Dream Sketched from Memory

“The sacred water is inside you;
it will cleanse you.”
~Baba Muktananda

We wash our hands with coffee grounds & light,
& pulse still.

New water
in your coffee & tea temple’s
constellation of plants
stretches toward our air.

Out-of-doors, Canada Road
floats under sharp snow,
shares forward-steps
& sideways triple-steps with us,
dances impromptu swing.

Brown tan beige
buildings lost
in hollowed histories,
unravel limited-time stories
before the inner Witness
of this shorter sun-span,
spectator of sleep,
who records the scenes of dreams
to show us when we wake
& watch the mind chase
its persistent addiction, forgetfulness.

Metronomes motion us forward,
& questions we have to live raw –
“Where do I come from?
Why am I born? Who am I?
What on Earth am I supposed to be doing?”

To a soundtrack of sweet machine hum
(wise & blind driven cars)
our mantras burn dross
off of inner gold
till we are left with
precious metal nerves,
raw honey color with no resistance ~
no impedance to electric currents
in the universe’s circuitry.

Yes, as the sonnet said,
let us not admit impediments
to the marriage of true minds.

Fluid blue movement
we walk dance float
over sidewalks
alongside finely-etched souls
in this memorable detail
of a gigantic print –
scene from a seagull’s
360 degree free sky-sight.

A hundred footsteps from Wolastoq’s
soft flow, as she slips into
her patched coat of ice floes,
under crosshatched geometry
of the iron international
bridge that bonds
Canada with the States,
we share one chocolatine pause
before the salted sweetness
of our daily “À demain.”

Pursued by hour & minute hands…

Time takes forever
& never resolves ~
suspended chords’
endless progression.

In our timeless space,
I whisper “We don’t have to talk.”

We walk slowly, wordlessly watch
crystalline wind & birches’ bare limbs
wave their inner water,
lean over the river
that forever murmurs
Keep going, keep going, keep going.

I remember the wet canvas,
floral palette of famous Fall hills ~
soon denuded by blizzard winds.

Distant scent, almost absent ~
burnished gold & scarlet sheets
of time-turned leaves
pen endless letters
with webs of veins…

Now is the time
tenacious branches
urge & encourage us forward ~
our dovetailed December fingers
warm one other.

Our wide indigo vision,
one Witness behind two minds,
two pairs of blue pearl eyes,
watches astonished by the whole show,
appearing now at our Globe Theatre’s
precipitous cusp of winter.

At 11:11pm I sketch our silhouettes
from memory ~
we appear here, wear
dark lines & circles
spread out upon a pale page,
our secret alphabet of waking up.

My words/this world ~
emptiness
outlined with pen-&-ink.

What seems to form a poem,
one person or two, a universe
named for its “one turning” ~
frames for the same blank space.

This vista, kaleidoscopic panorama ~
unfoldment of inner light.

Beloved Bleu, this scene is half
dream sketched from memory
to murmur in images,
a spotlight on past delights…

Half spontaneous scribble
in a master-class on figure drawing
on the set of a universal play ~
once upon an indigo
shift into winter-night.

We are always in transition.