When Words Will Weave

***

Once, as a child, I misunderstood,

suddenly my world became filled

with some syllabic garble,

I was afraid from that very moment

my words were nonsensical

that is until I listened to you,

the voices of matter around me.

I soon discovered that words

did ring aloud upon deaf ears

certainly when those being spoken

to were misdirected and cruel.

So while I know now what certainly

then became an albatross of mixed

messages, similes and metaphors,

today I can glance outside at a sunrise

and see the beauty in description

rather than shudder away in some barren

field of malcontent believing everything

I say has little meaning or purpose.

Today I live for that certain word, utterance

leads me swiftly into my following day

always with some hope peace may weave.

~

Photo Credit: Margaret Street Open Art Night: Late October Show 2014, taken by Bianca Bonvie-Marsland of performance work by Laura Parrott.

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Good Morning Music

I wake to the sound of the world outdoors

the movement, a series of moving cars

the birds of course or the primary chorus

a sunlit day, windows open, clear pictures

~

I look for the music that can embrace my day

what sound do I need to find my words

and suddenly I know I am in a listening way

the world as it wakens around me. Glance towards

~

a sky peeking through full bloom meadows and fields

see the love of nature that encompasses our lives

when questions of who am I and what do I see

perhaps let this simple pleasure our love revives

~

For when is it on a glorious moment in the month of July

do we suddenly forget to breathe and instead do we cry

Because We Act

redshoes-fog

We do everything by the script,

how we manage our morning,

what time we show up,

when we decide to take care of this,

why do we need to live a mechanical life

Imagine if all the gears just stopped,

who would react, and who might run away.

yet, where would they go to find themselves,

perhaps in the woods, eventually they might die,

we do know yet what they have found,

because they never come to retell the story,

we just anticipate, the same way we just know

our world is going to exist as we plan in the morning,

and it will as it does at dusk when our minds expand.

I remember as a child the first I heard the words,

“All the world’s a stage’ I didn’t get it,

I knew it was pretty because that’s what my teacher

taught us about Shakespeare, lovely language.

Tonight while I again wait for that moment,

the crestfallen moon that shines upon my eye,

when I hope to figure out the reason why I want to stay awake

rather than fall into the fear of my dreams,

I wonder really what it means ‘to be or not to be’

I used to construe as death’s finality,

today, I’m wondering if I want to be like you, her, them

what identity do I choose with each morning sun rise.

* photo found on thefilmexperiment

Our Silent Muse

We all have one, somewhere nearby, or elsewhere,

that copy, a shadow, a response we failed to hear

until we once encounter a moment of clarity

when the stars align, we decide to … understand.

rather than continuing the battle of individuality

we suddenly are together, without any demand.

That’s when our muse whomever, whatever, wherever

will smile in the background not because they put us

where we wanted to be, more simply,

our muse is there to watch with love, because their

whole wish is for our humanity,our selves, our …

When a muse becomes the focus of our writing,

our acting, our performing, our creative souls,

have an entirety of cathartic energy filled with love,

a karmic sojourn if you will that blending in unity,

allows our lives to flourish in the elegance of reality.

Addiction and Rejection (a repost)

Hello All, this is a repost of a piece I wrote the other day. I am posting the link as a favor to a friend named Dan Maurer, who is seeing new success with his graphic novel on Sobriety. He has a blog called Transformation is Real that speaks about recovery and addiction, topics that have saved my life.  I’d like you to check out:

Dan The Story Man blogpost

Outside, the Rains

rain

With only a few drops to touch the patio blocks

i can return home again,

to picture window mornings watching the birds

sift through the rain in natural habitat,

I do recall the street became gradually river like,

creating the later streams in culverts

home-made sailboats would venture throughout

the city neighborhoods entertaining

all the children that right now were waiting

patiently, for that sun burst that shouted mom’s

‘Yes, go outside and play now.’

~

While rains soaked our bodies to such a degree,

we might eventually accept nature’s wrath

sweet and warm like in summer’s romantic fire

while together we strolled watching smiles

knowing we are drenched to the bone alive

anticipating that lentil soup in the afternoon,

the wet paths that squished with each step

would cause an occasional stomp

a fit of laughter and the chase while finding

a new pool to match previous success.

~

When sitting by the river with my line in water,

as the light mist begins to show

its true mystery along the riverbank’s shadows

I will remember you so precisely,

fishing pole in hand and teaching me your patience

I could stand for a minute while you

always managed to pull a beautiful brown

from a back yard creek small enough

to only imagine a child’s homemade sailboat.

~

Outside, the rains will cleanse our natural world with steady

rhythms in sound and purpose, while I (we) imagine fond.

~

* photo found on scienceabc

If There Were No Tears

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We couldn’t celebrate our love

We wouldn’t know if there was loss

We would forever be drawn to nothing

We would be simply nothing

for with tears live our emotions,

for with tears we become alive within ourselves

for with tears we can reach a climactic end to the suffering,

– perhaps only to live within the carnage by choice –

if we could not show tears, we would be the zombies we choose to ignore,

yet the value of a cleansing cry leaves hope,

yet the value of a quiet release gives opportunity to know

yet the value of a screaming paradox of lost love allows another to take your place.

for within our tears is a pool of thoughtful love

to know we live in each other’s eyes, rather than a barren wood,

we do delight to feel such joy that brings our tears

we do need to let go of all the hurt and pain and grief with zeal,

we do know our love in tears can become real.

If there were no tears I would change my music

If there were no tears …

my eyes would be dry.