Heaven help us, pagans and Presbyterians alike, for we are all
sadly cracked about the head and sorely in need of mending."

     ___Herman Melville ....Moby Dick

You rocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things,
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome...
      ___William Shakespeare ....Julius Caesar

I

I awaken

From a cold and clinging sleep that leaves a pale green mist of fumes
Floating down from panic and confusion of the forsaken.

The sun appears and warms my shivering bones;
My frozen heart, my tortured, sweetly anguished soul
Begins to thaw and soften all its moans.

Yellow light, rich and warming, spreads across the floor
Like finest butter churned from Irish greenery,
Not the common kind, but truly best and rich of quality
That spreads so well on still warm toast's receptive scenery
To give the bread its own distinct peculiarity,
Its own unique, perfected answer measured truthfully,
A balm, small though it may be,
To the vague, sweet suffering,
The prickly, contrapuntal pain
That nags my joyous recollections,
Nips the tender sprouts of hope, unseen,
Poisons the barren earth beneath my feet, burning,
Bare and waiting; search for that glint of green,
That hint of hope- put aside the faith, stick to the yearning,
It's so much truer than believing, hold on to hope......whoa,
Slow down from that mad gallop,... ...now a slowing trot,....then slow again
To a gentle walk, and so....... be calmed, untie the obsolescent binding of the knot.

Why does my body ache so sharply?
Hush! Let the pain pass through you. Be transparent. Then translucent. No more to moan.
Look! The answer's there to take. There, in the jeweled translucency
Within the bright white cup of finest tea of glowing emerald that you've ever known.
Drink it! Know its fineness, its strengths and subtleties!
From it, know your own!

It's time to think of pale green sheets.

II

They ask the seed,
"Is not butter merely butter?
Why pluck the strings of nuance? Why indeed?"
Still can I hear them utter, "Keep it basic, son....
You're a peasant, not a prince; you're just a lowly weed.
What's all the fuss?"

Rocks and hard hearts, that's what they want of us.

"What's it worth?" I ask, "A dull and senseless rock?
Dull! Dull, and hard of heart?"
"Look! Here's a boy with a vision!" they mock,
Their lips wrenched and twisted with derision.

But then, as from some ancient script written in the reddest wine, the truth I heard:
"Keep heart good son, you will make it fine.... don't listen to their hateful lies.
I know you will, that you're not done!" come distant echoes from my youth, the word,
The saving words, from that old and snarly man who had such kindly eyes.

And they had warned, beware of him, that he's the meanest one!

But youth and innocence had touched his heart and to my great surprise,
With sour surface, crusty wing, he honored and protected me, and loving words he sent,
"Stay the course and you'll be free, and soaring like the wild goose flies."
And thus I did; yet I was young and knew I not, of ever what he meant.

Only now, in recollection, is his message clear.
He saw the princess, in reflection, whom I would hold so dear.

III

Where is the stamina of youth? Where the worth?
Where is the gold, the frankincense,
And myrrh?
Why, it lies within the one who loves you, deeply, from the center of her earth.
Be bold, And look to her.

To her.
To her with almond eyes;
Exquisite almonds.....
The breathtaking, gently accelerating line of her eyes' roof sliding downwards,
Sublimely tilting toward a nose too short
To please an Ancient Greek,
Yet bespeaking of new magic never known to westerly retort,
A new lesson to digest, a new marvel to learn of and to seek;

Watch it wiggle, see it sniff the seed I've sown,
How I adore the smallest flutter of its nostrils,
Why, good heavens, look, it's making faces solely on its own!

Back to her eyes; the nimble stunning swerve,
A world of wonderment, the answer to the countless souls they save,
That graceful downward asymptotic curve,
So sublime, Brancusi's jealous admiration makes him tremble in his grave.

A grave and detached elsewhere expression hiding rich and treasured life expounds them,
Framing the deep, dark brownness of her polished, glowing, precious orbs; a faint gray
Enlivens and entones the subtle edges of the clear whiteness that surrounds them,
A gray to join the night's deep blackness at their closing, at the closing of the day.

I trace the edges of her lids; a line so fine, the sound of magic flute.
Eyes like almonds? No, a more exotic shape completely fey and new.
Some tiny, rare and precious fruit.
I saw it once, when in the jungles of Peru.

Almond's but rough reference to that otherworldly shape.
Each eye's unique, beyond imagination,
Each is a marvel,
A teller of intriguing fascination, of endless tales, like phoenix to the ash;
...trace the lines of it, The outline; watch it tilt and hook, and wrap around,
reverse its smooth direction flowing outward
To swing up again and greet its lovely lash....

Oh, that ever a line could be so pure, of complex qualities be made
Of all the depths of three dimensioned things; crystal and ambrosia,
And from a golden horn, the purest note that ever played.

How is it that the future is so clear to her,
That time is but a preying moocher, yet so dear to her?

Her eyes see all, the precious queen
Who fills my eyes with awe.
Thus from a bed of palest green
I muse on what I saw.

IV

Lead a basic life, they say, it's just like eating cheese,
Never mind the subtleties and no surprises please.

Ignore exquisite gradations clear, and all the shifts and tones,
Here's the rigid pattern, dear, just follow it and never mind the moans.
And as your life is ending, you can proudly tell,
Though dull and boring as it was, that you have lived it well.

Well, is the opposite of the stunning sickness that I'm fending,
Well....my dear, too late, too late!
My heart is sick with love, not hate, and sorely needs your mending.

© 2003__Muldoon Elder