White Wedding



This room is an empty tomb as

bands of crimson  sun  edge

across torn yellowed wallpapers

gored by late september’s

afternoon rays streaming

through broken venetian blinds

still dangling a chipped bell cord

all the room’s docks and clocks have stopped

by the many years miss havisham donned

her unconsecrated bridal gown

a bridal brown but brutal recluse spider sits and spins

intricate cobwebs silkened gossamer threads

thrown to adorn the faded rose and

musty sage damask curtain

it finally makes its way along greying edges of victorian

crown molding, waiting

miss havisham pipes out to a pip

“far out of reach and abroad…

makes a girl prettier than ever,

and admired by all.

But, do you feel you have lost her”

emphatically adding, “if she wounds you,

love her.

If she tears your heart to pieces

love her, love her,

love her!”

There’s a lot to be said for such fierce, growling love

Without such passionate grazings where is the movement

When is the tri ark moment

From whence comes the impetus

And what firey spark ignites the open flaming heart and makes that car go

what frees lovers’ desires from longing unrequited love spires

elongated elegant lines of tapering  tealed gowns satisfy everyman’s desires

gold and white  unity candles adorned with evergreen makes grand

ceremonial devices

in big catholic weddings

time, that rustic scythe

seems to sigh for no one

to wait on no one

yet all points merge to a single point of solidarity, a unity

a single point of singularity

a unified field of force where

even Miss havisham’s stale and stagnant room

turns in the turnings, turns in the tides and

sways in the swells, yet in the convergence

remains ever still


All expansion of time is relatively timeless

real yet unreal

Life is constantly changing change

like the captain of the

ark encompassing a circle

steering past thunder and lightning on the mountain

turning past, present, and future

cogs of a wheel spinning round and round

worlds of worlds

wheels within wheels

stopping the spin long enough to adore in the midst of the sun

hearing the chants of Jasper and the wisemen

foretelling of the glorious One


Hallelujah, Oh Holy Glory

Hallelujah, Oh Golden One

Divine Grace

Oh Chosen One

swaddling babe

spooning turn after turn of golden honey

by the silvery haloed light of the blue moon

shimmerings ancient stardust

glimmerings and sparks

first here then

not turning

into no thing in time

into no time in place

here nowhere yet now


at One point of Grace

a singular point of unified love

a jug overflowing with purest and rarest wine

Here, there, and everywhere

at Once

surpassing grace in the place

of Grace already

always given

And, the cow jumps over the moon while little boy blue and a dog named skippy blow silent night on the flute


Will we ever be what we once were when we were where we were

and will we dare to spin the wheel yet again and choose again to rewrite anew the book

from life’s infinite room and ream of possibilities again and again

and even again anew

Even in this holy and only moment of ever changing  stillness

this timeless eternal presence

all things are happening

all things are possible

Life blooms happen like one of monet’s lily pads blossoming

vibrant hue after subtle change of hue

every blue juxtaposed next to a green

dabs unique in this ever overflowing

infinite french pool

the once firm mold soft set yet now no longer as pliable

no more as malleable

plump wax in the artist eye

no small task to rebirth the creator’s art

we are both the creator and the created, however

just a few unsealable broken wax pieces, darkening clumps, smudged out tints

the once graced lines of lace doiley are a mere smidgeon

of its previous rendition

an imitative form of a glittery eucalyptous

cheap wax never burns well at Christmas

only bees wax with a few drops of oil of frankinsence and myrh

a little blue spruce

does nicely the fir


now a soft slate state, blase still

how shall I reshape this unshapen ball

form anew a fronde from soft formlessness

what color artist creates you anew

who can mend the broken lines

and seal the fragments

replace the shard

who can rearrange the marriage bed, who blesses the rose petal, who consecrates the bread that we partake of as one,

who quickens the lines, the Living Word we speak, who enlivens your wick and silkens my twine,

who strokes the cat, who stokes the hearth of our holy firey body of love

it is human to long for a union, for a holy sacramental communion

we all need a metaphor to live by, a symbol of something to light for the lightest star in the sky but can we ever reach the thing itself,

an ideal marriage of a truely golden emblazoning tri ark mind, body, and soul–a golden holy lit communion,  a true covenant unbroken and burning, a marriage vow firing on earth forever enflaming as it is in heaven

Beloved, you said.

But, Beloved, we didn’t.

But, Beloved, my beloved,

you said a man and a woman and a blackbird are one

And the great God spoke, “But, I married her.  In fact, I married her yesterday in every golden ark I ever lived an ark covenant heart”

Such is life as up and down the spiraling stairway

That one got away, and this one didn’t

While one princess stands pretty as a picture

far out of reach of living quiver,

high on a mantle and cold as a mayan stone,  the other catches a fresh bouquet–lilies and daisies and violets too–clinging to ribboned rice packages and old love letters

Windows fling open in spring

What a lark! And, ah what a plunge!

Mrs dalloway would be so proud

in the wake of these waves

It’s a nice day for an iris white wedding

Come, let us set the table and let the subtle bird free to sing

feel the amber sweet soft amber winds call

Vocalisimus, do you hear me

Oh, my dove, can you read the

hieroglyphic writing on this wall

Hear my soulspeak, Vocalisimus

Oh, my heartbeat oh


I am like the statue, never fortunate enough to be living as a true dancing bridal queen

an ethereal mist too mystic green, too shapeless to form as a solid,  I presume

too much comprised of an idea of the thing and not being the thing

A divine dichotomy really.  I am born of carnal flesh but not truly of it

really in a way just a statue rather than a thing expressing  heat of physical leaf

Ironically, I was told by two I would make a much  better mistress

Don’t know if that can be construed as complimentary

I suppose it means l am made for sultry backstreet sway

of alleycat strut and sock life

But lay, baby, lay me down anyway

a tan suede palate on the floor

while the night is young

lay me down nice and easy, and take it nice and slow

lay me down baby lay me down nice and easy once more before you go

Oh, baby, oh, the time is rare and the miles are steep

But, baby, please don’t go, this heart and soul runs so deep,

Rock me, rock me gently, rock me until I sleep, oh my soul

Rock me, tock me, tuck me in your arms and rock me gently before you steep in the morning light breaking the covenant we are making tonight

Let’s creak and sway the midnight hours away, so

Rock me gently into the ceryllean night blue and starlight of your eye

Rock me gently,  rock me  nice and easy

make it slow before you must travel on

I hear the train coming, I hear that whistle blow

I hear the distant wind chiming right on time

I guess it means it’s time for you to go

Wait.  Hold it just a minute, kiss me one last time

But, let me fix your boutineer and hurry run along now

you better take this nickel and dime, and

Nel, give all my best to ev, dear

Before we know it, you’ll both be uptown by 9

with waves of dark fronds deep inset eyes brown

Oh, my baby blue, it’s alright now

You’ll be handsome paired together and

you’ll go skiing in the mountains in winter

so hold on tight, the distant chimes are ringing

for whom the bell tolls as the happy couple

make your way down the aisle with gusto

something old, something blue, a wish for luck

and you’re on your way

merrily, happily

kisses forever in heat

a mouthful in sweltering seat

of ripest grape and berry

honey, fruit of the high gods, waxed wine

spilling down those cheeks


Oh holy golden one, oh green robed king

lion turn and toast your many faceted queen,

buttons, golden silkened threads mark the many notches

of your high four poster canopied bed

Cheers to the consummation

Cheers to the holy communion

And to your sacramental marriage making ability

What a guy! What a gal!

Gee, Al, do you see the airplane above us?  Can you read the writing high in the clouds? What a party this is turning out to be and all the girls swoon,

surrounding them just to get a rise, a scent, a morsel of the bride and groom and how about chronos

septimus never had it so good

tittilating, delectable unrequited love, my love

birds are born to fly, to pair, my dove

And by the time of evening sun we shall save the last dance just for us and

we’ll eat and sing and slow dance by the light of that harvest moon

and make a toast to the one honeyed monocled landscape,

the priceless tabled feast never plucked bare of

its ancient fruit and root growing deep


Let us return to a certain time, a juncture,

a certain seedy hotel room, torn assunder,

burber and cheap crimson, forest green curtain

so thick as to block the sun’s morning glory,

but the air that grooms the bloom blows cool in the heat of the day’s

stilled life

Dear God I cry, standing gracefully alone,

frozen in planes throughout all time and space like an artist’s model,

not a hopper but someone else

Not even hopperian the mood but similar

a nude blank faced model, just an anonymous

pink fleshed nude model,

unnamed like the counterpart heart

of everyman

I could be anybody really

Any woman standing naked, alone

by a dark cherry table

at a countryside ramada

holding the bible closer

to my breast

I turn to Song of Songs 5

hot tears streamline the years

that mark my face

the candles keep burning, puffing,

keep smoking and wafting,

muting down through these many vacant rooms

down through these many ages and tombs.


Michelle Dorris, copyright, 2017