Lost Imaginings

Photo by Julia Volk

As I walked through the frost-covered hills at dawn
I was you, and you, in your dreams, were me.
Only the veil of a lifetime tried to keep us from meeting …

Shadows of a truth prevailed:
the formless secret moved, and vague forms—we—
we embraced the heart-shaped clues.

 And there, not on grey-breasted hills,
we met, and danced the briefest dance
before shades of a vision quieted our feet.

 But we did dance.
And the still pool I passed
still reflects lost imaginings.

This poem was first published in April of 1976, along with three others of mine, in Vol. 10, Issue 13 of a magazine called either The Seneca or The Senca. I can’t find evidence online of what I noted but it’s legit as I have the actual page cut out. Anyway, now that I’m back from summer boating and in the wake of quite a few rejections, I thought I’d post some of these older poems. It’s always interesting rediscovering one’s poetic first steps. And I like to think that my time away from the internet (because of remote anchorages) enhances my “inner net” though I am thankful this method of communication is available again. Happy Fall to you all!

Room

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Under the streetlights our shadows loom large
as we walk back from dinner to our hotel
on the shore of the Bay of Banderas.
The whole street holds its breath
as from the well-bottom of night
I look up, see floating the bronze
pennies of stars.

Our shadows arrive before us, looming large,
as if there’s something that first must be seen or said,
something that has waited so long
it lost its original shape and stride,
even its voice,
something that has followed us here
from home….

I don’t know what ragged corner
of my heart seeks mending
that it should beggar with a cup
near full. If it’s looking for change
here in paradise, that’s easy—so many
bright fish, big blue bucket of sky,
who isn’t young again, hard into wanting?

There’s room to be happy
your hand holds mine, swings it,
room to fancy
any dark angel fallen between us
just needs a push to fly,
room 222 unlocking
whatever’s been locked inside.

Another Mexico poem.