Gary's Musings

A Beautiful Naked Running

Amidst the grandeur of a curved horizon

I ascend the winding road above the ecclesial clouds of the Camaldoli Hermitage

And as the fodder of the fields scatter in my wake

The flashing shadow of that that hovers above

Traces cross the ground

Portending the rodents fate

As I spy a cranium red dot and a curved wing against the cerulean sea of infinity


The warped wooden crusi fixus on the wall reigned in on my subconscious

As white robes began sprinkling a verdant green sanctuary

The monks making their way from contemplative silent cells to the common Chapel

Where my ears attune to the pleasing Psalms and acoustic hymns of the Revered Cyprian Consiglio

The sumptuous phonics of his name

Reaffirming the purity and empathy

Echoing through the tenor of his transcendent voice


And upon my exile into the stayed silence;

In the hollowed vacuous percussion of my claustral cell

My sinful secular brain began recounting his erotic refrain

Of a bare and stunning young virgin on a moonlit eve

And her ‘Beautiful Naked Running’

Astride a white deer in the translucent meadow’s sheen    

While the rapture of Cyprian’s voice bathed this beautiful scene

In the spirit of something sensuous yet serene

And in the moment that Sister Miriam's provocative prose

Fades faint to black

My lascivious mind hearkened back

To the naked visceral verse of Whitman's ‘Body Electric’

And the silhouette of an exaggerated hip and curve;  

An ultra-feminine form,

Makes its way through the shadowy gray

To knock on my bedroom door

As I plead for teasing footsteps

Cross the creaking floor



For the order and rules of St. Romuald and Benedict could neither stay nor shield

The compulsions of lust and loin

As I escaped and scaled the cloister walls

And made my way through golden tinctured fields

In the place where children would no longer play

Near the gathered stacks of conical hay

Where I would have my way with her

For I was the epitome of Hesse's impetuous monk

The hedonistic Goldmund

And even the Revered Cyprian Consiglio

A beautifully pure theologian

Could not save me

For in the end

He was only akin 

To Hesse’s Narcissus