Painting On A Garage Post, Prophetic Wolf Runners, And The Angled Lake Affair

All before was once beyond,
Cast from holy gardens frond;
Door opens, as the black cats call,
Aframe strung quiet,uponher wall

She Is,
Each alone
In our own lands:

Watching her Lake
in a dark box,
She smiled n’ vanished
I saw secret lochs;

Garden of green vine,
Open peaks of moon thunder;
Over the Lady’s golden woods,
And through the hanging grapes;

I stepped inside all unknown time
And greeted by the chiming ferns,
I saw the lady on holy shore,
And her, I knew, and her, adored,

And out of an oak, her body grew,
And deep creator, eyes wide blue;
And through the mist, her figure,
And through my mind her tune;

And on the rocks we lived aglow,
And waters clear, we sip and sow;
And in our Paints we never bore,
As all the sinners dream;

The sacred life, we cast a son,
And throughthe reeds sang anon;
His little eyes, alight, aware,
As mermaid mothers misty hair;

And nothing knew we living share
Our love within the oils their;
On forlorn night, of rapping frost,
I whispered to her in the waves;

My son and siren, both did sink,
Into the fathoms of her lake;
And crying soft, I no more spake,
I dove in deep, I heard her song;

And now
we live
in waves

All the wrapping colors kin,
As upon our frame we wait;
For the ending of an age,
We adrift in heavens gate;

We eat the grapes that fall below,
We dance in corals sunlight show;
Our meals are wines we sip aloft,
We of the upper Angels loft;

Free from gain, and loss, and sin,
All we need lives deep within,
As we wade upon the seams;
Of her aqua-olive dreams.

Then I awoke, inside a night,
Single bulbs discourse of light;
And she and I agreed anew,
And lifted up, to stars we knew.


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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7 Responses to Painting On A Garage Post, Prophetic Wolf Runners, And The Angled Lake Affair

  1. Kristin Brænne says:


  2. Jingle says:

    very well done.


  3. “all before was once beyond” you had me just with that phrase…awesome, wish I had written that 🙂

  4. lunawitch15 says:

    wow! no words except Wow!

  5. Kay Salady says:

    Thank you for sharing your absolutely beautiful poetry.

  6. A.B. Thomas says:

    I loved the mixture of the various mythos into such a vibrant write!

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