For Abby

There lingers in these pages,
The voice of a woman whose visions
Are filled with tender mist and softness,
Which I have not known for long.

There is no pain, no joy, but hope:
The feathers, the silk, the secretive place;
Places in her mind or her experience?
I cannot know without knowing her.

Her skin would be soft to the touch,
Her eyes knowing and understanding;
Her spirit warm and alive:
The distance narrows but still she is far away . . .

When you sing the songs of treasures,
Sing the songs of treasures to me;
From a place with soft red lanterns,
Lighting paths of rust and rubies;
It is then my spirit wanders,
With the thrushes in the moontide,
To the places of your longing,
And my longing, in the meadow;
Magic meadow, where the harps play,
In the dusk, the dusk of roses.

The hearts come,
When I am not looking;
Bring their golden arrows,
The Gods abandon for them,
To pierce the love
I keep knowing.
Someday it will find me;
It has not left me here,
Here, in a garden of circles,
Of glorious colors,
Without radiance;
Someday, even today,
As I dance with a stray shadow
On a gondola cruising space:
Wait for the song from the harp
Of winter.

Now, as the leaves
Forsake the summer juices,
And burn to the kiss of autumn,
I no longer care,
And the flutes play on
With or without me.

But I stay awhile,
In the shadow of evening;
To remember each moment
Of nothing in the starlight:
For the joy that it gives me,
When I am unhappy,
Is the gaze of the prophet
Into the eye of the sun.

The thing that divides me,
Holds my hand instinctively;
Dumps me from the crest of the wave,
And guides me to the bottom,
Covered with erotic shells.

I cannot stay here with you,
In this silver room of no answers,
Bending to the twilight in hats
Embroidered fine and feathered fair;
We talk of things that are not there;
That only exist in the distance between us.

A visit from Heaven,
Mother of Nature;
How truthful the Goddess;
Heed yes the Goddess;
For truly the vision
Supersedes the moment
That a friend goes forever,
Or we part not friends.

Orange candle dreamer:
Of lovers, of passion,
Of blessings of the daylight,
And dark secrets of the night:
When only under the covers
Is the lesson learned:
A womb free from fright;
Concealment of the mind,
Purple musical notes,
Your inhibitions.
The warmth of a dynamic memory:
Faded pink silk, amethyst boudoirs;
Silver feathers by the window,
Staring through me:
Jade in a jar, the door open.

Yet as the moments vanish
From the window sill,
And the tart colors of sunset
In Japanese fans amuse me,
I slide away in the moments of
Your satin hands, for the time gone by
Abuses me, and remembers that now
I am better than I was,
For I love you.

Velvet orange words,
Dripping from the candle;
And though we have not
Nor touched
Nor hibernated together,
In the silken folds of timeless dreams,
I still have your glance
Beneath my eyelids,
Ravishing in the saunas of my dreams.

How strange,
For now that you are not with me,
The purity is a product of dissolution,
And spiritual enterprise;
Essence for the love we have
Like in a bubbling burlap bag,
With silky tassels,
Presses against me,
When I am not with you.

November 4, 1976.

Copyright 2008, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


  1. I really like this piece.
    It stands the test of time.

  2. Even with over 450 poems penned to date, this one is my all-time favorite, likely my masterwork.