would come, spontaneously, if I tried to write a “false” autobiography. Neither Mr. Freud nor Mr. Jung will I let read this.