The Book of Dreams: She Moves On

She Moves On

And just like that she’s gone.  (The sauce was sublime!)  Down the stairs two steps at a time, black hair swirling behind her, as if it’s struggling to keep up.  “Bye!” I wave.  But I mean, “Won’t you stay a bit longer?”  It’s no use.  The Miracle has left the building.  She’s one of those people who, at each parting, you wonder if you’ll ever see her again.  Such an unlikely friend, but I never tire of the way she can look at me.  As if I’m a curiosity at the zoo.  She visits my enclosure and observes.  I’m a rarely seen, reclusive creature, with unusual coloring and behaviors.  She seems to enjoy watching me feed and move about my space.  But if I sit still for too long, she becomes bored.  She has to move on to the next species.

I made her cry once.  I inadvertently mentioned her mom and dad.  Remembering the sight of it still makes my eyes burn and my stomach feel hollow and queasy.  Tears of molten silver slid down her nose and on to my guilty hands, which covered her own in supplication.  Her sorrowful head hung low over my rough kitchen table.

There is no end to Love.

Dreams?  Book?  Me?  First off, I cannot remember most of my dreams, and most nights wonder if I even have had any.  What can she mean when she tells me, “Write The Book of Dreams”?  Maybe like a book of aspirations?  Hopes?  A self-help kind of thing?  What could be more boring and futile?  Second, I can’t write for shit.  I blurt out a nice sentence once in awhile, mostly from the long habit of trolling my mind for song lyrics, (I tell people I’m a musician and a songwriter) but my attention span in front of a keyboard is about three minutes.  I have no patience anymore to READ a book, and she imagines me filling up pages and pages of empty space with words about DREAMS?  And finally, why ME?  How could I say anything about dreams, when I, along with the rest of the human race, have not the slightest clue what they even are?  Why do they happen?  Who’s writing the script?  Is there some mysterious function?  Some pattern, some rhyme or reason? 

And why are we all so confident in our belief that the worlds that arise in the night during sleep are imaginings, yet the wild mess we thrash around in during the day is material and real?

Also, I hate how she is so certain and decisive about stuff and then flies off into the night, leaving unanswered questions, withering confusion, and impossible yearnings strewn all over my apartment.  Of course, I could text, or call, but I know she won’t answer.  It’s kind of an understanding we have.  It would spoil the magic if I could pretend I knew who the hell she actually was and what she was truly thinking.   But that would be far too mundane.  It’s more flavorful that she remain this apparition of nervous energy, fierce appetites, and outsized hoop earrings.

Am I complaining?  Am I celebrating?

Or am I dreaming?

Book of Dreams: Unfinished Sauce

Unfinished Sauce

 

“You have no love life, this music stuff is just a hobby, and one of these days, you’re going to be in love, and when you’re in love and eating and playing and talking and having fun sex all the time, you’re not going to have any interest in anything else,…so get your ass going and write that book!” she scolded, as she rummaged through my cupboard like a discerning raccoon for the perfect finish to her sauce.

With some trepidation around her reaction, I ask her, “What book?”

“The book of dreams.” she quickly says, “The book of dreams.”

 

You Wear a Gambler’s Smile

You like the music that finds me,

that I hear in the deep night,

and that drags me out of myself.

You say it moves you a little bit.

And for me?

I fell into your eyes–

quite a while ago now.

I wondered even then,

“What have I fallen into?”

I still do not have clarity around that.

I suppose some women have found me handsome–

and to some, I’ve been almost invisible.

And to others, I’m some imagining of their own desires…

…an imagining I do not recognize in this face I see brushing his teeth in the morning.

To One Beloved,

I became her limitless heart’s desire.

Go figure.

But you?

How do you find me?

Funny, but I don’t care about that so much.

Below, a list of what matters most to me:

A storm of hair!

A gambler’s smile!

A love of cats,..

…and dogs,

…and birds,

…and truth,

and open eyes.

That’s all I know about you,

but your open eyes look deep into me,

fearless.

Your hands wait to touch me,

and your arms long to surround,

inquiring lips yearn to understand,…

“of what is this man constructed of?”

And by the grace of God,

I am moved to happily,

joyfully,

ecstatically,

splay open my chest,

split my ribs,

and hand over to you my broken, hungry, and fiery heart,

so that you might have your answer.

And I too,

for tonight anyway,

am wearing a gambler’s smile.

Eureka!

The Dance of The Friend

There is a beautiful French woman,

I care for her so deeply,

and she is close to the heart of our Beloved,

that I, too, love so very much.

But we know, don’t we?

Love is not ours to direct.

It is more likely,

something akin to mortality–

an uncomfortable fact,

always present,

waiting,

denied,

anticipated,

then suddenly confronted as Reality!

“Reality asserts herself,”

and she is Love.

How flummoxed we are–

in our sweet departing.

Murdered by Love…

annihilated,

and meanwhile, my beautiful French friend, (She is in fulsome middle-aged glory actually!)

…she can listen like no other….

She can hear–

the song of right here,

right now,

and will dance the appropriate dance–

but later.

She’s so busy!

But I know she can hear my weeping, because she was her Beloved too, that which seems departed.

And she is bathed in ignorance, the same as I.

She loves the sacred curls–

that ocean of delight–

that fell about those ivory shoulders–

that we kissed with our hearts so tenderly.

This Love that we are,

when it takes me, and rolls me up on the carpet,

Love takes me and crushes my heart to bloody mush.

And leaves only sorrowed bones,

and aching ribs,

and aimless, wandering, blinded eyes–

and everywhere they find only me!

heroically insufficient ME!

When all the while they seek only my Beloved Friend.

I search for her in each and every endless night:

She wants a little plate of ravioli,…and she says,

“Will you read me that poem, the one about the red bird?”

And then,…

“When I look in your eyes, I can feel you inside me.”

And later,…

“Am I going to die now?”

Then, finally,…

“Just hold my hand.”

And on the other side of the earth,

my busy, beautiful, and wary French friend,

also a lover of the Loved,

is listening–

I pray–

she is listening…

as I am,…

to this wistful music,

this new, sad, magnificent music–

that we both must dance to.

What Rumi and I Have In Common

Our names both sound a little childish–

and sing-song–

when you say them over and over quickly.

We each lost our Beloved.

We each found our Beloved.

We both like the idea that beautiful Roses arise–

from tortured and twisted stems of thorn–

and the doomed magnificence of their beauty–

is the same as our own.

We both enjoy the morning best, just before dawn.

We’re very big supporters of Love and musical instruments.

We enjoy dancing, travel, walks on the beach, and living life to the fullest.

Neither of us has television, and we don’t miss it at all.

We’re not big sports fans either.

And sometimes, very late at night, we both weep with the most overwhelming sorrow–

as if mourning each holy petal of every fallen rose–

and then we sing with joy of the mysterious ecstasy of this sad rapture–

broken open by the light of this agony,

this hopeless, bottomless, formless, boundless, causeless,…Love.

We also have a mutual Friend.

How It Is For Who I Am Now

Rustyjonesmusic's Blog

How it is for who I am–

the telling is not so simple!

I certainly love you, for example.

And you love the eggs and toast!

I’m happy for that in the way the wild grasses cry in ecstasy with each and every dawn, so grateful for such a generous and satisfying lover.

While you wonder out loud about the various mysteries,

This that Loves is the fine lace of cloud in the window behind you–

I float, dreamlike, moist, tendril arms gliding before the sun.

I’m sorry, what were you saying?

This that Loves is the heartbeat unexpectedly quickening at the shape of your hands,

hands I would be touched with,

and would be touching,

and I am the touched and touching both.

I am that touching and also the young courting red tailed hawks flying low over the roof.

We have lost our decorum a bit this morning.

We fly…

View original post 120 more words

How It Is For Who I Am Now

How it is for who I am–

the telling is not so simple!

I certainly love you, for example.

And you love the eggs and toast!

I’m happy for that in the way the wild grasses cry in ecstasy with each and every dawn, so grateful for such a generous and satisfying lover.

While you wonder out loud about the various mysteries,

This that Loves is the fine lace of cloud in the window behind you–

I float, dreamlike, moist, tendril arms gliding before the sun.

I’m sorry, what were you saying?

This that Loves is the heartbeat unexpectedly quickening at the shape of your hands,

hands I would be touched with,

and would be touching,

and I am the touched and touching both.

I am that touching and also the young courting red tailed hawks flying low over the roof.

We have lost our decorum a bit this morning.

We fly a little drunk for each other–

I happily surrender to being that wet, soaring Love as well.

Could I get you some juice?

Damn, I’m out of potatoes!

And on the subject of surrender:

I came to the window in the night.

I came for you, my Friend.

I was moonlight behind the early, pre-dawn mist.

And as your broken heart lay weeping before me,

my sad, silver light holding you–bathing you through the high and wide bedroom windows,

my Love was Sorrow in which I dissolved we two:

I hear.  I know.  I am.

I am Present.

And yes, I thought this was nice too!

We should do it again sometime?

(Whatever it was that was here this morning?)

Autobiography

My teacher said,

“Write down what is important.”

What?

This is the wisdom for today?

Seriously?

Often, I wonder, what do I want to learn?

What I already know?

Probably.

Here’s my story:  (Feel free to skip ahead.)

I was a sweet little kid, the oldest of three.

I loved pretending, music, stories, and the ocean.

My mom and dad broke my heart.

I fell in love with a girl, Linda, in high-school.

It was love at first sight,

and I still love her.  I always will.

She had the most fantastic hair, and she laughed like a boy!

Her father killed himself.

I loved him too.

So dearly.  I never told him.

Mel Morris, I love you dearly.

I have no clue if Linda is even still alive,

and frankly, it doesn’t even matter that much.

The Love matters.

The best thing I do is words and music.

I can control a guitar very, very  well.

Words even better!  (Not tonight, I’m indisposed.)

I can make a guitar sound like my heart.

You can’t ask for more from an instrument!

…or a player.

A woman fell in Love with me hearing me play,

we married,

I Loved her too…so much…

we had babies…

…they are men now.

I Love the babies and the men and everything in between and whoever they might become.

I broke their hearts, like parents do.

Love doesn’t help you get along with each other necessarily.

And why is that?

Why have Love, and then construct a world such that it doesn’t end happily?

(Questions for another “not poem”.)

Fast forward…

Suddenly, no wife, no home, no job, no…

…only stars in the black empty sky.

And a therapist…

Then, Love again.

A curly headed mystery.

In a way, she didn’t say much.

She had a story of her own.

Wounded.  Broken hearted.  Confused.  Mistrustful.

And doomed.

I love her like the sky loves the sea.

Simple as that.

If you don’t get it, too bad too sad.

I don’t either.

She died.

Life didn’t die!

Love didn’t die!

Look!  There are the stars!

There is the sea!

There is the sky!

But I Love my sweet companion.

I miss my sweet companion.

I could climb any mountain,

Be the first man on mars,

greet the aliens as they first visit the earth,

get elected to be whatever,

make the most beautiful music ever heard,

cure cancer,

end war,

and none of it compares  to having  her sweet storm of black curls lay on my chest again.

This is Love.

The wars, the cancer, the stories, the poems, the show…

…just the stuff.  Filler.

Love ends the world, and begins it.

There it is.  A curly head.  A welcome chest.

The sky.

The sea.

There it is.

Here I am.

Breathing Trouble

here, where I live, we miss the ocean sometimes.

oh, it’s out there sure enough.

i can see it on clear days–

like today.

the beauty of the blinding white arc of it–

just beyond the dry hills.

 

but, we can’t smell it.

or hear it.

or let it beat us down into the sand, tumbled and breathless!

 

however,

in the evening,

the dry desert wind makes love to the palm trees here.

(and She rolls with the sage and manzanita too,

but they don’t fit this poem as yet.)

 

“oh!”, they moan together.

“yes!”, they shout, so grateful!

 

…it’s a little embarrassing–

…though still, i eavesdrop,…

…i’m interested.

 

but, i’m having trouble breathing tonight.

or, rather, i notice that whatever is breathing me,…

seems to be losing interest…

 

in my personal arc.

Really, nothing.

I think she said she liked my smile.

Not the first with this approach,

but it caught me somewhere deep.

Held me motionless for a moment.

…nothing, really.

And then,

so many words.

Silly words,

pictures of thoughts, objects, feelings–

the weather, the place, the job, the day,

“bodily sensations, external sense perceptions…”

metaphor.

…nothing, really.

She has a story,

As do we all:

A man. A dog. A dog, or two.

A man or two.

A face. A shape. A style. A place.

A way of moving through the world,

but on her sweet shoulders, in her smile, behind her eyes, she wears mortality.

Fear. Desire. Grace. Beauty.

…nothing, really.

I’ve seen some photographs,

a hundred words, or so,

perhaps some gentle flattery.

And a howling fire of shining passion.

For life, for Love, for The Mystery itself.

…nothing really.

I don’t know her at all!

What has happened?

What has changed?

What is shaken?

What yearns?

What dreams?

What listens?

What waits?

What desires?

Sweet, sacred, silent desire.

…nothing, really.

And here am I,

really nothing.