Fading into

The night sweeps in with darkest dreams

in hazy images of places unseen

by a memory which cannot recall

much of anything at all.

What thoughts did Poe on writing find

through twisted years and phantom skies

where birds flew once then disappeared

and clocks that tick for a deafened ear.

We frame the dark in lighter hues,

set ghostly candles in musty rooms

whose flickering adds to the coming night

where a moon will shine on the endless fight

of here and there now gone from view

drifting into shadows as they do,

the whispers linger on humid air

as the moment finds in a new despair

to save the soul through words and hope

whilst empty lies the hangman rope

we tear it down and burn the threads

a funeral pyre for a dream that’s dead.

Feeling a bit gothic (in a good way if there is one) for some reason, ghostly image found on internet and upon seeing it, this poem appeared….

 

Between ripples

Unspoken words soothe like a balm

between ripples the waiting of understanding

leaving spellbound in color

we swim the depths of this universe

searching for the direction beneath guiding stars,

days of happy find us waiting

as another day passes and always more

until there isn’t

but we bask in the moments given,

grateful with an open heart

as we listen to the rhythm of the beating silence

whose chords we alone hear,

that which we share between souls who see

through closed eyes the light still shines

and as we dip our cups into the river of life

we drink of lessons learned,

dance with the music loved

and spread hope and peace far and wide

with a prayer for healing

to the ones captured in the waves

who searched for only starfish and beautiful things

before getting pulled from shore,

we send ripples out to gather them

floating on gentle waves of today

to the castles that wait on the shores of tomorrow.

Counting down to my special day of a half a century, good gosh, it’s been a great ride and looking forward to lots more. Tiara and wand, fairy wings and bottle of bubbles ready to go, perhaps I may even post a picture….come on Saturday….and I must not forget the champagne or Prosecco…..hmmmm…..so many choices, such a good thing. So excited for sure ❤

Level being

Each day moving through

we traipse up and down through levels of thought

drifting at times like a silky calm

gracing our minds like a sweetly whispered word.

Levels of beauty and hues that give pause

we find ourselves stopping at times to watch

the transpiring of days

that we are immersed in

and at times feeling so removed,

find that it doesn’t take very much

to flow into that place within

as we silently give thanks and close our eyes,

breathing in the likeness of tranquility

we exhale the clouds of storms

setting them free

and thus finding ourselves

exactly where it is we need to be.

I gaze at ideas like dreams in my head,

stepping up each one to reach higher

like stairs that move in the right direction

as I feel in my soul this path has become so right,

exploring the wonder of the delicacies of each second

and with the gathering of time like flowers

not wasting a moment of inspiration

on that which mires like quicksand,

rising into the being of the soul set free

and phantom like as it drifts through

touching each piece gently with light

spanning the surface with perfection.

We glitter like

Through words spoken
pieces of glitter like sparkling stars
can never litter
in their joyful beauty,
cascading shine beneath the sphere of lives
always seeing that which stands
before in goodness
we bask in the reflection of sincerity.
Life passes like a shooting glow
streaking past as we try so hard
to hold onto the tail of the comet,
reliving our youth
science fiction double features
we laughed and cried and sang along,
never knowing why but living alive
in that moment as we looked around
realizing we are all so different
yet not so very apart,
gathering the belongings of our upbringing
we moved like hobos for the exit
stage right or wrong
we knew something was waiting
just beyond the door,
another night
another show
always new and different
but the soul never changed
as the curtain fell,
somewhere there would be a light
over at that special place
where the good times never seemed to end.

On finding self

On his quest to the distant horizon he came upon a tree,

tired from the journey he began to walk slower,

feeling his legs had become like cement,

he saw that he was walking in water that touched his feet

and with each step, rose higher to his knees.

The water moved about him cooling and refreshing

as step by step he came closer to the magnificent arbor,

John realized it was sitting in the middle of the river.

“I come to find the purpose of my life’s journey,”

he spoke to the sky which still lay languid

cradling the sun that was beginning its descent,

it said nothing yet sent a cool breeze

and as he dried his dampened brow

felt the feeling of silk move over his head,

his few remaining hairs blowing slightly,

the man felt calm and at ease.

He stood before the grandest tree he had ever seen,

breathing deeply noticing the light scent

so very beautiful and almost floral-like,

inhaled once more and looked down into the water.

There he saw a boy,

like a movie of images moving slowly before his eyes

and he realized that boy was himself,

and the boy aged with each blink of his eye

and the boy became a young man,

and that young man went off to fight a war,

walking in jungles where firework-like bullets passed

in the deepest of darkness,

he half-carried the man beside him closer to the shore

as tears ran down his face,

saw the waiting machine and knew he was almost home.

The next image was a man in a white room,

he could feel the throbbing in his leg

that for so long had lay dormant and realized

the image was himself,

“I made it through,” he said to the sky

and next saw a man who had only one leg

and they were shaking hands, dressed in uniform

“his name had been Henry, yes, Henry” he said

yet only heard the gentle rustle of the wind.

Next he saw images of children, his own children

that were now grown with families of their own

and one little child who never made it past grade school

before the cancer had spread and taken his little girl

as she smiled at him and held up a flower.

“Her name was Daisy,” he said to the tree with tears falling.

They fell harder and faster and he wondered how he had lived so long

yet had forgotten so much.

He reached his hand out to touch the trunk of the grand tree,

and felt the tree almost sigh,

relaxed and happy the man begged to the tree,

“please, show me more”

yet the tree only stood and allowed a single leaf to fall

into the man’s hand,

and he looked at the small leaf in his hand,

taking note of the veins that ran through it

and he held it up to the last little light,

seeing the resemblance to his own spidery veins in his hand.

Closing his eyes he nodded his head,

my journey is not over yet I see

for I have not fallen yet off of the ground,

and the sky still waits for me in the distance-

I remember now what it was that I was seeking,

and I will not find it in images of the past,

though beautiful memories indeed they were,

but I will keep moving and creating

and living

for that is all that I have always done,

and that is what I must continue to do.

He opened his eyes and found the rain had started beyond his window,

leaning over he felt the breeze blow the curtain inward

as it gently brushed his face,

he lay back down and turned to see the empty space beside him,

he smelled the floral scent on her pillow,

after months just now beginning to fade softly away,

closing his eyes he slipped back into his dreams.

 

Beautiful image found on the internet.

 

In between shades

Watching movement in time and space

in between waves of movements of place

rippled streams of consciousness

nothing more, nothing less.

Beauty found on barren walls

ghostly forms in empty halls

call to those who seek the sight

as day edges off into the night.

I journey in the mind with ease

with dreams on edge they taunt and tease

and whisper words of a night birds song

deeper into the shadows long.

I call to thought, remember me

and waking lose that final plea

as the specter image begins to fade

left on dampened sheets where the scene was made.

I lose these thoughts on a silent morn

and wonder from where they had been born

will they return in brighter hue

as I slip below and dream of you.

I drift back into yesterday

to catch back up to, relive the play

of moments spent in bliss and joy

another dream of a memoried boy.

Time waits

Marching on in an endless progression, ticking away each second, each fraction of a moment of our lives, swept away by the second hand.

We endlessly wait, on the end of a phone as the computer speaks and our pressure rises because it isn’t real, it isn’t human. Running like the rat through a maze, obstacles thrust in our way, push one for…push two for…..please wait while I transfer you, to yet another mechanical voice and we are trapped, waiting. 

Sitting in a cold room on a metal table or in a chair beneath the harsh light, staring at drab posters meant to soothe and the white marred color of the four walls, our time is never worth much to those that pack the cage a bit too full, gotta get more in, yes, we can squeeze you in yet a watch will never give you extra seconds, extra minutes do not exist, and we wait.

Years move on without us, today will be the same tomorrow but you will change. More grey, more tired, more impatient for more time to live, after all of the lost moments we fritter away, in the end it is what we ask for, more seconds on the clock to try for one more score of a beautiful moment, one more minute to whisper words never spoke , one more hour to squeeze out one last visit, one more day to last a lifetime…but it is here where there is no waiting, all the rush and bustle of haste and the clock stops, frozen in that space of a second and then we will find how long it is that eternity lasts for.

What is it really when it all keeps moving, something in our experience much larger than ourselves…or perhaps it is we that need to put a name to each experience, negative at the thought of wasted time. It comes and goes, with or without us, tick tock and the world keeps turning. Do we stand and wait or fly untethered by time itself, free at last to just embrace and live regardless. There goes another moment never to return, at least I have this….fleeting thoughts.

Muse of the garden

She comes to me in this place of peace and solitude, a fish out of water perhaps, or just an accidental tourist searching for beauty. We wander through landscapes filled with magic, and I feel her eyes upon me as we move through corridors of color.

Perhaps she is a kindred spirit lost and found, shy of the surroundings and banked in her thoughts of oceans blue and colored fish that swim silently by. Her world is fluid and moving, a far cry from this garden that took so much work by so many hands. Each stem of green winding its way towards the sky, burdened by the weight of the blooms as they unfold, and yet here she hangs by silently watching as it all transpires around her, here is where she has been planted, so far from her restless sea.

I long to place a shell at her feet. To tell her all I’ve seen of her home, that I too know how it feels to be so far from the known, transported to a foreign land that is so beguiling and beautiful, that my feet have walked upon her homes sandy shores and of the views I became a part of as I swam above the waves while peering down below. The muse of the garden, silently watching and waiting for a sign, swimming in flowers, drowning above dirt.

Perhaps someday she will return, for now so far beyond the sea the siren has no song to sing for me, but perhaps on nights when the moon is full she will remember the words, hear the memory of the waves crashing, and she will sing. Yes, she will sing.

Wordless Wednesday

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I loved this piece at the Ringling Museum in Sarasota. It spoke to me, hope you enjoy and sorry for the date marks (which are wrong, taken a few weeks ago) on the images, If I cropped it out, something would be lost in the wordless translation. Enjoy.

A well of desperation….

“As if you could kill time without injuring eternity. 

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation”

And I stand above,

Yet still a part of the whole of this piece,

This fragment of a universal space

Does it flow up or down

These thoughts that forever run,

As if trying to catch a Monarch on a lilac

As it flits from here to there

And knowing the score,

The fragility of the conquest we hold back from doing

That which could, would cause harm

And in becoming for a moment that entity,

We soar free to places,

Landing lightly in a second upon that which we seek.

A peaceful place,

Or crushing sound as water smashes and smooths

The mighty rocks far below

We stand above it so small

So weak in comparison

To natures strength,

Our only power is in destroying

Yet it is that strength that is needed to refrain.

We hold in our hands all of the answers we seek

Yet like sand we let them fall in the wind

Scattered because we fear to hold tight,

To change,

To become so much more

Than mere words could ever say.

Image was taken at Watkins Glen NY on a trip a few years back, the first two lines above are from Walden by Henry D. Thoreau….one of my favorite books of all time. 

And now for our (optional) prompt! Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that begins with a line from a another poem (not necessarily the first one), but then goes elsewhere with it. This will work best if you just start with a line of poetry you remember, but without looking up the whole original poem. (Or, find a poem that you haven’t read before and then use a line that interests you). The idea is for the original to furnish a sort of backdrop for your work, but without influencing you so much that you feel stuck just rewriting the original!. For example, you could begin, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” or “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” or “I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster,” or “they persevere in swimming where they like.” Really, any poem will do to provide your starter line – just so long as it gives you the scope to explore. Happy writing!