Still Raining Still Dreaming

Still Raining, Still Dreaming

It rarely rains in dreams.
We hit all time lows and
very high estates, but rain -
no, it rarely does in dreams.

They say if you throw the lei of
golden blossoms far as you can and
they suspend in mid-air, then fly
back into your hand, you will return
to this blue island under blue clouds
rising from blue sea.
Blue above, blue below,
all is blue between.

Return to an isle where
wind whipped trees of teak
and mahogany clatter their
twigs like castanettes.

With no thought of return
I press the golden lei into a book.
Later, the book may rise;
if not, perhaps the table.

The Marie Helena,,
Our Lady Of the Tide,
largest raft the world has known,
rests upon the blue sand shore,
grounded in low ebb,
tethered by a silver cord
to a seaside carousel.

I am not a cloud. Feed me.
Press not into service one
who maketh wine of olives
to serve in porous cups.

Wind of fragrant lady's breath prefer,
though it rarely rains in dreams.
Carpets of interwoven
string quartets suport us
as we take our leave and repair to sea
to follow the argument of the ocean;
to listen to the echo of a
great bell tolled beneath the waves
and toast the Marie Helena
Queen of the Blue Tide,
soon to sail!

Toast the Marie Helena with
a wink, a blink, a nod,
a bouquet of bougainvillea
and a hand me down guitar.

Empty that guitar of its
splendid oily rainbow.
pluck it out with patience,
the cleanest sort of vice.

Stage the bon voyage with
flagrant octarina;
lace the mask to your face
with living worms.

Strong hands unite!
Sign it into conscience!
Seal it with a fist;
for sail we will!

For each: a hammock strung
with sinew, bone and tendon;
soup and salt for each
and garnets in the gravy.

Place, law, climate and syntax
converge like wind to make the
Marie Helena thrash as
though she were a living thing.

A fragrance of excitement,
rising from the shoulders
of a deck hung with wistaria,
first inflames and then amazes.

Now the blessing
and the benediction.
Incense of carnation,
clove and oleander stream
from a swinging silver censer.

The eye of the tabernacle winks as the
chalice rises bolt upright on the altar,
shooting arrows of communion into
infidel and faithful hearts alike.

Accept the benediction of
a bent and bloody knee,
skinned on a gravel court
playing Hangman in rotation.

Shake a leg, blood lies still.
Clay is the rover.
There are rats in the scuppers!
Voulez vous couchez avec them?

The artist in the vein
has flustered reason.
The blood will not clot.
Worse, it will not flow.

From a seaside carousel,
a black robed figure waves;
a slow flick of the wrist
from a sleeve without a hand.

Toast the Marie Helena, pilgrim.
Bear your lacerations with resignation.
They will be healed within
the seven days we sail.

For a moment suspended,
wedged between two ticks of time,
caught between a sigh and inspiration,
the Marie Helena hesitates,
then with a shudder leaps
into the cheering foam.

The scent of orchids mingles with
the silk strings of a light guitar.
a blue black cloud obscures
the seaside carousel. We sail!

In amniotic darkness
the Queen of the Blue Tide
sails beneath a counterpane of
self reflecting mirrors.

The will of the wind be done!
We trust ourselves to the
providence of current and
the wisdom of the waves.