we will collide, all of us,
in the mason jar of the universe,
surrounded by the efflorescent stars
and the effluent call of the soul
the very marrow of your bones telling you stories
of when you were a child, long ago, in a far away place
you would run the fields, fly with the kites;
to now, in a fugacious moment, you are here
beholding the stars with them in your eyes,
but you exist and you are here to witness the birth
and death of the heart and mind and soul over and over
until the very end, the very fabric of the universe
has come undone, a gossamer throw on your shoulders
opulent and extravagant; you wear Orion so beautifully,
did you know?
so don't ever forget that even when the night is bleak,
your mind is lithe and willing to forget that you are the world
in a form that is all your own,
do not forget that you, in all your glory, old and young,
you are sempiternal - you are the stars best eyes, strongest heart
swiftest kiss; you are the stars, and they will bow to you.
Originally written January 14, 2016
your face had many names,
each one a ring in the tree of your life;
a paragon in the arts, a kind voice in the wind
you were the lighthouse in the fog,
the booming presence from above,
the firework display in Germany,
and the wizard who struck Muggle gold
in the hearts of millions;
the laughter in your halls will cease
to be moved to a higher place,
the kindness you gave to all
will be expedited to the world
I will remember you throughout the ages,
bringing my childhood to life on the silver screen
with your cloak darker than night,
but a plot as thick and bright
as the summer sun in Alaska.
you gifted secrets through your acting,
displaying the greatest form of history you could;
that even those deemed moste wicked and traitorous,
are not all they seem;
for help can always be given to those
who need it at Hogwarts,
and happiness may always be found
in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light.
there will be a bounty of wishes to bring you back
[ because everyone dies too young ]
and all the magic in the world
cannot express how much we will love and miss you
the feeling of inexplicable serendipity; ineffable
the embodiment of being explicitly ethereal is uncontainable
the wisps and the night time fireflies who cavort among them
while the petrichor enveloped the dozen or so of her senses -
they will never find her again,
lost and found among the ruins of another lifetime
flitting like a fox from den to hole to hell;
she grew up iridescently in a land filled
with evocative illicit exploits and external heartbeats.
always in the in-between of solitude and oblivion,
wholeheartedly sharing, unwittingly caring
spending most days supine, suspended between her old memories
and the ones yet to come, if she traveled that far.
and now here she stood, a radiant cynosure
she had crawled at the feet of men and mice,
drowned in a polluted deluge of human spirit,
set ablaze a crestfallen planet, home of the demure and dejected,
to bring back life to her race, the motley bunch they had been,
given them a new lease on life, given then a fervor for the unknown again;
they stood on the cusp of fairy tales and legends,
and she knew, in the wells of her heart
that she had been born to live among the stars
in this life and the next.
the story always ends at the carfax,
lost in translation, somewhere in the barathrum of the world
like dragon tongues, blundering in the darkness
waiting for purity to light them aflame once more;
diaglyphs lay scattered on my chamber floor,
scented with the oils of lilies and mountain waters
depicting the emergence of all life, scrawled in gold and jewels -
patrons always seemed to discard the thought of nature
and her intimate beauty that surrounds us every day:
what need is there for gold when the rosy light of the sun
soaks the plains more thoroughly than the monsoon rains,
and what use for jewels is there if we have stars,
scintillating and luminous in their navy cradle of velvet,
selcouth but always present in the eyes of those
who can lay claim to the ambitious ideas of the universe.
one day, we will open our eyes as a whole,
and see that the gods never abandoned us -
they were right here before us all along.
Collaboration between myself and Nyanfood
you have all held the smooth iron
of weathered bark, solid and light
you have felt the old strength that radiates
like God rays through your fingertips;
you have tasted the air around the riverbank
clear and cold, fresh from its mountain escapades
it has the essence of new life and energy,
tangible to even the smallest of humans.
all have paid tribute to the brimstone
of the lightning storm, Zeus' horses
dancing through the hemisphere;
all have witnessed the terrible beauty
of the hurricane, she who stops for no man -
I am the elements, strong and nurturing,
relentless and immovable, proud and free.
The winter winds caress me,
the summer breeze carries me,
the spring hails my presence,
and the autumn is my crown -
I am the elements, and I am whole.
I have held close the worn skin
of battered stones, heavy with blood
the torn strength that escapes like sand flowing
through the cracks of my palms.
I have breathed the wind around the gallows
dank and rancid from our human excuses
it has the essence of wasted energy
tangible to even the hairs of nature
All have paid tribute to the brimstone
of mortal crimes, Hades' dogs
ripping through human confidence;
all have tasted the fearsome beauty
of Avarice, she who was my creation -
I am humanity, fearing and waning,
relentless for survival, proud yet trapped.
The winter winds cut me,
the summer breeze burns me,
the spring brings me hope,
and the autumn feeds me -
Alone I am sinful, and together
I am whole.
Welcome home, the Earth says
as the equinox draws closer
the autumn is bountiful;
like sliding into a hot spring
after the hectic summer.
There is always magic in the air
when September brings its colors forth,
waving its flag proudly, cheers erupting joyously.
We change over to hold the trees closer
together, waters cold and sparkling like mercury
bursts of fragrance lingering every day;
oh what wonders await us,
hidden in the soil, succulent in history.
The autumn is meant for tender mystery,
rapturous renewal and empowered passion.
Nothing but good can come from the
richness that fills your lungs
when the leaves turn and the skies glow
like jack-o'-lanterns and church candles.
How does one describe the lush sensation
of starting anew, with the mountains soaring
the trees crooning, the rivers gamboling,
and our hearts braving?
The fall often reminds me that my home
is wherever the mountains are
when the harvest moon paints its peaks
with the succulent strokes, reminiscent
of van Gogh's brilliant mind.
loving you is like breaking storms,
following the ghosts of us,
sea to raging sea;
the ringing in my heart left behind
when you were carried off to war
that fateful day.
we ran like the ocean,
red ribbon wrapped around our wrists
we flew together, larger than life
nothing would stop us,
all fell before us,
and then it all crumbled behind us.
the stars shine bright above
and now I wait patiently;
waiting for your loving arms
to return from overseas
to come back to me,
wrapped in our red ribbon
forever, meant to be.
long lost wanderer
falling asleep under branches so old
your feet are worn
your heart so heavy,
the theme of your mind, so overwhelming
casting longing glances o'er
the hills of your home;
ne'er to return.
Oh, once you may have been proud
a love returned, and hearth of your own
but strife has left you broken
with nowhere left to turn,
and so you call the branches of old
your house and hold ..
There was a stretch of land, filled with the harvest of Mother Nature’s bountiful corn. They shook in the breeze like a child with a tambourine, and the sound whistled over the tops of the stalks like a hot air balloon. The sun was the most brilliant azure on a late afternoon, so beautiful it made even the hardened of veterans realize just how small they were in the wide, wide world.
A path ran straight through the field, leading in a pattern that no one ever quite understood. But if you walked for long enough, you would come to a clearing, almost in a perfect square. A small house stood there; white washed rancher, sun burnt just as anything else could and would be in these parched lands. The window frame were cracked, splintered just enough that if you ran your fingers across it, you would come back scathed. The door was wide open, also in that dim white color that seemed to make up the house. You couldn't see inside properly, but it gave off the feel of a very old home, that had almost seemingly fell out of the sky to land where it sat now. A dirt path ran around the house, and a small garden lay at its side, with enough desert fauna in it to make it appear to be something from nothing. A dusty and beaten ‘Welcome’ mat lay at the front of it all to complete the picture.
And to the side of this picturesque house sat an old Cadillac. The burnished red color blended into the dying light that permeated the very air. Its tires were the color of chalky coal, and looked like they hadn't moved since it was built. The windows were rolled down, as if the car needed to breathe in the prairie air to move once more. The windshield was wholesome, if dirty, and small animal prints covered the left-hand side of the glass; someone called this vehicle home on cold nights. The leather seats were cracked and worn, and matched the leather steering wheel. Small pieces of duct tape were wrapped around the handle in some places, making you feel like that time your bike broke down at your best friend’s place, and all you could do to fix it was wrap it with the duct tape your friend offered you. And on this old piece of history sat three girls. Perhaps only a year or two between each other from youngest to oldest, but they sat there nonetheless. They wore similar gowns, as if ready for bedtime. The tallest (perhaps not the eldest) wore a gown of purple, the hem trailing the bottoms of her knees. It hung comfortably on her shoulders, and was just barely starting to hug her hips as she grew into herself, and she stood near the hood, leaning against it to watch the sun go down. The middle child’s gown was the color of sea foam off the Caribbean, or so I hear. It threw itself around her calves like a contemporary dancer, and fit her just the opposite, rustling against the trunk of the car where she sat. The shortest girl had a gown of beautiful blue, the color of the prairie skies on a hot summer afternoon. It flowed past her ankles onto the roof of the car, where she had settled herself contentedly to watch the spectacle of a dark colored rainbow while the sun bowed off stage.
There was hardly a sound to be heard, except the crickets and the soft breeze grazing the stalks. The girls watched, unblinkingly, hardly daring to move lest they miss something that could change their home. It was a scene out of a fantasy, and old western. Time was frozen here; there was no changing that.
A shooting star crossed the navy blue that was finally descending onto the fields, and the shortest (perhaps not the youngest) gave a trill of laughter, the sound so pleasing to the ear. It would remind one of the early morning birds that woke you up ever so quietly, that you just knew it couldn't have been anything else. Their eyes were turned to the skies even more intently now, focused on spotting the falling star before it burned up in our atmosphere. To imagine such an otherworldly thing could disintegrate so gracefully in the view of our very plain eyes, was such a concept that wouldn't be dreamed of by those girls until very later in their lives.
The moon began its ascent into the sky, crawling from the horizon after it had kissed the sun goodnight. A crescent moon, divine and destined to leave Earth dwellers in awe for many, many moons to come. Its finely shaped contours easily outstripped any mortal beauty; who could match the curves of the sculpted Luna? She was finer than all the others in that visible sky. Many years from now, in a house similar to this one, the girls would discuss the moon and her properties, and their husbands would wonder just how they could talk about something so alien as easily as if they had met the moon in person. They would never understand that their wives had spent many sunsets watching the world turn just to try and understand that they, too, would someday turn with the world – and in a more intimate way. For their views on life were that of the here and now; the men of the world in that time had to worry about the present, what was visible to their eye there and then. The rare women that could hear the universe spinning were often left to their own devices, alone when they finally went back to the stars they had called family their whole Earth lives. And even then, on the seldom occasion that their men would sit back on the porch they had built with their wives, they still wouldn't understand that their women were those stars, always there to turn with them until they, too, turned.
Do not fall in love with a writer.
They can paint with colors that you have never heard of before, and create new worlds with one strong emotion. They have a heart that outstrips any fuel source, and is full of butterflies and frustration. They come alive in the early hours of morning, when the only noise they can perceive is the one coming from your sleeping form; they sleep when the sunlight isn't quite in the shape they need to work their magic. They can conjure up the most simplest of cliches, and leave you in a burning wake of words, singeing your arms and eyes with embers of passion and misnomers. They have moments of weakness, and brief seconds of strength, and the only thing they will keep to themselves is how many times they said, "You can do better than that". They've fallen in love with the impossible, and wept over the improbable. Their wishes comprise of fanatical love tales, and the harmonizing of fates that were almost lost to the dusty shelves of old book stores. Ink once flowed through their veins, replaced now with the telltale signs of the clinically insane; one with the world of imagination.
Do not fall in love with these writers, for they will smother you in complicated words and rumpled paper, unbridled attention and time laid at your feet, willingly or not. They will kiss you a thousand times to make sure they record the correct flavor of your kisses, write pages on the way you breathe when your eyes are closed. They understand cliches like the sun setting on your cheeks and starlight in your eyes, and can immortalize wounds like pieces of Da Vinci's art. Unbeknownst to you, your very fingertips will unlock places inside them that they have been waiting to dust for years, and they will use your soul until it becomes a dried leaf in the autumn wind. Snow storms and catastrophic earthquakes mold their faces, lined with the visions of heartstrings and dark alleys. They will envision waterfall kisses, and embraces pooled in moonlight - cliffhanging their demons beside your own and wondering if they will help or hinder themselves. Lightning storms gather around their throats when they speak your name, and the atmosphere is charged with the static of what should come from them next.
If you should fall in love with them, understand you will have a legacy that will last a lifetime. The halls of their mind will reverberate with your name, and a single touch will venture into volcanic territory, where they have hidden you away in their ever-green glade. They will build monuments in your name, and shout them into the cavernous masses that envelope their creations. Every deduction, every thought, every question they ever had about you will become a matter of who and how it will be alive to them in just the right way. You become their perfect universe, a paradox of the one their physical lives play out. They will love every piece of you, from the way you say hello to strangers, to how you brush your teeth at night. They will find every piece of you fascinating, from how you put your socks on to the way you push your glasses further up your nose. Things like tying your shoes, drinking coffee, running an errand - all fodder for an extraordinary article of continuous love and intrigue. Their tired eyes will drink you in like the fountain of youth, and their smile will be rare, but will always play when yours does. They will capture the moments you call 'every day', and configure them into artwork. They will love your storms, your rainfall, your sunshine and green valleys, and even your blizzards and tornadoes. And they will never stop writing about you.