|Picture for dear friends and artists from me! ♥ (^-^) ♥|
WayfaringBright the berry in bramble thorn —
Mist lies on a Harvest morn
Goldenrod and barley plume
And cloak hems tattered on the broom;
Leaves ablaze within the gloom
Apples yield upon the bough
Reap and thresh and turn the plough
Airy thistledown aloft
Shadows long and light is soft
Halcyon days for town and croft
Bite of smoke upon the air
And early frost on thoroughfare;
Old boots beg a new reheel —
Beckoning roads with new appeal —
Away, astray, in Autumn's weal
So mark the signs upon the door
And cross the threshold evermore
Distant mysteries unfold
Around the bend, beyond the wold…
Go write the tales that should be told.
LifelineThese honest hours
When I share my scars
Like stars beneath the skin of night
To shiver in trust at your blazing purity
Aching to fit my palm to yours
And trace the shape of day
Lest, sun-dazzled, we forget
Sometimes wanted, or maybe not.
Standing out and barely there;
Little bumps of sunlight stories
And marks of potential past lives.
Bloated, sickly reddened;
Pustules in need of relief
And in need of concealment.
Accidental and on purpose.
From other beings or myself;
Some tales that can be laughed at
And others that can be forgotten.
All of which I wear with pride.
My burnt to tan skin branded
By the life that I have lived
And the life that lives in me.
This Story Is Not ImportantThis story is not important.
The letters on this page are of no use to the likes of you, just meaningless symbols reluctantly and miraculously forming the words of some language that you may understand but cannot fully comprehend.
This is a puzzle that doesn’t cry out, wail, screech, beg, moan to be solved; perfectly content to be broken and fragmented into obscure and indecipherable memories that might not even be that because it is altogether an ‘unknown.’
Because it is not important.
The obliquitous ink staining this parched page of mutilated tree sinews crinkles as a life that was never truly there seeps into the writing desk that is more like the deflated intestine of some corpse than the raven that might chose to feast upon it.
And to those that may still not believe that this is of little relevance - if you have learned any miniscule bit of information that seems to elude the grasp of each and every other reader including its own author then good on you; you le
SilenceTime is a human construct.
I know this because only the arbitrary delineations we impose upon the juggernaut of reality, in order to understand it…only our constructs could be so mutable, inconstant. Fragile.
Memory is fickle. Even at the time it is being burned into the sparking pathways of our grey matter, it loses things too solid to wish out of existence, gains others — phantom senses, ghosts in the machine.
“HEADS UP!” came the cry, echoing off the glacier-polished granite, over the creaking of the rain-soaked rope, the distant hoarse shouts of climbers on different routes. Over the other sound… the dull stony rumble I’d been ignoring for several seconds.
Memory. And perception. They can warp and shift in the most unexpected ways…
The woman leaned out of her car window to motion me across the street; I had been standing beside my bicycle, patiently waiting for her to turn left, from the suicide lane
Jupiter is Best for StargazingSometimes I stare
up at the sky that has been starved of
all its light, and I wonder
how we can be made to stand so tall in such a
A world where we change
with the tide and get
drunk on the moonbeams we chase,
the orbits of the planets spinning
our minds faster than our bodies can keep up with,
like our time spent staring through telescopes
is nothing more than a mirage to keep our
complex and detailed dances with the stars quiet.
Keep your movements short and
the seconds that you take to blink or breathe, you'll
miss the comets fluttering through the sky
like a galactic firefly, and it was
did I realize just how we can be made to stand so
tall in such a larger world.
Thank you sonnetI set my pen to paper now, to write
But sleeplessness leaves inspiration weak;
The only phrasing I can grasp is trite...
My Muse deserts me in a fit of pique.
Adrift upon the sea of words, I fret
My shining quarry schooling out of reach
For I am shipwrecked here without a net
Night's mariner, marooned on daylight's beach.
I grope beneath the surface for a thought;
A shallow maladroit, I cannot swim
My pitiful attempts are overwrought;
My metaphors, lackluster synonym.
So please forgive me for the platitude;
I'm simply overwhelmed with gratitude.