Golden Gate Park, De Young Museum Sculpture


Could the Forget-Me-Nots be blue enough? The Ocean’s shores crash with violence. A garden near the beach; how exquisitely I hear. Dry, and yet it surrounds. As a comforting friend. An ocean, nearly, and Blue. We are almost on the beach, yonder. A rock wall separates us, the ocean and I. Be still my friend of Gaia.

A lumbering wall, scant trees, a quagmire. The garden, my home. Our place in space, we tend with tendress. With doting efforts, the servants do. And I look on, with my countenance of stately approval, and from such a young prince as I.

Shall I count the hues of Blue proffered by the sky? Drink of a deeper intensity. Then, return to ask me why. Do not forget me, not. Drink of knowledge if not wisdom. Question the patterns of the cosmos. Why so many stars at night, I wonder. Shall I instigate? The Iron garden-gate. Grating in its opening.

Allow each stone in our path to be stepped upon – it is decreed. And the roses in the garden nod their approval with each and every passing breeze. Bronze the sunset and illuminate the stars. Stunningly sets the day. My planet, Mars, hastily makes his journey with my approval.

Moss lingers, malingering-ly, sabotaging the Rhododendrons, quietly like a cat with paws upon the grass. My dying light. Linger softly as a cloud passes with finality. Daylight remains, but not my furrowed brow with freckles. Feckless. I attend my duties, royalty or not. Do not forget. The ocean is Blue.

With brutish whispers, a passing soul from this world. Silence, be damned! It is my black cat, Taboo!

Each departure is silent enough, with the depth and breadth of the ocean beneath the stars. Taboo walks upon the stones. Carry me yonder, starry sky as I behold thee. Scratch the frost, Taboo. Like the distance between the Galaxies.

The heavens await. To leave is to arrive.

A Monarch flutters to the other end of a rainbow. Further than the Manotaur? I’ll wait for you here, my passing fancy, my lion sulking with grandeur. A skulking conch shell. A slowly burning tea-light candle. A white moth, lost. Sleep soundly my soul of a dream. As the hummingbird tilts towards and I look askance. The sensible meanders.

Look hinder. A day unfurls its unsettled light. With scuttled gold begins the day anew. Blue passes above. Its arrival complete, we settle for what is profound, un proffered, hidden, and still.

A World of Subtle Distinctions.

A Manotaur, beast of burden, carries a chariot of stars. The lessons of the cosmos unfold. A void must be filled. He is beholden to his charge.

My tutor arrives. Her name is Lilly Pond. No stranger to the Court, is she. And we sit beneath the sun at a bistro table in the garden. I, beneath the shadow of an umbrella, she with a satchel of papers. Scowl, with the intended effect, as I do.

Shall I write about a cat barely playing the piano while wondering why it is not a mouse? Shall I speculate about the Jasmine? Does it clamber all the way to the end of the wall? If the stone castle reached one of the passing clouds would it tear its misty body to pieces? Things quiet, all of them. And the silence pervades. No one dares make a sound while I am taking my lessons. The silence conquers all but the ocean; the one plaintive thing. Demonstrating eternity. Blue friend of mine, eternally. Caress my kingdom, my black horse.

For some lessons, Lily said, adjusting her glasses, one must cling like the ivy, for other, one must wander like the cloud. “To be torn?” -I ask her. Yes. You are a prince, however, in some ways a pauper. To govern, one must be wise.


Snark-a-glaupholous wandering nefarious amongst the stones stone-still. The threatening rocks stand atop the dewy soil. A trail, extending behind the slow-moving creature, glistens. He weaves his meanings. And, he means what he says. A track amongst the leaves, somewhat crinkled and weather-worn. Frightful rustling as my heart thunders inside my chest.

Hear me still, he says, the Snark-a-glaupholous – for your lessons will. End some day, with…the days, numbered as they are, ending. All calendars run dry, given time, will, they do.

At this I was terrified. The cosmos ending, but how?

To govern is to maintain a delicate balance; just as with a mobile hung from the ceiling. At this, the prince glanced upward towards the mobile of origami paper-cranes on their delicate strings and sticks; such tranquility -thought the prince. “Is it possible for nothing to exist? Or, is it just an idea?” -a flash of inspiration from nowhere.

The Universe, which changes by its being observed…Cool Cat!

It is all just too much!

The Uncertainty Principle, and it’s Black Cat, which is also White, dictates the music the Cat will play, on any given occasion, at any momento, momentito. As the intervals get smaller, It’s all jazz to you.

The Uncertainty Principle, sometimes called, Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle.

Do not confuse the Cat with the Observer Effect, its clumsy cousin. Un copain. The keys to the piano reflect the light, the light from a Castle Window. Elegant Pause. Without causality. Just because.

Perfectly chosen notes linger with aimless precision.

A turtle stumbles upon a nicely laid chord. There are hordes of them. A Blue-Jay sings its arpeggiation.

Do not confuse Scat with Cat.

Unapologetically Phallic and
Giant Purple Timothy-Leary Mushrooms,
magnificent, and hypnotic,
even as they stand
by themselves,
go down
the center of the garden,
as tall as a standing man, as a man stands on his own two feet

Sentinels against, and the antidote, to group-think.


How popular the dishwater thinker,
as candy is thrown to the room,
standing-room only. The orchestra pit.
The herd is directed.
Run with them! Those Lemmings tall, so sure of themselves, shucks!

Where appearances pass as facts.
Growing in carefully cultivated conditions,
on other side of a winding red path, stone-y in its surface, un-yielding in its direction.

And the prince took it.
The path that is.
Gazpacho soup with those mushrooms.
Tinieblas and tantrums. Darkness would descend.

But then, a wizard appeared, just in time.
Jack that Knife!
He scooped out some of that nearby standing mushroom, soft was its flesh, hoarfrost and whorey, and supple in its giving to the touch. The wizened man handed it to the prince.

And he took it.

The color of Hibiscus Flowers,
Like liquid passion, Red,
the river ran.
Orange Peel and Licorice,
A trans-formative, ginger-laden,

Self-realization, assured, and overflowing,
a cup-of-plenty,
the Ambrosia of the Mushroom, coursing,
engorged with the fullness of

With codpiece like lead,
an icy resolve, steels him,
stolen were his thoughts,
regarding the demeanor of the wizard, wizened
like the Hags of Shakespeare.
But, without the wisdom, or
the seeing-eye. Surely, I am a prince – thought he with new resolve.
And resolutely, he went.
Similar to the crash of thunder,
But without lightning,
lacking any such sudden spark.

The shape of an icicle,
but Reveres, Rêve, Rivers, Je rêve,
Vertiginous, tumbling in endlessness,
the Fall of Water, after its
ebbs and flows and eddies, from Above.
To wait
Then Crash
The Falls

As the prince first saw it,
Him, bathing beneath, the shallows, feet firmly upon a rock,
a vast stone of fundament, ankle-deep,
upon the submerged stone, of grace,
standing, erect with fingers, running, shower of cleansing,
head dunked into, Nude, and no earthly belonging, on the rocks, near at-hand.

A wall of water, that tumbling force,
Oblivious, to him,
to all, but to the task. Stranger to Royalty -that force of the Crown.

The prince’s gaze, upward-bound, then
at the next moment, a malingering eternity.
Heaven’s. That tyranny of lightness.

The palms extended over the river, green and
verdant, wild, shaped like the tusks of,
a long forgotten and extinct, Mastodon,
Curves this way, sultry in their lingering,
and that, over the tranquil heights,
green husks of, pressed by the altitudes,
palm trees, iconic.

The heights of mist, of space, and above all,
light. Golden in its splendor. And they
sway gently,
within the ever-present, momentary reflection,
Tropical breeze, caress, and pressing,
Volcanic, Cuts its
profile into the sky. At the base of it, an Ocean of eternity. Blue in its waves.

The Blues of Heaven,
presumed dormant,
latent, hot magma buried deep within its hard-core,
the Red Crust of the Goddess!
Dominated, enchanting, and, seemingly,
deserted, its silky velvet thrown to the ground.

all-but-for-himself and this would-be partner, the princely gaze averted already,
a blanching red,
a stranger nude, bathing oblivious, face to the rock wall of
nature, the Mother Island, lost upon The Globe that is Earth,
sketched by Shakespeare, painted my Michelangelo, by
an island, deserted by the world, for all its
civilization, the pretense of it!

Phalaenopsis, white in delicatesse, white beauty, fixed upon the trunks
of the lower trees, árboles
within a stand of vegetation,
drinking-in their beauty,
engorged in tissue thin humility.

Their whiteness mocked the clouds, our flowers,
absent now, the caressing clouds of fancy, curves,
but to gather shortly, amonst,
by all appearances, the only two men left,
upon a planet of mostly ocean,
especially now, they mocked
time itself, and the prince trudged on, boots to the ground, and the scurrying of vegetation.

His ship, by all appearances, the prince’s
a vessel built for
conveyance, our man, mandated the prince, by means of water,
but truly, of transport via light,
the beams of the moon, sails his ship.

The moon’s insanity drove the vessel,
Truly, it was a voyage,
conducted by light,
the crazy gathering of gravity,
weighs heavy, his heart, a princely weight, leaden,
like a rock, hiding its magma,
Its hot, and waiting to explode.

Prince, passes from the ship anchored at the end of,
the serpentine beach, the wet, blond powder,
dried by the Sun, to be submerged again,
leaving footprints for now,
to be found by no-one,
with only the stars to observe,
and the limitless fuel,
of the madness of the moon.

The Zombie Aqua-man,
from a Galeón,
esclavizado -slave-ship of fortune,
and strife,
now washed ashore.

This, the self-same Island -its
rhythmic shores,
still beating,
the heart of,
the tides.

Only a tattered shirt,
hung, like dirty lace,
to his name,
upon the sinuous lines,
the color of Turmeric,
jostling as he got up to stagger.

The contours of a
Sunset -a fleeting life already.
Hidden , I was, by the
shadows of leafy,
storm-weary trees,
beach-side brush for cover.

And the granules of
Sand and Thyme and
Shore, sultry the
fading glissando upon
the waves, the lesser ones
whispering their discontent,
the great ones roar,
and crash.

Our Deliverance,
He, to never know,
And my presence,
presently, spying.
His gathering the last,
strength of Misery.
This, surely, must be,
the name of that vessel.

Discarded upon the Sea.
Thus far and no
further. Halted progress upon this Island’s shores,
with steamy mists, gathering mysticism,
to make enviously green,
Mach Picchu, Peru.
And thus Falls the water,
with thunderous force.
A gathering darkness of the sky,
the color of Eggplant,
set the mood to the style of,
René Margritte.

And stranger things would I see,
rather than merely
the arrival of this stranger.
But within the foliage of ginger,
beside the Doctor’s French Chateau,
no lean-to for this Ph.D of Philosophy.

That Desolate Infinity,
not the Ocean, still,
but Time, that thief. How reckless its victims, how
broad its crimes.

Had I spied,
the only other man,
of lesser years,
that man of science,
and rugged endurance,
all three strangers,
them and I.

That man upon the rock.
I would not have known him,
as I gazed through the window of the Chateau,
his lab, and workshop,
where he transformed this recent stranger,
with flasks and instruments,
for what purpose I did not know.

would soon guess,
into a man-sized bug,
Blue, in color, unnatural,
skin like Mercury,
antennae upon his head,
thrice, with human-like eyes,
all-too seeing,
suspended far above,
from his head, wriggling,
as no human should,

Of Quarks, and showers
the Uni-directionality,
of our Temporality,
wrapped in an enigma
not unlike our
new-found bug,
Aqua, a man.

fleeting elsewhere,
trapped in the Umber
of Amber,
a fossil of
an Island, analyzed
by who would turn out to be,
builder of Time Machine,
Doctor of Philosophy, and
the most qualified,
Traveler via String Theory
ever I spied.

Upon the showers,
of the Island Falls.
Quantum Gravity,
Again, upon the Rock
he was
at that time,
with ankles submerged,
a heavenly body
in his own right.

But now,
nor discerned,
a discreet Voyeur,
and of princely

A Matter of Energy,
in any other given context,
work at arm’s length,

Very, and variably,
the labors of our philosphy.

Framework-ed upon the Cocoon of a man,
one-time slave. Unbidden my stranger.
The Doctor keeps a hand in it.
Gears up the works,

I spied his doings,
in the lab.
No stable, mind you.
A stately room with appurtenances,
candle-light, and Victorian moldings.
Stone quarried from God-knows what,

Titanium was the
machine, itself -its purpose,
no doubt, to travel
to what ends or destinations
an endpoint, this purpose,
in and of itself?

© Copyright Protected, All Rights Reserved,
4-17-17, by James Legare

Forget Me Not Ocean Blue


Amateur writer, pianist, denizen of Houston and part-time GLBT activist

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