Assignment #3: Wunderkammern

The shelves there cluttered, full from end to end
Shadow boxes displaying stacked vignettes
The abstract contents start to fade and blend
Abandoned volumes we, in Time, forget
A cabinet untouched and locked will seem
A treasure, if the key is never found
Of Discovery the mind loves to dream
And will ponder its sight, its taste, its sound
Sometimes I wish there was indeed no key
No way to confirm the inside mundane
Just wonderful wondering-- reverie
No memories, disappointments, or pain
It is in our nature-- the need to know
Curiosity leads us. And we go.

Sirens

I think maybe sirens don't sing--

At least not with voice & lyre

But with tumultuous grace 

They sing to us as crashing waves

As undulating tides

A song of sight & sound

Of salt on lips

Stinging mist in the eyes

Goddess tears

They sing to us songs

Of cutting currents

Delicate rippling notes

Upon the base torrent

Beneath

They fall

To raise their voices

They hide their chorus

Until we are miles away

They madden us with singular

melodies upon melodies

Upon melodies

Tinkling, sparkling

Melodies

Trailing, fading, swelling

Culminating

But never finishing

Or ending

Melodies

Never ending

Too continuous

To be Knowable

What it would mean

To know them

They promise 

We can know them

If we would just

Get close enough

Assignment #2: Very Short Story

Her eyes were the only things I cared for. So I took them.

Eros

There is no cure for his dart
No discovering his art
Or the scope of his part
Until splinters fall
From your heart

Assignment #1: The Book

I've been knocking this around in my mind for a few days. Ever since I came upon the suggestion, I haven't been thinking as much about the books I might give somebody else but of the books I or somebody I know carried around. A friendly acquaintance I had in high school-- Nate-- used to carry around Tropic of Cancer. I used to carry around Siddhartha. My friend, Glen carried around The Satanic Bible, partly for shock value. Another friend often carried Crowley's Book of the Law (after she destroyed her first copy, of course).

I spent some time contemplating the notes they might write, the places they might leave their books to be found. A few people would run screaming from Anton La Vay's black volume but most would snatch it up & scan its pages in hopes of finding the detailed instructions for lurid or violent rituals. Glen's note would be more sordid than the book itself.  Tropic of Cancer...  Ah! What a dirty, sad, gorgeous book. What a perfect book to love, to carry, to cherish to dog-eared & stained perfection. Any book in that state is a holy relic. Nate was a member of the first writing group I ever joined. I heard him read his own poetry-- tender, adoring verses. I suspect his note would be a love letter to Henry Miller. The Book of the Law would be a cheap printout or photocopy. The note would be curt. A brief invite into initiation followed by the order to "burn after reading."

Siddhartha... would I release you, the relic in my pocket? Would I open the bird cage & let you fly out? Could I? The waters speak to me but the world drowns out their song. I hold you still-- your words about Love, about Wisdom, about the transitory nature of all things... I underlined them for school & kept them for my Self. Inked up printed pages would not serve another near as well as a new copy. That is what I tell myself but I know better. I must let go of the relic.

When I open the cage, I will wrap you in plain brown paper, then I will write the words, "For You" on the front of your simple covering. I will leave you upon a rock on the beach or riverbank. Perhaps I will leave you by the waterfall in Russian Gulch.  There is no ferryman but the water speaks. Whoever finds the book-- speak to them for me.