Swaying mantle of silence

We move in and out,

mere breath like wind through open windows

sill waiting to catch a bit of the morning light

while birds of a thousand feathers scatter

as the cat treads stealthily through the grass.

There is always that sense nearby,

the underlying lurking of things unsaid

and moods cast aside with unintentional force,

we become specters of self as feet move

tired in the damp and musty air.

Where has the cool wind gone that I recall,

night of dreams of eagerness through fear

as the words are lost in the shuffle of paper

and we suddenly see we are drowning in our quest,

taking charge before a hundred waiting faces

we close our eyes and slip away to the shadows

wondering where the ideas had come from and gone.

The lighthouse waits to show the way,

penned by a soul I know not well

and I will know her words for I am drawn

into the waves of passing days

and a continent away foreign and unknown,

I will come to know across this space and time

through yellowed pages of a dime-store book

left behind gently used

eager I will learn

what it is, this ghost of form

that called me to hear the wind of yesterday.

Strange dreams came calling last night and today by chance happened into a thrift store and bought a dirt cheap copy of Virginia Woolf’s “To the lighthouse” to read at my leisure. I have not every read any Woolf so looking forward to what I may find within the pages.


Blue room-(endless thought)

My mind drifts to the ocean shores as I sit within four walls of blue. Waterfall waits for need, as it sits forlornly on the floor, waiting, endlessly waiting to be heard. Eucalyptus mason jars give scent to those who enter and the outer light plays like a dappled steed rushing through the creases of the blinds, coming and going like waves dependent on the cloud herd high above. A tired dog naps in the corner of the sandy colored couch, pillows pushed aside as she sleep dream chases the endless quarry, muttering in her dog sensible way, perhaps as she quiets she has won the chase, perhaps she is merely waiting for the next chase to begin. Her ocean, unlike mine, is concrete, and she puts out a paw in consent to meander around in arms, cooling her hot body, perhaps she dreams of this-champion diving swimming machine, which she will never quite be, but I will not crush her hopes of the dog olympics that surely must take up some space within the confines of her dreams.

I sit at the corner of this blue room, the desk of dark brown and the chair that supports my frame as I type, and dream, and wonder what should be done today. A day like most, waiting, like the waterfall waits, wanting to go somewhere, but no sure where and yet content to sit here in this blue room whiling away the time in endless thought. I watch cars move by occasionally, off to somewhere in a hurry, and it will be another hot one today and later the blue skies will give way to the threat of storms. Thunder will be heard and the winds will blow a shade cooler than hot and we will leave the comfort and wetness of the pool to move indoors to a safer climate. We will watch and we will wait, and the thunder will move closer and grey will turn to black and like the flip of the switch, turn quite blue again as the storm moves off without a trace of ever having been here. A storm without having a storm,  and we will venture out to watch the skies as the sun moves close to the horizon, painting the clouds with a sheen of velvet pinks and oranges. I will gaze into the beauty, holding it close to my heart like a blessing and smile. But for now I sit here, watching a tired dog sleep and as she stretches out a bit to get comfortable again I know that it’s just another beautiful day, I don’t need to be by the ocean to hear its song as I feel the peace wash over me like a summer day.

In quiet spaces

Sweet moon whispering

In quiet spaces

Places where solitude is embraced

As the heart of a dreamer moves

Seeking the life

The energy of solace.

Sitting in white rooms of yesterday,

Jars long empty filled with dried bits

Of a season long gone,

Sitting in lucid thought

Remembering dreams that fell like worn petals

To the floor.

She spoke to the sky,

Whispered hopes and fears

And watched, waiting for answers to come forth

And she slipped from hiding

The wolf moon gazing back

As the poet turned knowing

The answer had already been gleaned

From midnights darkest stories,

From heart songs that sang

As she drifted away.

I have not seen the moon in I do not know how long, yet in the darkness early this morning, she gifted me with her beauty, moving me from grey depths into the surface of another morning of life. The image called me to write about a quiet space where poets dream and create.

Words broken and a walnut heart

I watched the mist like falling rain
As images of broken glass trickled through
This mind relaxed
And adrift in the spaces within
Where the tales grow rich
Like fields of flowers that just become
From nowhere
Rising up to be.
I floated there for a spell
Hearing a voice of a sage weaving words
That I suddenly could not grasp,
That I could not hold for fear
Of sentences slipping away
Without a song to call its own.
I saw a perfect tree nut,
Hanging alone with strings of black
Stirred by the wind it fell to the ground below
Finding itself cracked Into two,
A heart severed from the other
Shapes and places no longer resembling
The microcosm of which it grew
A reflection of itself
From one piece to another
This walnut held in a hand
Nestled in its woody home safe.
The tortured sky shattered in a thousand pieces
As bits of light came upon me
Set free from the sun,
No two alike yet
Mirrored pieces, each shard jagged and unique
Looking within to see
The same face staring back at me
And I thought of you then,
Your voice soft from beyond,
To hear your stories woven
From the fragile mind so whole
That reaches out into darkness
To gather like twigs a nest to lie upon,
A book of miracles and days filled
With pieces of you,
Each word filled in images
The colors of moons and the sound of silence
Where I heard your hymn
On a sparrows wing
Filled with the childlike laughter
And this nut fell to the ground
As a gift to the creatures
Sitting high watching the world below,
And I walked the path through these woods
Soft bed of moss to quiet
The quest of this searching soul.
Photo sent after reading this post by Dad.

Beautiful image found at : http://www.diyphotography.net/beautiful-broken-mirror-sunsets-anything-bad-luck/