|
Bubbles, White Flowers, and Unconscious
by D. N. Simmers Bubbles They complete a circle as the eye tell stories catching the edges of winds. Some sounds are a pop or a bang or a cry. They are silent when the are dying. Flesh made of violent and vocal quiet in and out of existence. There is nothing to show for them. Being there or not a vague rise near water’s edge. White flowers “ It is wrought in violets, upon a background of white flowers” William McGonagall Highland deaths are not my life. But D Day and a uncle knew of death. What Prince Leopold had died for, went through. The poem reminders us of Scotland. Our blood in these thing is a cold shivering knife against our bloodlines We are there where deaths are as they place and are played and fought over and remembered. White flowers used before our time. Now the blood has made the poppy the symbol that all the world sees. We will remain with the white flower and grieve in our own way of the past. Unconscious Actor comes out in the night where Dreams mix with the mix of the moon. Drift with the leaves and swords that are tossed in a lakes and then dried out against a filtered lenses of first light. Run. Run and then fly. Bake the words and press them into T shirts or blankets and fly with the stars. Woke in a sweat. Wanted to go back. Maybe. Maybe knit a few more for tomorrow. As the film is being rewound. Tight. |
|
