@ 27.055 MHz: Ad Astra; Some Of These Poems Decided To Appear [Repost]

Some of these poems decided to appear to me, and

presented themselves---in the setting of my

grandparents' rural residence---in the guise of

young men in the full blossom of adolescence:

long-haired, delicate of facial features (exactly the

combination that would have been deemed homo

by my prejudiced and prudish parents:  deep,

winsome gazes and shy, but erotically coy, smiles);

shirtless and barefoot, clad in baggy, bell-bottom jeans.

They first approached me outside the main cottage, on its

foundation slab of robin's egg blue---the corners of which

were visible through the long grass:  they examined it, and

said, "You mentioned this to us several times, and

right here it is."  Then they led me past the pumpbox, to the

lilac tree in massive bloom and fragrance, then the iron

trellis covered with thriving vines; then under and through

that to the plank bridge across the small creek, narrow and shallow

(but not in the way that haters still are).

Water gurgling over the visible, flat stones (many containing

fossills) created a small splash that rose up to wet and

kiss the Poems' bare feet, that, seated on the planks, they

dangled over (by just a few inches) the ceaseless flow.

They bid me to set aside the old man's guise that I

have comfortably worn for years, and as they removed my

shoes and socks, I suddenly felt myself an adolescent again---

still awkward and clumsy among them, and my long-sleeved

white shirt, crisply pressed, remained fully buttoned and

comfortingly tucked into the waistband of my baggy

cargo pants.  "You have made us beautiful," they told me;

"therefore, you cannot be as ugly as you think, despite what

"your uncouth classmates and peers have called you when

"school is in session.  We understand how the fear of

"their mockery sours your summer breaks, as the

"Tuesday after Labor Day creeps ever nearer.  But you have

"composed us to have, and to bestow upon you, the

"last word.  As for that Plumbum, Thornin Myside, the

"Insinuator, Instigator, and Imitator, he stacks of bad

"prose, verticalized in the pretense of verse, shall not be

"admired, let alone be remembered for very long."

Then, as if to seal the truth of their assertions, they

began to kiss each other (I could imagine my mother's

self-righteous dismay---long-haired, shirtless and

barefoot adolescent boys kissing each other openly and

boldly in open sight).  Then they suggested we cross the

planks into the wildflower meadow.  I followed them

there.  Old Man Weaver's property met my

grandparents' on the north edge of theirs, and his

many bee boxes were adjacent to the meadow.  Although the

bees were very active that sundrenched afternoon,bit 

they did not sting any of the bare feet that frolicked

among the wildflowers.  The Poems gathered flowers,

wove garlands and circlets for each others' hair, and

used some of the most fragrant petals to tease each

others' lips, throats, and torsos---especially at the

sensual circlets.  Time, in an allegory such as the

Poems had brought to me, is operates differently, and

dusk began to occur, and with it the first stars began to

emerge upon the Easterward sky.  "Let's go back to the

"main cottage," the Poems suggested, "we have a

"bit of a surprise for you."  I followed, and, to my

delight (and, I admit, just a bit of happy shock),

Cerulean was waiting for me.  He stood there,

shoes in hand; his lavender shirt unbuttoned and

hanging open; his midnight blue socks not quite

fully concealed beneath the frayed cuffs of

his denim bell-bottoms.  He, too, was adorned in the

complete beauty and blossom of his adolescence.  My

mouth hungered and thirsted for his; and my hands

slipped, eagerly under the loose flaps of his shirt,

eager too once more feel him up with the urgency and

excitement of forty-six years ago.  The expression on

his face indicated he was very pleased to be felt up

again, as I said to him---my voice choking with desire---

those simple words that I could not have, in the

world and society we inhabited in those days,

disclosed to him:  I love you; I have always

loved you.  And smiling, accepting, he whispered

I knew.  I have loved you, my J9th.  And we

kissed, without shame or hesitation; and the

Poems, still shirtless and barefoot on that sultry

evening, surrounded us with their

assurance, joy, and comfort.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Would this qualify under the rubric, Magic Realism?

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