Thy Corona

 

 

The Ring,  Round,  The Sun

 

 

O

it does not

 embrace my finger,  nor

wrap around my wrist,  it does not

hang from chain,  for neck,  nor ear,  is kissed,

made not of gold or silver,  nor any jewel from the sea,

no trace or mark,  no crest or seal,  nor fancy filigree,

two shards of iron,  welded,  by a circle of steel,

and there in the nest,  of my palm,  it rests,

to remind me,  the road I walk,  is real,

I hold it for Ever and for Always,

until One Day,  so grand,

when Ever says,

I am home,  Angel,

     and lays it,  in

     Her Hand . . . for

     it is just a Keyring,

     where hangs,

     from Her Heart,

     The Key,

     so joined,

     as The Tears

     of Infinity,

     They,  as

     Love,  Again,

     will Be . . .

 

 

 

from Book III,  The Diamond ( Third Beginning ) The Seventh DoveTale – The Breath of Angels

 

 

PostScript:  this piece was recorded as being written on July 4th,  1996,  though I believe the actual keyring was given to me by a very dear friend,  about and for whom so many of these early stories were composed ( and,  to this very day,  I have never met ) and shortly after the  encounter with the lightning took place in ’95 . . .

and the story within this story,  is the remarkable fact,  that I carried this small keyring,  in the palm of my left hand,  held in place by the tip of my ring finger . . . every moment,  every hour,  every day,  every night,  every week,  and every month . . . for four years . . .

and,  on its own,  this would seem quite bizarre behavior,  but there was a bit of purpose-driven madness or motivation beneath the surface . . . for one of the very first things I had to learn,  in order to deal with,  and therefore write of,  the endless river of thoughts and words that flowed through that period of my life,  was Patience . . . and holding that keyring,  for that long,  and in that manner,  was the only way I ever would . . .

regrettably,  the keyring was lost,  in the late Fall,  of 1999 . . .

 

 

 

 

 

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between The Sand, and The Foam

 

 

of Kingdoms,  Come

 (  and Gone  )

  

 

A small piece,  by

 most standards,  pummeled,  and polished,  by

 countless hands,  just a bit of gold that had witnessed the light of

a billion stars in a myriad of skies,  since its first purpose,  acquired a pair of

shoes for a carpenter,  who plied his craft on boats down by the river . . . odd indeed, 

the notion of a poor tradesman falling under fortune’s favor,  by possessing even one in a

lifetime,  for its faces were accustomed to nobler cuts of pocket or purse,  lined with a finer

cloth or the rarest hide . . . stranger still was the voyage of this coin of a realm,  once cast to

honor the folly of men,  and an empire now two millennia dead . . . by land and sea,  across

times and continents,  marking a journey of simple and stunning complexity,  a coin,  all

battered and worn,  yet with a hidden splendor,  waiting just below the surface,  lies

shining,  in a morning sun . . . until one day,  a woman,  guided by the grace of

God,  walking along a path of friendship,  beholds a reflection,  and

lowers her hand to touch the rose,  emblazoned for

      Ever,  upon her heart . . .

 

 

 

from Book I,  The Ring ( First Light ) The Sixth DoveTale – The Grace of Swans