Dream I
of
The Voyage of Kings
The Ring
( Purpose )
The Waiting, and The Awakening . . .
The OverLord
flying across this Darkness that veils The Reasons Why, I
listen to The Echo of The Sigh of Always, moving as liquid,
among Her Legion of Stars, as They ever ponder My Intent,
because, these Tears, that lay upon Her Face, I will share
in Sorrow’s Name, for I have known The Folly of Men, and
I come to cleanse Their Shame, oh yes, as I come to bear
Their Blame . . .
The First DoveTale
The Rhythm of Life
far Ago, and quite long Away, and well beyond The Reach of Remember, long before The Suns brought forth The Light of Deis, and so it will be long after these very same Suns will have for Ever ceased to shine, was born The Reason Why . . .
carried across untold Æons, toward uncountable Distances, from that Moment on, until All Moments have come and gone, where All that remains in the Here and Now of this once and glorious Because, is The Echo of a Breath of a Whisper of a Voice, telling of a Promise, and The Promise, is The Return, of Love, Again . . .
The Waiting
The Kiss, of Always
She had never known a feeling such as this before . . . the Midsummer’s Eve of her life, up to this moment, had left her wanting, had left the bittersweet taste of regret, of seas not sailed, of horizons not found, and Tomorrows not lived, and of Love once glimpsed, once touched, once embraced, but now, as elusive as the fragrance of roses, there, yet not seen, there, yet not felt, only a whisper, and not quite a promise . . .
His blessings were many, his woes were few . . . the paths of his life were varied, and true . . . His journeys, his creative hand, the masterworks of his mind were glories of bygone days, of forgotten dreams, of faded pictures never taken . . . His memories, drifted like past moments of time-worn clocks, waiting, for hopes beyond Tomorrow’s wish, for castles yet to build, on the shores of a life, never lived . . .
The fruits of her labors were many . . . Her home, her family, her husband, her son, all were precious jewels in the richness of her life, all becoming the faded images in the portrait of her Soul, like the dust of age, lying quietly, on the windows of Yesterday, like blue-gray ivy adorning the walls of her mind, like phantoms, like butterflies, weaving through the corridors of her Heart . . .
The fires of his passion, the iron of his will, guided his inner voyages, guided his desires, the hope of family and friends, his wife, his son, all were his Universe, all were his inner Light . . . still the Drummer’s rhythm, the Piper’s song, haunted his Soul, haunted his purpose, defined his path, yet, as spectral as the Eyes of Heaven, the message kept its distance, kept its vigil on his Heart, kept its grasp on his Allegiance . . .
All she wished for, all she hoped for, all she dreamed, was to hold on to the thread of Love, the thread of God’s Heart, the web of pearls she had crafted with the blood, the tears and the devotion of her Soul . . . She longed to dance with her Muse, once more, to feel the fleeting moments of passion, of fulfillment, of the breath of Wonder, before the Suns of skies beyond, died away . . .
* * *
and with a depth of Passion that overshadowed All that came before, even in Dreams, and a fevered Rush of Purpose rivaling the intensity of the Light of The Sun, they pledge their Fidelity to the Eyes of Heaven, to the Sea of Glass, to walk the Moments of Eternity, to capture one tear from the Grace of God, and to savor It, to cherish It, from this Moment on, until All Moments fade . . .
and All at once, they heard a Sound, soft and slow, yet with an enduring rhythm of Light, cast from a distant Fire, rising as golden Wind, an Echo of The Millennia, roaming for Ever the Days of Infinity, forging the Paths of their Desire, capturing their Hearts as One, delivering them the Whisper of a Promise, that this Time, and this Place, has been touched by the Feather, from the Wing, of the Angel, of Love . . .
The Second DoveTale
The Pillow of Hope
woven through the vast Embrace of Infinity, and laced within each and every Facet of The Will of God, are The Threads that bind a Divine Purpose, and Always therefore, a Divine Presence, to the very Pulse, of The Human Heart . . .
and so wrapped, and held inSighed the Eternal Memory of Silence, moving, as Liquid, on toward a mighty Sea of Forgiveness, flows the deep and endless River, of Our Souls . . .
and from This, there emerges The Hope of Fulfillment, though, as Ever, bound in The Chains of Awakening, and firmly lashed to the tide and time-worn Decks, of His tempest-tossed Abandon . . .
The Waiting
The Wind, knows The Way
( Home )
setting out on an August Morn, upon a Path barely revealed amid the waist-high grasses, walks a boy, eyes bright with Promise, and keeping a determined pace, in hopes of finding the source of the Voices, before the Noonday Sun found him, too far from the deep quiet shade of his yard, now miles distant . . .
this, his third attempt, after brief and random excursions well within sight of Home, was to be his most daring, for he had never ventured this far out onto The Downs alone before, and without a single Cloud to obscure an endlessly pale, blue Sky, his loneliness had become All the more Complete . . .
high Above, a chevron, small and dark to his periodic gaze, circling in long, lazy arcs, flew an eagle, there since Daybreak when his Voyage began . . . He longed, for just a Moment, to share Its Domain, to see with Its Eyes, to know, All that lay beyond his earthbound View . . .
the last Trace of a Morning’s Dew left Its Mark upon his passage, leaving cool and silvery Trails upon his skin, reminding him, of his thirst . . . yet, before his Thoughts became a Wish, he heard The Sound of The Stream, running Somewhere, up beyond a Rise . . .
as he slowly gave himself to The Height of Wonder, The Splendor fell Away below him to a wide and verdant Plain, a Valley, in The Sun . . . and there, standing for All to see, standing along The Shores of The Stream, standing in The Light of All Things Dear, were The Lilies, with Hearts as One, singing, with Voices as bright as The Dawn, and with the palms of his hands, he dries the Tears from his eyes, and beholds The Sight of Ten Thousand Angels, heralding The Return of Love Again, welcoming him to Avalon, bathing him in Awareness, that Each and Every One, knows he bears The Name, of Hope . . .
The Third DoveTale
The Gates of Dawn
from out of the swirling Mists that gently caress The Endless River of Souls, as The Eyes of Heaven quietly gaze down upon The Hearts of Men, and The Sparrows of WoeBeGone rise up in a thunderous Rush to greet The Sun, I hear the tentative FootPrints of Anticipation come slowly toward Their awaiting Destiny, as two Women, Each holding The Hands on either side of Fate, step forward . . .
and before The Morning has Ever heard The Promise of Day, and in perfect Unison, They begin speaking The Words They have walked All The Millennias to tell . . . on This Day, there shall come a Sound . . .
The Waiting
The Echo
On This Day, there shall come a Sound, soft and slow, yet with an enduring Rhythm, rising as Golden Wind, to capture The Souls of all Men, and to embrace The Hearts of all Women . . . from This Moment on, until All Moments fade, The Sound shall be known, as The Breath of Angels . . .
Now, Alone Together, with The Fire of Life in Your Eyes, You will stand with Hearts as One, and talk, of Days to Come . . .
The Voyage is upon You . . . place Your Hand in Each Other’s, and feel The Dream, The Desire, and The Devotion . . . Your Hearts will surge with joyous Anticipation, as You navigate The Oceans of Promise and Fulfillment . . . You are to become The Treasure of All Dreams, for if You laced Each Moment of Your Lives Together, with fine Silver Thread, more Precious would They be, than a Web of Pearls . . .
A Bond of Freedom is forged, to explore YourSelves through Each Other . . . Every Moment shared, is a Testament of Faith . . . in Your Purpose, Your Path, and Your Passion . . . Together, You will grow, and harvest All that Life’s Bounty has to surrender . . . and A Bridge of Gold awaits, crossing One Hand to One Hand, One Heart to Another, Two become One, and One, is Always for Ever . . .
Imagine a Place, where it Rains only when You Wish, and Wishes come True only when You Smile . . . or of moving a Mountain of Shadows from Your Heart, with just a Touch . . . or of searching The Heavens for The Truth that lies within You . . . or of gazing into The Center of this Most Blessed Union, for The Light that Always shines There . . . Imagine Love . . .
And Tomorrow, in The Final Pages of Your Story, when The End is just A Beginning, You will sit, Once More, with Hearts as One, and talk, of Days Gone By . . .
The Fourth DoveTale
The Ribbon of Love
and in The Embrace of a single Voice, were captured a wide and wondrous Symphony of Moments, and All emerging from what could only have begun in The Heart of Always . . .
and though The Words carried with Them the unmistakable Ring of Truth, Each were laden with The Weight of Certainty, as if the very Sky was about to crack from All that was sure to come from This, for even The Legions of Stars had ceased Their endless Trek across The Heavens, to witness, and yes still to wonder, of an absolute Radiance, that made Their own Light pale, in undeniable Surrender . . .
The Waiting
The Promise, to Remember
( on A Dei, in September )
Far Ago, and Long Away, in a Time before Was, in The Land of Because, A Tale of Two Lovers, began . . .
on Their Path, to KnowWhere, They would walk, Hand in Hand, with a Fire of Life, burning to Live, Always, as One They would stand . . .
in Her Eyes, was A Universe of Love, and in Her Heart, was borne The Reason . . . Ever, His Soul would adore Her, no matter the Time, nor the Season . . .
then, One Day, She heard Him say, under a cyan Sky, Her Heart, He broke, these Words, He spoke, with a far away Look, in His Eye . . . Winds of Time will not erase, My Love for You, and while, I will walk the Days of Infinity to find, one Rose, as lovely as Your Smile . . .
and to return, I know not when, My Hope is someday, soon . . . and, with that, He turned and rode Away, into the Night, by the Light, of an August Moon . . .
so, to the Wind, She cried, for the Wind was All She had to hold, for Ever was gone, the Light of Her Eyes, toward the River of Time, and to Eden’s Sky, She told, My Angel, All I have, is This, My Love, My Promise, and a Kiss, for U, as My Heart, will I, Always, miss . . .
and, Always remember, without The Eyes of Patience, U cannot see, and without The Heart of Mercy, U cannot be . . .
and before She turned to walk Away, The Wind swirled around Her, waiting, as Patience, There, to hear Her say, waiting for Always, Her Words, to share, Angel U, are All that Is, Ever My Will Be and My Was, U, are why I Am, and to Always, U are My, Because . . .
and since that Eve, of Ages passed, when She saw that Look in His Eyes, a Promise to the Wind She cried, to wait for Infinity, under Her cyan Skies . . .
until one Day, when Ever returns, from this Voyage, this Folly of Men, for this Time would be the last Time, He would Ever embrace Her Love, Again . . .
and, She waits, as Always She will, and The Wind cries, for Ever, Still . . .
The Fifth DoveTale
The Veil of Rapture
deep within The Eyes of Because, and moving to a Rhythm only The Wind can hear, Galaxies dance within The Grand Array of Her Dominion, like Jewels, Ever parading across the sheer Immensity, of Her every Desire . . .
and while Time begins to listen, to All The Memories of When, and Come What May tells a Story, to The Heart of Until Then, a small and solitary Candle begins to cast Its quivering yet Always determined Light, upon the impenetrable and unknowable Darkness . . .
and before Hope could Ever know The Name of Patience, Tomorrow begins to understand, that Nothing was, as It shall seem, in Camelot, Again . . .
The Waiting
The Candle
The Child had never known The Essence of Hope, The Joy of a Smile, The Shelter of Kindness, a Touch . . . such Ideas were as real to Him as the Scars upon His Heart . . . there, yet impossible to see, and never to erase . . .
Home, was the Winter of His infant Soul, for His Cry, His Sorrow, His Longing, were the sole Companions of Existence, a Life barren of Solace, a Desert of Comfort . . .
Gone, were the Screams of Rage in a Mother’s Eye, and the sinister Blade of a Father’s Hand . . . Thieves of Promise, washed from The Shores of His Heart . . . Gone, run, Away . . .
what is the purpose of my heart, He mused, for it is empty . . . save for the Shadow of His Fear . . . when would I, ever, know love . . . drifted His Thoughts to The Sky, to the Night . . .
if I could fly away, on the wings of an eagle, would I know love ?, what is this talk of God ?, how could God forget . . . me ? alone, is who I am, alone . . . just the wind and me . . . The Wind, and He . . .
as Darkness crept, with The Edge of Night, He huddled closer to His Candle, His only Warmth, His only Friend . . . The Sanctuary of Sleep, The Cloak of His Life, quietly wraps Him in Its Embrace . . .
* * *
On a vast and glorious Sea, in a Galaxy of Ten Thousand Suns, The Light of His Candle reflects upon The Eyes of Heaven . . . A Host of Stars cease Their endless Trek, to witness, and to wonder . . . Then, began, a Whisper . . .
* * *
His Sleep, never deep, began to sing to Him, softly, a Song of enduring Rhythm, rising, lifting His Heart from Darkness . . . and faintly, an Echo, a Breath, a Voice, singing, of Dawn . . .
He slowly opens His Eyes, and slowly, like Cool Water, a gentle Whisper of Awareness, of Tenderness, kisses His Heart . . . and All at Once, in The Time of a Wink, and The Return of a Promise, He sees, shining, an Angel, of Love . . .
in a Rush, a Fever, a Sheathing, a Sea of Colors, He drifts within Her Music, and with The Grace of Swans, The Angel, with Eyes of The Shade of Mist, lifts Her Hand toward Him, toward The Tears, upon His Face . . .
The Sixth DoveTale
The Grace of Swans
in the very same Moment a Flame of Hope begins Its Journey across The Heavens, and steadfast in Its Pursuit of The Speed of Light . . . in the very same Breath of Wind that holds a most singular Bird of Paradise aloft, now burdened by a Crown of Roses . . . in the very same Tear that falls from The Face of a Child, found standing alone at the Edge of Night . . . and in the very same Sigh that pours forth from The Hearts of Ten Thousand Angels, All gathered as One in The Eyes of Always, who now slowly and solemnly bows Her Head in The Presence of Their infinite Majesty . . . and then, She smiles, for what All of Her Creation already knows, is for Ever . . .
The Awakening
The Gift
there were countless ways he could regard his life, looking back upon the images of his past . . . his work, his home, his family . . . all were miracles in his eye, all were cherished and nurtured with a single-mindedness bordering on obsession . . . the depth of his passion forged an existence whose light overshadowed all that came before . . .
fortune brought him love and friendship . . . a wife and son, and through them an understanding, an awareness of the spiritual majesty, and magnitude, and generosity of God’s Heart . . . and with this knowledge came longing . . . for the thread that bound his heart and mind to the Universe, and all the mystery that resides there . . . faith assured him of one ironclad truth . . . that the thread was music, and harmonic perfection, was the breath of angels . . .
his search for this perfection began before the knowledge of its presence . . . he knew that those not gifted with musical creativity were left to perfect the art of listening . . . and so he did . . . the more he listened, the more his ear tuned itself toward a progression of awareness, each level more beautiful than the one before, each passage a vision of the next . . . within the heart of the artist lies the gift . . . laced within the delicate tapestry of sound, lies the message . . .
as his quest became more focused, he realized the message bore no reference to cultural or religious boundaries, and music, unfettered by societal or material desires, becomes a language of the soul . . . the soul responds only to a language that illuminates a true path, or sense, of understanding, and he knew he must find this music, one artist, one passage, one moment of perfection, at a time . . . he also knew it must be shared . . .
the mission, or purpose, of his life was born . . . he would gather and arrange the music in such a way as to lead the listener toward the doorway to perfection, a path that then allowed the soul to hear the message, a bridge to the key of understanding . . . as awareness grew within him, so too would it grow in others . . . he dreamed that one day he would touch the mind of each artist, and behold the brilliance at the moment of creation . . .
a decade had passed since hearing that first, faint echo . . . he learned of the evolution, the rarity, and the fleeting embrace each artist feels while dancing with the Muse, and the seldom heard whisper of fulfillment . . . yet, as limitless as the stars, so too is the outpouring of perfection . . . he learned that within the Grand Design, the soul travels inward . . . and the more he listened, the brighter the light became . . .
so precious, the gift . . . each artist, a jewel wrapped in the richness of his life . . . they are those who have cracked the sky above him, their music, the rain of joy . . . they are those who ignite the fires of his passion, with the light of ten thousand candles . . . they are those he must now thank, from the core of his being, with all his heart . . . for the message, the breath of angels, is love . . .
The Seventh DoveTale
The Pageant of Lilies
as The Light of The Millennia, cast long Ago, from a Distant Fire, and roaming for an Eternity to every Corner of Her Universe, now stands reflected at Last, in The Pools of Her Innocence, and brought forth as an Echo to kiss Her Heart, by a single and simple Whisper of Faith alone . . .
and no sooner did this Touch surround Her from withIn, no sooner did this glorious Embrace finally pour Itself over The Magnitude of Her Loneliness, no sooner did this Memory of The Day that Her Music had died fall away to Oblivion, not only did She finally realize where Ever was, not only did She finally understand what Ever had done, but She felt both the terrible and the indescribable Beauty, of His infinite Disgrace . . .
The Awakening
In The Spring, of ‘42
( barbed Whyer )
Once there was a Girl, of a Name unKnown, who found HerSelf wandering, amidst the Chaos of a Concentration Camp, built for those whose Innocence would One Dei free the World, from the Hammers, in the Fists, of the Blind, and the Heartless, Gods, of War . . .
Fourteen Summers, was All She had to hold,
Fourteen Summers, was All She had to give,
Fourteen Summers, was All She had untold,
Fourteen Summers, was All She had, to live . . .
as She bore the Weight of Her Father’s Name, and with It, All of Humanity’s Shame, Life as She knew It would nEver be The Same . . .
and through each Moment of Evil endured, Her Faith nor Her Hope could Ever be lured, out beyond The Gates, of Her Promised Land . . .
and in this Kingdom, of Her unwavering Trust, She held on to Her Dreams, as She knew She must, and although She may suffer from The Follies of Men, She holds fast to God’s Hand, as She waits until When, She will fly, knowing why, She had endured All these Things,
because in Her Heart and in Her Soul, rests this Voyage, of Kings . . .
* * *
Dreams, of A Rocking Horse
( and The Sound, of Bells )
. . . and as a Host of Stars ceased Their endless Trek, to witness, and to wonder, the Night, began to reign . . .
She is a Child of Innocence, and just coming of Age, lost and so unbearably alone, lying naked and helpless among the Ever-circling dogs of Chaos, whose blood-red Eyes cast their hideous glances upon Her, waiting with the Patience of Stones for Her to fall under the Weight of their Intent . . .
sumHow, She knows that this Day, is to be Her Last among the Living, and before The Sun can pierce the death-laden Fog that hangs above this Place, that cloaks Her Skin in a poisonous shroud, that wraps itself around every suffocating Breath She takes, and lays upon Her Tongue like the charred residue of Her Prayers, whispered quietly to a God that has abandoned All that remains of this Killing Ground, to the Evil that walks in the Hearts of Men, She surrenders . . .
trembling, as Always, from hunger, and from thirst, and the bone-chilling cold, and the Fear that moves through Her emaciated Body like some perverse Dance, keeping Time with The Sound of Her Tears, as They fall to floor of The Box that is Her Final Resting Place, built below the Surface of the frost-heavy Earth, still echoing the Cries of Hopelessness above, and still trampled, by the shiny black Boots, of the Wicked . . .
slowly, She lifts Her Mind toward The Crack in The Sky, a hole in the lid of The Box, where She feels the meager warmth of The Light of Day upon Her Face, and tries to remember, what Her Eyes can no longer see, because Her Eyes are now shattered Windows upon this World . . . beaten, broken, and blinded, by these Soldiers of Hate . . . for They could not bear to see The Look of Her sweet Innocence, could not bear the Sight of their own guilt-ridden Masks, could not bear their vile Reflections, in the Mirror of their Godless Souls . . .
as the lid of The Box is thrown open, One Last Time, and the flood of Death pours itself upon Her, She is lifted from Her prison by their blood-stained Hands, and always black-leather-gloved, to separate them from The Touch of Her Purity, and She is tossed upon the Ground, where the Marks of Yesterday’s Pain are still etched in the soil, lying there as if to mock them, like the Image, of an Angel . . .
and upon this Angel they fall, one by one, like hounds from Hell, with their lust-swollen Swords piercing Her Body in waves of indescribable humiliation and suffering, infecting Her with the rotting seeds of their unholy Alliance, violating Her, with All of the Evil that Men can do, when they embrace the Heart of Darkness . . .
as the Edge of Night slowly descends upon Her, and the wailing Winds of Fate dance across what is left of Her ravaged and bleeding Form, She is dragged, once more, across the scorched Earth to the open maw of The Box, and thrown back inside, where She lays in the Throes of Desperation, and waits in the gloom, now haunted by the Shadows of Her Oblivion, now silenced, by the Screams of Her Hopelessness, now empty, of All that She ever dreamed Her Life, could be . . .
. . . and as The Host of Stars gaze down upon Her, Their Light enters through the hole in the lid of The Box, and finds Her Reflection, there in The Pool, that is The Sum, of All Her Tears . . .
as The Light shimmers, She feels The Essence of Its Blessing, bathing Her tortured Soul in the sweet Embrace of Its Tenderness, and Its limitless Compassion, and in the quiet Hush of The Moment, She begins to realize that The Vessel of Her Body can no longer endure the battering of wave after wave of Degradation, can no longer harbor Her inextinguishable Thoughts of Hope, and Salvation, that She must let go of The Anchor of This Life, and allow Her Spirit to travel On, toward The Call of a Distant Shore, nourished by The Tides of Promise and Fulfillment, lying SumWhere, just beyond The Reach, of Her Despair . . .
Her Heartbeat, slowly stills, to a Whisper, and then, to a Sigh, and then, ‘Lo, and Behold, from Out of KnowWhere, from Out of The Arms of Silence, from deep within Her Last Breath of Surrender, a Resonance, a Rhythm, an enduring Echo of Redemption, wrapped in the undeniable Cadence of Hooves, hammering the Earth with righteous Intent, rolling across The Fields and Forests of Her Heart, moving as Liquid Thunder, held Aloft, by The Wings of Certainty, becoming The EverLasting Sound, of The Fury, and Yes, of The Might, of The Seven Hundred Horses, of Ebony, Left, and Ivory, Right . . .
and There, as The Dawn slowly cracks The Sky, as The Sun slowly pours Its Warmth upon Each and Every Thing Dear, Now, for The Very Last Time, and in This, The Very Last Place, and slowly, yet with The Might of Titans, and The Grace of a Swan She raises Her Hand, toward A Presence, and slowly, like Cool Water, She caresses The Face, of Forgiveness . . .
. . . and The Host of Stars resume Their Endless Trek across The Heavens, taking with Them The Memory of All that Was, and All that Will Be Again, for They, have for Ever witnessed, and They, will for Ever, wander . . .
The Eighth DoveTale
The Rock of Patience
a Parade of Suns converge, and as far Away as The IcanSea, having pledged Their Allegiance to The Wishes of Always, and to serve The Paragon of All Her Virtues with undying Courage and Grace, who stands before Her now, with The Might of Titans, and His Blade of Truth shimmering, in The Light of The Coming Dei . . .
and out beyond The Reach of Her eternal Dominion, out beyond even where Her Angels have feared to tread, the Darkness waits, with a shallow and shuddered Breath, because The Weight of Certainty now bears down upon Its ancient Heart, and with a Purpose never before remembered, and a Point, It will never soon forget . . .
The Awakening
The Wings, of Grace
and far, far away, in a Land of endless Splendor, with a Night of Ten Thousand Suns, The Eyes of Heaven cease Their timeless Vigil, to witness, and to wonder of this Promenade of Eden, this Choreography of Paradise . . . and with A Majesty of Swans, The Mother of Dawn slowly raises Her Hand, brushes The Tears from Her Face, and quietly nods Her Head . . .
The Angelic Warrior, Soldier of Virtue, without Name or Number, gracefully turns His Mien of Valor to face His Legion of Stars, Her Children of The Clouds . . . scanning the Night Sky, on His Boots of Yellow Fire, with The Power of Infinite Love thundering as The Roar of Lions through His Soul, He lifts His shimmering Sword of Truth, and points toward Destiny, a brilliant blue Planet of The Sea, and as a Golden Wind, as an Echo, He whispers . . . The Light, of The Millennia, cast, from a Distant Fire, roam, It will forEver, The Path, of My Eternal Desire . . .
and The Light of a Candle, borne from The Heart of a Child, borne from a Sea of Glass, reflects on His gleaming Blade of Honor, and flies through The Windows, of Her Eyes, and, as if The Skies of Paradise were to crack from the Intensity of Her Love, She smiles, Again . . . and within The Time of A Wink, and The Gift of A Promise, The Chariots of The Sun fly Away on Her Twighlight Path, spiriting Them, The Guardians All, on Their Journey to The Sea, on a Voyage of Kings, on Her nEverEnding River, of Light . . .
* * *
as a great Majesty of Stars, quietly ponder Their Proper Place within The Great Wheel of Change, as The Eyes of Heaven remember, for whom The Bell has rung, and for whom The Balance is hung, as One Day walks with Let It Be, sharing The Path of We Shall See, as ’Lo and Behold whisper to Because, while It Is So nods to So It Was, as All Things Dear begin Their Story, and Truth speaks of Grace in The Telling of Her Glory, The Angelic Warrior slowly bows His Head in The Presence of Always, while in The Distance, from a pale Blue Gem in a dark Velvet Sky, come The Sounds of Children, laughing in The Reign, of Why . . .
The Ninth DoveTale
The Windmills of Eden
high above a Meadow, and caught somewhere in The Gravity of a world long betrayed by The Follies of Men, a world long forsaken by The Eyes of Heaven, an Eagle drifts upon unseen breezes, circling in long, lazy Arcs across an early azure Sky, while keenly watching The Path down far below, of a Child, walking toward the waiting Arms, of Destiny . . .
and in The Time of A Wink, and The Wish of a Promise, the Sound of Bells begins to carry across a Sea of Glass, and a bejeweled Sword emerges from The Depths of Antiquity, borne aloft by a Woman’s triumphant Hand, and The Moon, slowly turns, to face The Fall, of the Night . . .
The Awakening
The Dory’s Wake
( in Charon’s, I )
as a chilly fog of hopelessness settles, once more, upon The River’s quiet rush, as if to blanket All that is left to mourn in Shrouds of pearl-grey Ivy, there, out beyond The Reach, where Shadows play across The Water like errant Children, a Susseration steals through The Air as if to herald a Purpose not yet known, even to Itself . . .
when, at last, as The Dory disappears beyond The Bend, a Ring forms on The Surface, slowly growing wider with each passing Thought, until Another, then a Third, radiates Outward with a Precision not found in the World of Men . . .
and then, at the Epicenter, a Woman’s Hand, bloody and raw, having fought every Battle since Time’s First Breath, rises up through The Mist, bearing a Sword of brilliant luster, graced with The Jewels of An Empire, and pointing, toward The Heavens . . .
* * *
The Doryman ceases His rhythmed Task, and sets His Oars to rest upon the Locks, and listens, while a whisper of dread wraps itself around His Heart, and wonders of The Voice He knows He heard, coming from around The Bend, and slowly lifts His Head to face His Fears . . .
and through the waning Cloak of Night, as The Kiss of Dawn flows, as Liquid, down across The Way of Souls, He gazes back from whence He came, and hears, echoing from SomeWhere beyond The Dory’s Wake, Three Rings, as clear to Him as His own Breath, and He smiles, and returns to The Task Fate gave Him, and knowing, that Truth, has risen, Again . . .
The Tenth DoveTale
The Cloak of Simplicity
a Flock of Grace moves with Fortitude, to find Their Own Way behind The Sun, Their Voices ringing across The Ages to shatter the Night, and Their Hearts wide open to encompass The Prayers of All Things Dear . . .
The Whisper of Horses is heard, softly melting into The Realms of CircumStance, as Their mighty Hooves step forward, from out of The Mists of Avalon . . .
and The ButterFlys of August search The Sky for a tiny Crack in The Foundation of Heaven, toward and through which They will journey, bearing with Them the Hope of All Humanity, and The Dream, of Ever going Home, at Last . . .
The Awakening
The River, of Light
with Their Chariots glistening in The Light of ten thousand Suns, The Guardians, Her Children of The Clouds, pause on Their Voyage, to witness, and regard a Servant of Time, kneeling among The Stars, with The Legions of Heaven arrayed above and below Him, His Eyes, cast down, whispering of Sorrow and Shame, born from a Heart of great Courage, as He lays The Chains from around His Soul, down, around The Lace, of Grace . . .
The Tracks of His Tears, mark a Journey of Infinite Days, and passionless Nights, of a World of Pain, of a World in the Throes of Chaos, a World on the Frontiers of Madness, where a Child sleeps Alone, afraid of the Fear in His Heart, afraid of being forgotten by Heaven, and afraid of living in a World without Love, without Kindness, without The Shelter of just One Smile to Ever call His very Own . . .
somehow, The Face is known to Him, muses The Angelic Warrior, somehow, He knows of the Grief being shed before Him, somehow, His Heart breaks, and a Tear falls from His Eye, and becomes One, becomes wrapped within a Sea of Many, an endless River of Tears, for when Angels cry, Their Tears become The Rain of Joy, The Twilight Path, of Her Evening Song . . .
and with The Grace of Eagles, He raises His Hand for Universal Silence, His Rings of Brilliance awaits, The Fires of Their Passion rivaling The Core of The Sun, and They listen, Their Hearts, TripHammers of Devotion and Compassion, a fevered Rush of Purpose, of a Promise to keep, and All hushed, while Their Paragon of Her Virtue, The Soldier without a Name or a Number, commands Their AllMighty Allegiance . . .
We were not sworn, We are,
We were not sought, We seek,
We were not selected, We chose . . .
We, are The Power of All Love,
We, are The Chariots of The Sun,
We, are The Children of The Clouds,
We, are Vanguard of A Voyage of Kings . . .
* * *
and, with a Gleam of Affection in His Eye, The Pride of Avalon keenly regards His Mistress, The Angel of Love, with a Longing no Man, gone or yet lived, has Ever known, save perhaps in Dreams, and with a Passion borne of The Light of The Millennia, Eons in coming, roaming for Eternity the very Flight of His Soul, a Tear wells in His Eye once more . . . and with The Grace of Eden, She raises Her Hand to capture It before It falls, and She smiles, for She knows of His Intent, and She knows of His Love, and the infinite Patience of His Heart, for She is The Path of His Desire, She is The Fire of All Creation, and She is The Dawn, and Her Light, and Her Name, are Always . . .
The Eleventh DoveTale
The Shelter of Kindness
over The Fields and The Forests of So It Was, where Legions of Lilies stand or sway, and as Always, there to dance in The Wind’s Ballet, The Wrens of Ever gather for one final Thrust into The Hearts of Men, to tear asunder the Shackles of Their Blind Desire, and to free from Their Souls the Burdens of Their Empires, that have laid to want and to waste, All The Foundations of The Truth upon which They were built, and justly so, are now left crumbling under The Wait, and under The Will, of Avarice . . .
and somewhere beneath the rubble, struggling for a precious Breath of Light, resolute in Its Quest to find a significant Foothold in The Soil of Reason, and of Redemption, stands a single Rose, quietly learning to grow, without Thorns . . .
The Awakening
The Web, of Pearls
on a vast and remote Plain, on an Island in a Southern Sea, in The Shadow of an Ancient Sentinel of Creation, where a Host of Stars circle The Skies above, and pause, to witness, and to wonder, of The Coming, of The Kingdom, of Dawn . . .
and on This Field, All The Lilies stand, Hand in Hand, and Hearts as One, Their Bond of Freedom forged with The Fires of Passion in Their Eyes, ignited by The Light of One Heart, They gather as One, The Dreams of Days yet to Come . . . and as This End heralds of This Beginning, They walk with The Might of Heroes, a glorious Parade of Suns, Jewels of Innocence, singing of Joy, of Freedom, of The State of Independence, The Essence of Friendship, Voices of a Golden Wind, in a Myriad of Colors, capturing The Hearts of Men, and The Souls of Women, whispering, of The Echo . . .
and This Time, and This Place, will be The Dawn of The Light of Grace, The Eve of Sunrise, as Hope weds Fulfillment on Their Twilight Path . . . and as The Angel of Love raises Her Eyes and kisses The Tears from The Face of The Crimson Dove, from This Moment on, until All Moments fade, The Song sung on The Breath of Angels, The Love that is The Thread of God’s Heart, The Message, The Echo of The Whisper of The Promise of The Gift, is that Her Love is Eternal, and that Her Kiss, is Always . . .
* * *
and, All at Once, All throughout The Universe, from The Fountainhead of Paradise, rising softly, as a Rush of Golden Wind, inside The Sweet Music of The Rhythm of Glory, capturing The Heart and The Soul of All Things Dear, moving as Cool Water, as The Spirit, as The Essence of Joy, roaming for Ever and to Always, The Infinite Path of All Desire, cast from The Distant Horizons of Skies Beyond, The Fires of Creation, and an Absolute Perfection of Harmony heard only in The Thread of Dreams . . .
something Wondrous, and Precious, with an Intensity born to crack The Heavens, an Echo, a Breath, a Whisper of The Voices of Angels, Heralds of The Valley of Roses, cascading slowly over The Gardens of Avalon, singing of The Word, singing of The Message, singing with The Sound of Light . . . and The Light is The Dawn, and The Dawn is The Grace of God, and The Grace of God is The Promise, and The Promise is The Jewel, and The Jewel is The Embrace, and The Embrace is The Coming, and The Coming is The Kingdom, and The Kingdom, will be The Gift, of Love, Again . . .
The Twelfth DoveTale
The Passion of Innocence
a great and glorious Hush, and So adorned, is the abundant Richness of Friendship, pouring as Liquid, as a Golden Wind out across Her Universe, from Hither to Yon, and yes, from Here to Eternity . . . and deep in The Echo of The Whisper of Her Gratitude, She slowly bows Her Head, and places Her Hand upon Her Heart, and declares to The Host of Stars waiting above and below Her, from this Moment on, until All Moments have been, All of My Creation shall know, of This Love, Again . . .
and there in The Sound of The Reason Why, and there by The Light of The Rising Sun, are two winged Messengers, one born SteadFast, the other Resolute, as one flies toward His Understanding, and the other flies toward Her Forgiveness, while both shall Ever dwell, in The Palace of Always, because This, is where Angels shall go to learn of Grace, and where Ever shall be, to finally see, Her Face . . .
The Awakening
One Knight, on a Sea of Glass
( and a Kingdom, comes )
on a HillSighed, above a Meadow, and naught very far from The Reason Why, there first rose a Hush, and then rose a Whisper, and then rose The Voice, of Silence . . . and thereUpon, Her Words poured slowly, as Liquid, out over these gathered Souls, to bathe Them in The Sound, and in The Light, of this glorious Symphony, of Moments . . .
high overHead, in a Perfect Circle, with Wings that would Ever touch The Face of Always, flew The Ibis, Resolute, bearing a Crown of Roses, there among The Flock of Grace, and there beneath a stunningly perfect Sapphire Sky . . . as The Hue, and The Cry, of Days gone by, quietly fade into Long Ago, and Yesterday shares a Thought with Remember, and because Tomorrow may nEver know, The Knight walks slowly Out, far across The Sea, toward The Center of EveryThing, toward The Heart of All Things Dear, toward His Place, in The Valley of The Sun . . .
He moves across the Still Waters, with a Courage born only from Sorrow, and with a Purpose known only to Fate, Far from a Place called Home, He walks, as He has walked All The Days of Infinity, following The Light, from a Distant Star . . . gListening to an Echo down Deep in His Soul, He walks, with The Weight of Destiny on His Shoulders, and Every Prayer of Every Child in His Heart, He walks, until He finally comes to Rest, at The Point, of It All . . .
and there before Him, and before each and every Look of Regard, as The Stars slowly cease Their endless Trek across The Heavens, to pause, to witness, and to wonder of The CircumStance about to unFold before Their Very Eyes, The Dawn, rose, giving Her Final Promise to The Day . . . and, to Him, waiting now on bended Knee, and Head bowed, in The Presence of Her Majesty, She offers Her Hand, whereUpon, He sees, and hears, The Ring, of Truth . . .
All at Once, a Shimmering, a brilliant Spark of Blue Fire, ignites within The Ring, and bursts Forth in a WhirlWind of Singing Light, immersing Him in Living Color, enfolding Each and Every Shadow in His Heart within a Blanket of Forgiveness, and Always embracing, His Very Soul . . . and though fleetingly blinded by The Light of Understanding, He begins to sense a Change, in The Air, as if The Sky were about to crack, from The Mighty Hammers of Titans, to The Very Breath of Ten Thousand ButterFlies, because All are waiting, All are watching, and All are willing, to hear, of This EverLasting Promise . . .
and, He begins, to tell, His Story . . .
onWord, to
Dream II
The Sword
( Second Sound )
