Carillons

I. With no intention upon sleep,
II. yet no intention on waking.

I.

Atmospheres streak through me.
I am elsewhere smelling bread being made;
listening to the distance;
feeling foreign in my body.

II.

I am haunting a stranger’s house along the lakeside.
I’ve terrified him.
He tells me not to look at the pictures by the stairwell.
I’m out-of-body and perhaps his recognition of me is more frightening to me than I am to him.

II.

I’m morgued and am being transported around like a doll a child might talk to before sleep.
Stiff, and heavy with stench.

I.

This time, I awake with the smell of ash in my hair.
I had met a child by a fire on the shoreline.

She has also awoken,
surrounded by her white bed sheets...
Hair also smelling of ash.

I.

In the mountains, I come across a hum;
A flash of the Japanese character, Power.
I am inside the courage shell.
The sound penetrates my forehead and back
Ringing large and loud along the lush Gorkha trails of Nepal.

In the distance,
There are Carillons ringing
From bells to quakes,
Time tolls it's sound
from air to ground.

© Sonja J. Phinney Apr 2006