Friday, December 31, 2010

The Celebration of One's Mankind




Glistening glasses of  champagne bubbles.

Sparkling about.

Cardboard golden paper hats.

Flimsy and whimsical.

Noisemakers and tinny hollow sounds.

French Silk pie from Baker’s Square.

Shrimp and sushi as friends and family embrace.

Meaningless or mindful traditions?

Crowds packed in frigid weather just to see the crystal fall.

Another year passing.

The culmination of good and evil.

Wicked smiles and joyful grins.

Streamers floating about.

Littering the streets.

People pounding on stainless steel.

For what?!  What does it mean! ?

Another year wiser?  Another year of uncertainty?

Children’s delightful laughter.

Prancing about.

Couples sharing a romantic kiss.

Others alone in an empty house.

A time for vows and resolutions.

To be fought.  To be gained.

Auld Lang Syne.

Memories fleeting by…

On long cold cobblestone streets.
And clock towers.

Ringing the chimes.

A celebration of one’s passing.

And one’s beginning.


A new start.

A fresh awakening.

A pouncing of the old ways.

Lessen the stagnancy of tomorrows.

Lost letters,

Unreturned correspondences,

Broken promises.

No longer!

New caresses.

Lighter steps.

A welcome glance and dance to the day.

A scattering and smattering of one’s thoughts and one’s dreams.

Upon the concrete walks of the morrow.


"Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind"….



Thursday, December 30, 2010

Reflections




Insomnia lurks in the brilliance of minds.

Energies being stretched and expanded

Synapses firing

Lessen the returns of peaceful slumbers and golden dreams

Lying awake pondering reflections facing the future

Greatness lies within the awakening.


The chrysalis brings forth a metamorphisis.

Beautiful colors, transparent and transpiring

Reflecting on the goodness and grace of God’s simplistic Love

Multi-layered dichotomies and absolutes

Give reason for the mercies He extends.


Softly He whispers.

Gently into my ear

“Sleep my child sleep.”

Scents of lavender and vanilla encompass the room.

Dream upon dreams, Lullabies calling.

Tender breezes.

Silences of the eve penetrate into the being.

Oneness with the universe

The metaphysical healing touch of the Master.







Duty Calls




No rest for the weary

An ever increasing awareness of time

And the responsibilities scattered about

Shattered, frazzled, dazzling with my whims

Sharing smiles, concealing frowns

Whilst within, parts exhausted and worn

Yet pressing on for the call, the cause.

Willing to embrace a cry

“My cup runneth over”

Flowing into the confines, the mounds that surround

Never surmounting to the fears

Reaching out to touch, to extend,

To mend the Love.

A decision, an act of will.

Snow Days




Snow trodden roads.

Brighter tomorrows.

White glistening fine powder holds a mystery...

Secrets unknown, captured kisses, hidden amongst the flakes of crystal alabaster. 

Shimmering and white.

Destinies lie in the shadow of a frozen past.


Falling, falling, falling, it calls...

Ever so steadily, ever so crisp.

No way out of yesterday, but tomorrow.

The dawn laden cries of the infants
 bellowing out in pain
 about to embrace the cold, the secrets, the sickness of the prospect of morrow.

No more do those roads travel.

No more trodden paths of snow.

Go into the mourning for therein lies the healing of sorrow.

Ingrained, indwelling comfort of the immanence of the soul.


Submerging



The waters draw me in, the white foam surging,

Quaking bellowing unto me.

Standing strategically upon the precipice. 

Peering down upon the watery mist.

Ignoring the quaint and quiet nearby cove.


Submerging, the waters pull me into their flow.

Captured in a muddy, salty, pungent mass.

Desperately, voraciously crying out for the surface. 

Unspoken. Bubbles encircling. Fear.


Envisioning a hint of ribbon sky, colorful sea creatures.

God’s creation crying out to the wanton wanderer.

Leaving their world to rescue another.

Their abyss peaceful yet threatening to the foreigner.


Attempting careful untaught glides.  Instinct follows.

Climbing toward the silvery reflective light calling this pilgrim to refuge.

Sublimating colors.  Refined.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Illusion


 

Loneliness, a state of deceptive vision.

The crevices of the mind sulking into the gray matters of morrow.

Gloomy, ashen, mystical night dripping into the eves of the soul.

Tears from heaven, illusory and constant.

The cries of the cold and the night seep into the heart.

Is it all only an illusion?

Lack of transparency makes it difficult to find what’s real.


A systematic change  for brighter dawns. 

Previous attitudes thrown into the banks of the rivers of forgetfulness.

Lonely trodden roads not to be walked again.

A changing of the mind.

A decision of the heart.

Awareness of one’s shadow walking the journey, slowly, steadily.

Forsaken nevermore.

My Darling


He waits for me with hands strong.

Eyes which ask for golden slumbers.

A passionate song awakening in the forest of sun stream glories and soft lullabies.

A walk in the evergreens, a pebbled path with picnic tables ensconced upon the tapestry of emerald everlasting spiraling carpet.

Visions of a river, clear crystal water flowing ever so swiftly, ever so consistently.

Calling me to a place of forgotten memories, kept alive by but a glimpse of the overflowing of the streams cascading upon the rocks.

And there she sits, and there she awaits.

A silhouette against the darkened sky.

Listening to the breeze and the hymns of the waters as they pass her by.

Lemon Cake and Classical Music





The scent of lemon sprigs fills the air.

Beautiful melodic piano sonnets and strings of freshly polished violins.

Peonies, narcissus,and gladiolas.
Yearning for a breath. 
The feel of crispness reaching out to embrace their petals.
A velvety touch.

At last, the heights! A golden flower found alone.
Departed are the desert detours, the shores of loneliness and fear.

Vanilla icing, buttery to the touch.  Sensations. Sensuations.

Dancing and frolicking feet.  The pace quickens.
Laughter and lightness. Escalating, climbing toward brighter dawns.

Holy morn in which new mercies, encapsulating are born.

Splendor in the awakening!
Scintillating, shimmering shine.
                                                             


It's Never Just About Love




A wanting man peering into the distance.

Eyes drawn inward, hoping for but a chance.  Some small resolution.
Wheel of fortune.

Risking all that he has for a momentary flash. 

Instantaneous life on a dime.  Heads or tails.
Splitting hairs.  Sink or swim.

Time is of the essence.  Immanence.


Presuming saunter into the room.
Surprised, taken aback by all that he has spared.  Risk in the making.

Aspiring, eager, distraught eyes.
A lithe and limber body.

Walking life’s fine tightrope. 

Temperate and sober conversation.

Matters arise.  Complications.  Realities.  Issues.

A mellow sigh.  A melee outside.  Passionate distraction for one so engrossed.

“Choose ye this day whom you will serve”

Discovering, unraveling, unriddling and interpreting.


Cellular ringing. Quick answers.

A reminder of what is beheld in the future, and of what lies present..


A quiet departure.  Door closing.

Elusive, slippery, slick, grey cobblestone.

Rain and midst.  Water droplets on the windshield.

A foggy night.  Engine reverberating. Gentle consistent gyrating sound.
Hum of the motor.  Into the eve.

No time for glances.

Only tomorrows.

It’s never just about love. 


The Chosen Few


Lateral thinking .  Outside the box.

More than tan cardboard and rough edges.

Parallel against one another.

Concrete  versus abstract, the ebbs and flows of life.

The seekers of destiny, of morality.

Binging and purging because so little makes sense.

A huge conglomerate of nothingness.

Empty dank searing corners.

No one understands.

So much more to behold.

Transfixed upon the mysteries of life.

The dooms and the glooms. The  joys and the sorrows.

Cold, calculating, yet soft and fluid.

Abstract.  One who sees beyond the lines, the edges, the years.

Tis it a blessing or a curse?

Monday, December 27, 2010

Starbucks


I don’t even like coffee, not really
yet the warm confines speak to me.
They welcome my soul to a place of solace and comfort.
Sienna tones and cinnamon frothy smells
seduce me away from the daily drudge and grime.
Learning what is good, what still remains,
as this world slowly solidifies away.
Sip by sip.

Listening to the dusky sounds of Mahalia Jackson,
escaping from the harried shoppers.
Hurry, Worry, Panic, Shop!

Who has time to listen to the silver bells?
To take in the brisk air of a live nativity scene?

Christmas, what is that really?
How does a baby’s birth speak to our planet?
Who has time to listen to the baby’s cry?
To envision his sacred mother?

O Come let us adore Him…
Are we adoring Him?

Or have we become one of many who scurry past the bellowing symphony of a Holy Night?
Not even hearing it’s reverberations.

Yet everyday, opportunities await.

A cold person yearning for shelter.
A widow or widower in distress.
A child spending another night in fear.
A young man fighting his addictions.
A person looking for acceptance.

How do we break out of our warm toasty homes?
to welcome the prodigal ones?

Tis much more pleasant to sip creamy coffee and watch the world go by…..


This season may we take a moment
To hear the baby’s cry amongst the crowd, the sacred.

And stop and reflect on God’s goodness.
His first gift to mankind.

To see his face in the glistening ornaments hanging on the tree.

To pause and be thankful.

“O come let us adore Him…”








Merciful dawn





“Let’s make out…Let’s make out” is what is blaring on my daughter’s cell.

The vibrating sound on my kitchen counter, as another text arrives.

Its words piercing through my skin.

How did we get here? And when shall we return?

As I go to plug in the light I must unplug the Guitar Hero.

Why are we so swallowed up in this world of the unreal, the shallow, the curtsy?

Technology is invading our homes and we are letting it.

In fact we are welcoming it. Embracing the course exterior.

Cold metal. Words are not even spoken but rather danced upon with quick fingers.

A shallow hello in the writings after thirty years.

Do we even care…or are we just following the ebb and flow because everyone else is doing it?

What happened to the reading of a book and feeling the crisp pages?

Letting the letters melt magic into your being.

What will this world be like when we settle upon it in thirty more years?

Will humans speak to one another? Will they feel skin against skin…or twill it be skype?

When couples are making love will they pause for a few moments and take in the scent of one’s hair, and glance into each other’s eyes.

What will they see in this future?

Bring me back to the days of simplicity, of dolls, blocks, and sand boxes.

Parks, picnics and canoes.

Grasses blowing in the wind and children riding in the car with the breeze and the beauty entertaining them.

A turning of the scriptures, the knees kneeling on the pews, a flute recital.

Let us not forget our beginnings, the sacred and simple youth.

Bring back the days of young love and hand holding.

Honoring one’s elders.

Have I become that elder?

The uncomfortability of that question seeps within…

I have become the echo of long forgotten wisdom.

The hairs are graying. The fingers are clasping.

Attempting to hold on to one more merciful dawn.

As I soak in the sun I want to hold back the hands of time and gather my thoughts.

To another time…another place…if only the seconds would allow as the ticking of the clock and grandfather time drone on…

Slow down Slow down .

My mellow whispers cry… and just for this minute “Be still”


Awaiting The Bus



The infamous four wheeled yellow bus.
Who would have thought lives would circulate around this creature?
That dreams would be made around this dwelling?...or not made.
Burdening oneself under covers, not wanting to know what the day will bring.
Will it rain or will it shine?
Will there be teardrops in the puddles or joy?
A smattering of dreams left in mud.
Whence does the child arrive?
Shall she cry forth through tattered windowpanes?
Will she always be watching for the bus?  And waiting.
Smashing sandwiches together before the  bell tolls on tracks of asphalt.
Always a hurry.  No wonder she crashes.  Tired.  Consuming soaps and talks.  Her vanity.  Her escape.
And now I hear the familiar sound of far off.  The engine announcing it is near again. 
This taunt. This haunt.  Of where does it bellow?
What shall I do?  Where do I begin?  How do I learn to leave this yearning for the bus?
How do I part from its boisterous mouth?  The dragon. Of silver fender teeth.
I wish I could drown out the noise and surrender to the solitude.
But it is always lurking, jerking me around.  Wanting to claim a life that is mine.
From whom the bus tolls.
The wheels on the bus go round and round.
Round and round.  Round and round. 
When does the circle end?  And the story begin?  The novel  from whom the bus tolls.

A Little Girl's Dreams

A  Little Girl’s Dreams


Meeting her knight in shining armor.

From the very first Cinderella book.

Champagne and roses.  Silent symphonies.

Foliage and secluded arbors.

Dazzling heart felt smiles.

A glimmer of knowing and glowing.

Lights her path.

The tan bronze prince arrives on his stallion to sweep her away.

From the drudge and the grudge.

The slime and the sublime.

Melodic choruses in the background.

Every little girl dreams of golden locks.

Fairy tales of happily ever after.  The bachelor.

Wanting someone to rescue us, make right our choices.

Our life.  Our path.

Shine on me.  Take me away from the princess life.

To vacuums and dishes, laundry and soiled socks.

Scoured toilets and dishrags.  Dog hair.  Ahh yes!

Where the everyday extraordinary is met in the ruffled sheets, the fingerprints, smudges and dust.

The joy of children’s laughter.

Kettle Korn Popcorn.  What a treat.

Sharing by the fire.

A gentle touch, caress, candles and romance.

Wishful thinking.

Strong arms.  Warm hands.

Surreptitiously surrendering on my skin.

A gentle touch.

Naïve and yet sincere.

Ahh to be young again.

Leather jackets and autumn breezes.

Harvest moons.  Upon the hills.

Sunsets never ceasing.

Ribbons of color paint a countryside.

Snow falling amongst the kiss.

Trombones blaring in the distance.

Gazebos and weddings in a land forgotten.

Dehart dam. Grasses and reeds flowing. 

Couples making love under the stars.

Rough against the trail, hoping no one appears.

Scratching their backs from the weeds.

Glimpses of waterfalls breaking against the rocks.

Pelting on our captured memories.

A jazz lullaby.

Hopes and dreams fade and dissipate into mist and air.

Longing for one more forgotten dare whilst…. 

Every little girl dreams.


“Romeo Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”


The Empty Years

The Empty Years

I write through my tears, as the emptiness fades into oblivion.
Working so hard being ever so diligent and for what?!
What shall it profit a man?
The cold blustery eve gives way to an islolated space, a place.
The impish grin continues again and again.
Attempting to torment with its malicious smile.
Silver granite relationship.  Cold, smooth and sharp.
A  mineral at best. Wanting to smash it against my car windows.
Discerning the edge of night. 
Again an empty cold space, music ripped from my arms, from my heart.
Oh baby don't you ever grow up. "Don't you ever grow up!"
I have become the carrier, the messenger, the chauffeur, arranging one bare floor to another.
Spun golden wisps of hair. Running in the meadows.
Sunlight gleaming against her young complexion, her tiny hands.
Now the sacreligious music blares.  An anti-sentiment to my woes.  My cares.
Wanting to be proud, to relish to shine.  Yet in this time she is taken from mine.
Living  a stance of hard and trodden soil.
Silver wisps of gray hair and somewhat wrinkled hands.  Tarry.
Grasping thin air.
Cold thin blustery chapped air.
Yet I see her dance .  From a glance.  Across the room.
Of empty forgotten unbearable smiles.
Childlike play and forgotten woes.
Oh to see her dance in pajamas across the room. Once Again.
Fluffy sparkly and pink.

Gypsy Willow Dusk

Gypsy Willow Dusk

The name given to me from my elders.
The ones who sanctioned me into this life of the living. 
Free spirit in flowing clothing.
No need to know the time, telling it by the changing of the tides and the shifting of the shadows.

Listening to Neil Young and watching the Harvest moon.
It shall soon arrive…as I go back and cruise to another place, another season.
Brown leather jackets, caressed by the the evening light.
Stealing away and capturing forbidden time.

Sitting on bleachers by a park.
The smell of fresh cut grass.
 Arms enclasped around me. 
Strong arms. Secure yet fragile…so temporary.
As life begins to change and children evolve.
Responsibilities immerse…
Plans are made.

No more sitting on the wooden benches, watching the ribbon of sun light.
Embracing the river’s flow and the wind whispering in the trees.  Curled up with a book.
Melodic music and the symphony of birds. 

But still the kindred gypsy spirit cries on…seeking those moments, those days when time seems to stand still…and it is just  once again the swaying of the willow at dusk.