(An International Journal of Poetry)
Volume-1 †††† december-2011 Number-2
CALLING ME HOME
†††††††††††††††††††††† by Candice James
I walk through the violet dust of her dreams
In the deep sleepy shade of night.
The powdery fallout of yesterdayís moon
Glows and pools on the diamonds of time,
Scattered along this secret pathway I travel.
The wind gently tapers the smoky clouds,
Into finely honed, feathered figurines.
I languish in this aftermath
Of angelís breath and fluttering wings
Embracing me in soft silent sway.
Something, long buried in my viens,
Calls to me in sacrosanct whispers,
Vespers chanting ancient crumbled rituals,
Vestiges of peeling papyrus
Freshly emptying like sequined rain,
From the mosaic ceiling of my mind,
Onto the lush, grassy knolls of my soul.
Iíve reflected in these faces through the ages.
Iíve seen these ink stained pages before,
Blazing like liquid fire, white hot and red,
In the crystal blue lake of eternity.
Iíve heard these mandolins and sitars
Playing this strange familiar melody,
Time and time again,
Like sleepy gods
Calling me home,