Sailing off to Iona
the sails sound like
the jaggery old moans
of Bedlamites in the
gloaming, and the devil
in the yack of pink laughing.
Nothing made any sense suddenly,
and then I realized I’m going to
have to take the long
way across the water to get here.
as I sit here and stare
at a picture I traced of
the shadows of leaves,
I am the silent ripples on the water
made by dark silent
ships with no sailors
in the night. Blessings
Measuring out the golden mile loops,
Fabianism and the Visigoths
(while never appropriate
are occasionally needed).
Saints and Soothsayers are glowing gold
and the steely mathematics
create a false catharsis, and sometimes
we are all blind among the pines.
So let me tell you this,
there are stories
who stared at their displays,
so busy studying their flight path
that they crashed into mountains
that they never saw.
I remember staring at the Mona Lisa
moved her hair
not out of, but into her eyes,
I thought she looked better
like that, and this kind of thing
happens all the time
So tonight I am a Holy Island missionary
sailing on the sea, like Ulysses once
I am gone who knows when I’ll return.
I’m stepping out and away, having dug
my faith out of the
I am putting it back into my hands
magic wands- waving them
up to the sky, am I surrendering?
I’m reminded of a toast I drank
one night to an animal
I had fallen in,
a long story
and now I am that deer
Sails unfurled, the tide is out,
and I go – not knowing for how long,
just realize that the traffic
will one day turn to flowers,
and the roads will all again be dirt.
Right now in the dark, riding waves
I’m going to go meditate upon
standing delicate poems
on their sides, and what the
poem looks like