white dove, peter edgell [read book .TXT] 📗

"On the bank of the river
Stood Running Bear
Young Indian brave

On the other side of the river
Stood his lovely Indian maid
Little White Dove was her name..."

From 'Running Bear'
Written by J P Richardson (aka The Big Boppa)
Sung by Johnny Preston, 1959

part 1. azure dawn

1. the key

the faint caress of ghosts:
the tapping fingers talk
transparent in the cable
whispers through the timeline

kneeling in the desert
she tells him of her dreams
he blushes in the garden
where it’s cold enough for snow

and when they part
there’s nothing left but
prints of fingers
kissing plastic keys


2. shadow

he stalks her, closer
than her shadow,
lip to lip,
breathing in as she
breathes out

he is the bark
around her tree,
the glove that softens
blades of grass
where she lies down

he is the web
through which her eyes
attach to lightning

curled up in her heart
he listens to her wishes,
the whispers on her tongue

he stalks her, closer
than her shadow;
he stalks her in the
comfort of her dreams


3. faith

she glides, elusive
air along his skin
touching only
where sand shifts
and eyes stray
until the moon
puts lips to the
closing mouth
of the sun

tonight
they sit beneath
the same dark tree
and listen to the
breathing leaves,
the stars


4. promise

(his song)

free, now, upon my heart you rest
but if the day should come
that I would hold and
turn you back from brightness
cut my hands and they will bleed
no less than love upon your leaving
for you are the blush of my soul
the length of my journey


5. shaking

somewhere in the
blue surrounds
forbidden sheets

press of breath
on lips
sails of the mouth

steering the moment
closer


6. kiss

(their song)

close your eyes
and look at me

wear my skin
breathe with me
feel our heart

approach the hollow
of our soul

open your eyes
and look at us,
with wonder


7. slow rustle

one sheet, cool
breathing shallow
stomach taut

one hand moves
just above a
lover’s skin;

a magnet.
trembling:
the sweetest wait

8. sweet tango

it’s early
the rocks are still warming

slowly, the sun moves
pulling night’s blanket away
uncovering lovers

they lie
side by side
naked and harnessed
by words in the dark

a bird calls
they shiver and
turn face to face

under the heating sun
their feet touch
sweet tango


9. waltzing

waltzing the lady
wearing her laugh on his sleeve –
she lifts up the line of her face
her look is a moment
that bruises the wall of his
physical heart

he raises his chin
to challenge the world

his stepping runs crisper
he dances like flame,
proud as a toy,
cast like a soldier,
wearing the love of
the lady he waltzes


10. truth

she sits before the mirror
her eyes are closed

slow as a plane
tracking the high horizon,
soft as a white dove’s feather,
warm as dawn and firm as
a chuckle,
he dries her hair

in the mirror
his eyes are smiling

behind her
there’s nothing but air
and the drumming of
distant keys

part 2. red hair

11. online, waiting

demons sit
laughing in the dark

they run their sharpened edges
down the harp strings
of his stomach wall,
set his lungs to coughing,
count the warning beats
that move from heart to pulse

they cross their teeth and gnash
at everything that trembles

unstoppable, they
taunt his failure: blisters
on the wound of waiting, waiting

somewhere in the wilderness
fingers touch
kissing without lips
but demons are not
cast out; they
merely go to sleep


12. touch

(their song)

touch your fingers to the screen
and I will touch you back:
a faint possession;
a fury beating in our heart;
love without prevention;
an emotion that no physics
nor local law can end;
a rush of such pure power
it will burn away the distance
and bend the rules of living
to leave our shaking substance
pumping like the lung
between the stars

a pause, a consummation
mastering the dream


13. apart

in their dream
they put their bodies close to dance
like syrup easing out the tin
before engulfing

her red hair swam around them
his eyes replied like hands
they turned into a wave
and crossed a sea


14. acceptance

call it death or paradise
wear it as a mask
shiver when it crawls beside
shake it from the blanket
cover it with salted smiles
deny and dance upon it

love comes like a fungus
on an old man’s heart
hug it
just before the dawn


15. just look

(his song)

all the little grinding stones
that meet upon the skin
and rub like tongues
across a failing tooth

all the little binding webs
that curve around our thoughts
and press like spines
each time we think to shift

all the little laughing ghosts
of bliss, of wedding words
that coil around the ankles
and grip like undertow

all these things
you laid before my eyes
and said: Just look.

I looked

I used to merely be afraid,
now I live in terror

part 3. blue smoke

16. renegade

(his song)

each day I catch myself
dressing up as someone known
by others, a mirror to their face
a structure in their universe
a marking of the day and night
a meal

each day I catch myself
speaking through some other mouth
and listening to another set of
sounds, all pre-recorded
stumbling through a play
rehearsed

each day I catch myself,
I slide a little further off the road
slipping on my spikes
steadying for the dash away –
that single charge to cold and
hopeless freedom


17. without subtlety

(her song)

with every subtle touch you send
to brush away the armours of despair
cultured to my age,
with every touch of medicine
made of dance and dream,
with every moth of body now retreating,
with every slow emotion
flattered out of darkness,
with every little hurt of yours
I bear to me and share,
with every little hurt of mine to you,
with every sound I was not trained
and did not think to hear,
with every wordless understanding,
with every distant grin or
laugh out loud,
with every turning photograph,
with every pout and dimple,
with every silence, every song,
with every written word,
I save another moment and
double it with interesting kisses
to pay upon the day we leave this distance
and walk into our one and only world


18. question

nothing in the darkness
but the flame

the edges of his world
curl in – paper burning
to the core

the wizard, cold and
shaking on the frozen
hand of love

pulls his aging
musty gown up close
and wonders:

should he let his
fingers burn or
make the magic hold?


19. crisis

he stands by the door
with so many worlds
balanced like tops on the
span of one hand –
chrysalis man –
turning from age and the
sponge of his life;
stones in his throat,
shaking like frost,
fearing the lick of
unfiltered light


20. stranded

outside the grinning motel
in the gums of the desert
bathed in a shirt running
dark round the pits
he sits on his suitcase
slowly collapsing a can
of warm beer
wishing his hair were
cut shorter
and waits for the limo
that, one day, will come
to carry him on
into some lover’s arms
or back to the sleep
of his life

part 4. black stars

21. lovers

(their song)

somewhere in this truth
there is a lie that we can cling to

some old perfume
some joke
some dreaming in of smoke
some dirty word

somewhere in this lie
there is a truth that we can cling to

you take my breath away
you bring my soul back
one hello is all you give
enough to last a day


22. too late

too late, the knock
upon the golden door –
the dreamer’s lost to darkness;
one last rose has
crumbled overnight; first frost
and coats are on in daylight
too late, the rub of
peach on cheek
without the risk of bruising;
the leaves are pulping now
and autumn’s looking
soiled, sorry for itself

too late, the invitation
waltz, the partner’s card
is mortgaged to its world;
beneath the empty sky
the wind has got its tail up
smooching like a scorpion
too late: the celebrated
game of love’s moved on.
the world looks up, excited
as the night begins to grin,
hands apart, inviting
one more dreamer in

23. sigh

when the lights come on
and the sky is reduced to pastel
still the leaves come loose,
gliding past his open hand
as deft as love
as true of aim


24. flakes

standing on the freckled stones
the pebbles of the crossing
he in his world, she in hers
they watch each other’s eyes
for signs of warmth or weakness

the wind chips in and out with
birdsong, squirrels chatter
casting up encouragement

one touch for love
to turn a dream
but neither moves

day on day they
wrestle with their breathing
feel their lips begin to stick
struggle with their contraflow
emotions

just before the end of spring
they lift their hands, together,
to crumble to the dust
they have become
lost to time and bravery
flakes upon the water

25. the lock

the lines are done and
settled on the palm:
older is the single road;
memories, the goal;
words, the only legs that work
walking through the dust that forms
the coffin of the soul

Publication Date: 06-17-2011

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
For Lara