Archive for November, 1987


Friday, November 20th, 1987

   An early winter evening, motorcycle wind and headlights moving
      through the lights of houses full of warmth.
      I open the door into a dark room ... the sound of running feet.
   She is there with the smell of incense
         lighting candles behind the bedroom door.

   She and George Winston's music play in the candle's light
      and I am deeply touched ... a smile burns.

   I am blessed.  ...see her love, her playfulness, her passion.
       My hands are cold from the dark ride - she enfolds me,
      kisses my neck like the heat from a wood stove in wintertime
   These feelings of intimacy and togetherness;
      I am both spirit and flesh here, transient and imperishable.
      This washes over me.  ...I am loved.

   So many years and so many women, just to gain this vision.
      To be able to see how deep her goodness and sincerity,
         her honest and caring, are.
   I tell her this and she laughs at me
      she says it just takes some of us longer than others
      to see the obvious.

   My feelings well ... beyond the bed and moment ... beyond the page.
      All the secret spaces, soft lights, and warm loving embraces,
      in all the rooms, centuries, countries, cultures and faces....
   These soft moments of intimate reality are,
      are much of what is real
      and worthy in us.
   The rest are only the moments - between the moments
      when we touch and cup the small lights   of God
      which are in each of us.

   But these moments also pass amid jungles ...
      soft eyes ... and bullets ...  the hands of babies ... and death
      mixtures ... light and shadow ... we, who cherish amid destruction.

   People abused, people bought and sold,
      people confused and used,
      people who were once children of light
         now rusting in corruption.
   This world cannot see it's insane.
      I put down the newspaper, Gorbachev's struggle,
      the starving, the criminal, the heartless.
    History rolls up behind my eyes ... so much night waits
      against our small candles, but I remember what is real.
      I, too, will dim the room and burn incense.

   I know what feeds our hearts and spirits;
      the small flames of the Godhead within us.
   Through these many centuries of death and corruption,
      confusions and loss, I will light a candle
      and gather our love and peace against the storm.

                                    20 Nov 87

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —