The Island

[Francis Don Daniels]

Fog thickened
like soup
over the island.

Was it still evening,
or had morning risen?

Silence can be
an artful teacher,
but just now
it leaves me lost.

Somewhere in the catalogue
of my dreams I've neatly filed
in moments of time and place
the hope to arrive-
somewhere-
like the crest of the Matterhorn
or strands once strolled
along wind-swept seas
who speak in tongues
of vanished lands.

Where now the dream's renewed
and I, anxious to repair,
when this time, this chance
will prove to be
the long awaited
Bodhi,
or Nirvana
or Promised Land.

So many times
the hope,
the dream.

And I confused by this dimension
whereupon the surface lacks
a map, address or name,
yet utters the depths
of my being,
echoing
in the den of memory,
racketing
in deep chasms
of the heart.

Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
All Rights Reserved.

[Francis Don Daniels]

Kent,

Thanks for your good words. But you know your writings often do the same
and there's always something there, maybe underneath somewhere, but there.

If we only write what is always "there", that is always the "obvious", are we
as artists really movings things at all, or simply being reporters? Anyway, it's
YOUR experience in reading (and in writing as the creator for that matter) that's
important and is The Joy of Creating at either end of the comm line.

Don

[Neil Davis]

Nice ... like!

[Kent Davis]

Well that was an amazing ride.

Now to figure out where I went.

Word Master, or magician, at work.

[Pier Paderni]

Ciao Don,
you keep pouring off great creations with your musical words...your spiritual landscapes are always very inspiring to me...
thanks so much
Pier