Dream Series: Seafaring Woman

My hands masked my eyes,

eternal ocean percussion beat against my ears,

 bouquets of life about me, seasoned and wind blown

—first descending rain, saturating salt seasoned driftwood

—coriander bloom, blossoming from the roots of my palms,

—sleep whipped like cream, airy and sweetened to my flesh.

Bearded waves rolled their backs in creation, meeting their demise as a headfirst strength,

in pixilated dye of fusing evergreens and everblues,

that sank in the slow of thick—sugar crystal fine particles,

catching light and shadows in a carousel

that turned and vanished within the depths,

leaving the burn of starmint on the tip of my tongue

and circus tent hypnosis vacating the contents of my mind. 

Sounds of Heaven colliding with Hell stirred my thoughts,

to visions of screaming laughter terrifying glass walls,

quaking under the pressure of a front row view of bodies absorbed

in sound wave sirens escaping the fang-toothed skull with crater vacant eyes

—the rush of bodies consumed whole,

the sweeping of their hands and feet thrumming harmonies

along piscean puzzled bones of colossal size

—no one wise to the absent mass of meat and scales,

as they acted the devoured prey for the spectral beast’s appetite.

Onion skin ghost ships bobbed like paper cut chains against the soul lit horizon,

where candle wax dripped, layering phantom mountains,

 —warming and disfiguring in the heat of a gilded moonrise,

where upon the silken stones and splintered shells of a sun bleached shore,

laid my storm sung body,

—the vibrating tidal pull reanimating my drowned pulse.

E.A. O'Connell

Pewter Cloud Scatter...

Pewter cloud scatter,

dipping

Chalice wells with rain,

spilling

Lips in a trickle of copper brush and patina lichen length,

saturating

Arboreal graphite ghosts,

rooting

Haunting the stretch of a last green hope

Their skeletal scratch at well worn summer blue denim,

fraying

Their force of life an earth thick scent,

of pungent iron rich blood

Her decay caked breasts stirring thoughts of combustible hues,

wilting

Her womb a molecular spread of casualties,

seeding and spreading,

fatum

E.A. O'Connell

Dream Series: Hitchhiking Specter

Cricket strings strummed music over my heart sense,

in a rush hour spring haze of a road map remembrance,

as the hitchhiking specter took my leave.

Riding shotgun, he stared deep within me,

—smiling—

telling me there’s a shadow just beyond our sight,

and he’s seeking overlapping tracks of memories alive in the sunburned incense of afternoon,

and he travels with a gambler’s wit.

He’s waiting for Time∞Thyme

—who’s to say which—

and when She arrives they will creep back across the earthquake’s breath.

We both spoke of knowing loneliness and infinite sums and the crushing enormity,

all there in the crowded weight of a marble’s blinding light,

held in small fingers,

held up to a window pane,

catching light,

—a Universe waking—

each of us bruised and born in our own rites of passage.

Aside the dirt road,

there was a spontaneous spark of imagination,

breathing quiet mathematical magic in combs of honey bees and hills of tenacious ants.

I stopped to eye a hand carved tree,

my fingers running the bark and blade traces,

my thoughts blush,

—awakening—

to a black-eyed bird’s unexpected song,

appreciation to embers igniting her twig bed,

her cuckoo clock nest silenced,

she free to sing or escape the hours of her day.

An unearthly legend lassoed me,

pulling me in with her silver locks,

singing me the route of a road weary specter’s fever burning,

his gentle hand want,

for a small of back to embrace,

and I walked dirt and thorns,

leaving a blood-let path,

that sealed me to all who have gone,

and those yet to come.

E.A. O'Connell