You are a flourish. You are a spontaneous moment, birthed forward by a tear,
or a laugh, or the deep inhale of anxious breath.
You are potential and the matrix of an unknown code.
You are the belief in something intangible. You leave the wanton faithful
needing more, and the unbelievers lingering on a thought.
You are everything wished for, and all that is reviled. I desire you in
the spaces between my smiles, and taste you when the air is sweet.
You are the discarded plaything of a growing child.
You are the Autumnal leaf, before it falls from the tree's grace.
I am left in a state of prayer, forever calling upon the purity of Winter.
I could straighten my hair but the wind would just tangle it again.
I could wash my face, but I keep finding the dirt all too quickly.
I have to tear a few things down - I have to build some new foundations.
These old bricks are messy,
the steel and mortar unstable and needing to find eternal rest.
Please excuse this strange mess you see -
I am under construction.
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I tug and play with the loose ends, wondering what would happen if I pulled the threading out.
The threads beg to be retired,
But I still wrap them around my fingers, giving marriage to flesh and cloth.
Am I the seamstress of my own soul, or is there a master weaver?
I feel as though I should unravel - perhaps there is something golden hidden under this old costume,
perhaps nothing at all -
perhaps I will be naked to the world - unbound and new -
and free to try the fashions of a new day.
]]>I have been away too many summers, and though I fear this place forgets my name,
the water still ripples when I speak.
So I take away these hues of blue and green, I take some message of grief and sorrow.
I take with me the promise of return -
and the hope I will understand these gifts once more.
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can you hear the song of growth underneath
this frozen land? like an orchestra, a joyful
etude it comes from below,
permeating the heart with warmth and the promise of spring.
dance in the perfect air,
between the end of all and beginning of everything.
these crystals are the saddest violins,
fading to a sigh with the audience.
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july 29/05
I think sometimes lessons you were supposed to have learned, or experiences you went thru, leave impressions much like that of water over stone, impressions you don't know are even there, until years later, when the grooves and curves have been carved out by the pressure of time.
Perhaps these are the best learned lessons. Slowly carved into your soul, never to go away.
I suppose it is true that time is the great healer of all wounds. I suppose it is also true, that the impression time leaves upon you, is determined by how you look at it.
I choose to look at all these impressions and marks left by time, as proud reminders of lessons learned, and experiences I survived, or enjoyed, or revelled in.
I like to think of life as a river, and of myself as a rock in it's waters.
I like to think I am a small stone, moving, bouncing, travelling along a strange
and wonderful path.
I like to think if you saw me in the river, you'd like the look of me, and pick me up.
I'd like to think you'd put me in your pocket, and carry me around a while. Maybe
you'd wonder at my marks. Maybe you'd wonder at what kind of stone I was.
I'd like to think you'd return me to the river though,
knowing the journey was my life.
And maybe, I'd like to think,
you'd join me along the way.
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how does one love in partial tones and harmonies that fail to mesh?
i cannot hear this music or see this art.
i do not understand the patterns you speak or the calucations you
present to me.
I ponder you and puzzle you, but fail to reconcile.
perhaps it always has been, that I am simple and cannot comprehend.
perhaps you have confused me with half truths and hopeful moments.
I must resign you to a dream that was almost real.
I must make you a phantom among dusty memories.
I will hope to find a dream that is not a lie,
and a truth that remains true in the glare of all light.
So: here it is again, written anew, perhaps something to work on and tweak in the future
I'm doing the unthinkable;
lazy dazed cocktail induced trances,
what are you trying to say?
communication - unclear.
When you drive into the fog, it's like entering new
and forbidden dimensions,
maybe not forbidden, perhaps just - uncharted.
Endless streams of unknown watery entities,
so thick you could cut through it,
so unreal, you cannot feel it.
My hand reaches to grasp certainty,
yet I'm met only with dampness and a clammy palm
like I'm nervous or upset, but really,
I'm just begging for something real.
Green - so much bright green and yellow flowers,
a Van Gogh painting come to life in a breathing reality.
Monet has a barn in a field down the way,
painted vaguely with his diminished eyes.
It is rough to watch, moving like a watered vision,
reflections in a black pond, unstirred,
but by my own breath and hasty hands.
Glorious fruit tree, you can see it stands alone,
not near the barn, but far out;
Apple blossoms, such white fairies in a flurry around it's stature.
A dog barks at a crow sitting starkly in that tree,
crows normally fly away at such interruptions,
but this black eyed character just sits and stares;
Stuffed bird on a mantle type stare.
I think he looks right through me.
Snow instead of blossoms,
at least it could be, I think, with the icyness of that birds' glazed, black look.
When I shut my eyes and look into that pond,
black crow eyes peek out.
It's a circle my friend, a desire to see things repeated in a dancing form.
Maybe the maypole in brilliant reds and shocking whites,
little girls in stockings, chanting May dances.
Chorus voices rising to a clear spring sky.
When my eyes open I see clouds floating on the ocean on a bright day,
the sun is a fire in the soft blue haze.
more in violet hues endure; the profound
nature of twilight.
sadness,
with it's many tones of blues, and black purples.
these colours dance on the inlet walls of the mind,
waiting to be bleached,
by the suns' brighter shades.
snow.
fingerprints of ice that beckon to awake;
a landscape covered in eerie silence.
whispers are footprint paths,
in a snow covered farm field.