sliding down paper tongues,
nestled amongst forgotten tomes
of history remembered
in dusty attics.
Sharp tongue slays the beast
of a procrastination hour
left lingering beneath the quicksilver moon,
waiting for the crystal cleanse,
the heart hastens to grasp
the birth of an image.
Who we become when no one sees
the hands moving through the story’s rise and fall,
splayed like paint across barren walls,
we write our future in the clouds
that descends over the light
of luna’s delicious irony,
here and gone,
the void deep and wide.
Hasten the mind to bring forth,
in reason and madness the spirit toys
with the lopsided circumstance the creation rising,
becoming one of itself-
a silly song sings of a child’s logic,
and nimble fingers draw the way
down the page of a new story born.
Ah, the craziness that life brings,
playing in the stratosphere of imagination
I get lost amongst the tallest dreams
that rise like trees
in the forest.
Thick and rich with depth,
overflowing like the rain that falls,
filling a river in the wild,
I pluck the flowers of the minds garden
and build a bouquet of goodness,
and content with the creation,
rest easy at the end of the day
and rise to greet tomorrow
with a grateful heart.
Good morning friends,
As you can see here, I’ve been busy again in the publishing world. My newest creation, Diary of a Middle-Aged Mermaid, arrives via E-book on Saturday, August 3rd, and the paperbook should go live on Monday, August 5th.
The wheels have already been set in motion for the sequel to Tales From The Thrift and are chugging along nicely. I want to say thank you for any of you out there who have purchased the E-book or paperback version, or downloaded the Free Kindle Unlimited version of Tales From The Thrift. It is your support that keeps me motivated and uplifted in spirit, and for that, I most humbly thank each of you.
Essence of a thought
drifting through in a dream,
words falling down like water
on the edge of a deeper sleep.
Slipping away in the ether
of cloud-like images born
in memory banks now opened
and blooming in the blink of an eye.
We remember the fragments,
the smallest petal of beauty
the shades of moods
in day-to-day dealings,
words of simplicity slip through
and ground the mind in
a quiet peace.
Where is it now,
those things remembered
having rolled off of the tip of the tongue
in the dark hours of calm
I can’t recall the name
of that moment
as I had then,
saddest things of magnificence
now a ghost of the shadow self.