Coriolis
by
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Music of the Autmn Moon 3 AM interruption of dreams, awaken to admire the hovering moon, framed perfectly in the window square; yellow world of silent night, aglow of Autumn’s nocturnal light, beaming thru the room, streaming thru the dreaming. Invasion of the make believe, I run back to reality, which though, seems to be, no less real. Startled by the departure from the haven of magical creation, where I am you and you are me, and kitty is all three! And beyond the other side of night, you walk softly in the gentle part of morn, by the brook adjacent to your nook, and to the sky you look for the source of music in the moon, for you, a translucent spoon, which fed the pulsing rumble of a boom, to you. And back across the ocean’s gulf, which the corpus shan’t not cross, I stare into the yellow moon, and stream the pulsing of the boom, that is the beating of my heart, scant contained by the little room. Just as much a dream, are you, as that from which I’d awoken too soon; so fight for the concrete feel of the solid real….when your soundless tune filled my room—crosscurrents from that streaming moon! Your subtle Self, I entertained, in collaboration of the heart, where words unspoken—your poesy tokens—currency I received with a thunderous start. Busy space, of little room, awash with yellow moon! Magnanimous thoughts, penned by hand, I yet heard spoken from your lips, which, as if to steal your breath that thru them healed, a thousand times I softly kissed, in some alternate land where we had not missed. And I held you close, your head upon my shoulder; your warm-hot hand I held with mine, so that what words I whispered in your ear, would not fail a response, dear, of your spoken poesy seer, that’d burnish from our moments near—nearly soundlessly come, of your sweet lips.
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About the Book
3 AM interruption of dreams, awaken to admire the hovering moon, framed perfectly in the window square; yellow world of silent night, aglow of Autumn’s nocturnal light, beaming thru the room, streaming thru the dreaming. Invasion of the make believe, I run back to reality, which though, seems to be, no less real. Startled by the departure from the haven of magical creation, where I am you and you are me, and kitty is all three! And beyond the other side of night, you walk softly in the gentle part of morn, by the brook adjacent to your nook, and to the sky you look for the source of music in the moon, for you, a translucent spoon, which fed the pulsing rumble of a boom, to you. And back across the ocean’s gulf, which the corpus shan’t not cross, I stare into the yellow moon, and stream the pulsing of the boom, that is the beating of my heart, scant contained by the little room. Just as much a dream, are you, as that from which I’d awoken too soon; so fight for the concrete feel of the solid real….when your soundless tune filled my room—crosscurrents from that streaming moon! Your subtle Self, I entertained, in collaboration of the heart, where words unspoken—your poesy tokens—currency I received with a thunderous start. Busy space, of little room, awash with yellow moon! Magnanimous thoughts, penned by hand, I yet heard spoken from your lips, which, as if to steal your breath that thru them healed, a thousand times I softly kissed, in some alternate land where we had not missed. And I held you close, your head upon my shoulder; your warm-hot hand I held with mine, so that what words I whispered in your ear, would not fail a response, dear, of your spoken poesy seer, that’d burnish from our moments near—nearly soundlessly come, of your sweet lips. —Music of the Autumn Moon
About the Author
S.R. Osborn lives in Fairfield, Connecticut www.srosborn.itgo.com www.srosborn.com