I had a dream this morning of the Irishman. He came and spoke to me wearing pale brown and copper tweeds, the color of his hair, his accent curling his moustache and beard, enriching the hue of his mouth. He was wearing a hat, with his head lowered so I just saw the nose, mouth and beard. When I saw myself facing him, I also wore a cap and you could see only my nose, mouth and chin, too.
This spoke to me, telling me there is a calling. It says to me more of the truth needs be spoken as the emphasis was on mouths, if it may wished to be heard. If not in this life, for our consciousness is honest and reaches out whether we wish it or not, then in the next. Somewhere, sometime, some place, some when.
That is the only reason for this post, the sharing of the story reference and the poetry I wrote that spoke of this. This…. this.
A Song Long Ago Shared
In a gentle way, it never ends.
It is as it is but…
perhaps it is fitting this way as well:
and you know what I mean.
But if not, you can ask
and I will completely, honestly
The Irishman in other poems:
The Red Pain of Distance
The quiver in your voice touches me
and how I imagine your hands moving
over the items of your desk,
picking up little things and setting them aside
without really seeing what they are.
And I hear your smile
and the hairs of your beard curve
as you lick your lips and laugh lightly,
a fluttering that makes me stop in wonder
waiting for it again.
We pause, we breathe, we pause again until
your little groan of agony binds me to
the disappointment I feel
when our conversation ends,
as called away, you must go.
26 September 2011