A poetic journey through my mind

Archive for September, 2012

Troll

I don’t know what I need, I’ve tried the things they say,
find some friends, go outside, f’goshsake seize the day!
but nothing works, or it’s all work, or maybe I don’t care,
maybe I deserve the night, and all the creatures there.
maybe I belong in here, lit only by a screen,
words pouring from my fingertips to pages white and clean.
just here I feel that I exist, that my words will be heard,
and not dismissed or suffered through but still seen as absurd.
here I can talk till my hands fall off, and store it all away,
till someone someday looks for me, and finds me where I stay.
here in this box of light and sound, this dimly glowing world,
here where my heart and my mind and my soul can safely be unfurled.


Mistake

the wheel of fortune spins and reels,
the stuff of dreams it costs to play,
no one misses what it steals,
until that one memorable day.

the day that dreamstuff turns to smoke,
and vanishes into thin air,
they laugh about it, even joke,
but soon enough, comes the despair.

for not a dream can they sustain,
imagination turns to clay,
a previously unknown pain,
that sits upon them, day by day.

it whispers chill into their ears,
and freezes hard the loving heart,
it causes disregard of tears,
till finally, they stand apart.

oh, wealth aplenty they may gain,
power, playthings and much more,
but nothing satisfies the pain,
life simply an unending chore.

until their deathbed, old and gray,
where waits for them the final breath,
forgotten music starts to play,
as the wheel spins once…and comes up “Death”.

the wheel of fortune spins and reels,
the stuff of dreams it costs to play,
no one misses what it steals,
until that one memorable day.


The Gift

hummingbird thoughts flicker and dart,
jewel-bright bits of magic and art,
in the dark shadowed places, in the contemplative grove,
o’er the turquoise-blue waves of a tropical cove,
in dark stormy weather and mad lashings of fear,
they sparkle and dance and shine without peer.
and when i am desperate, furious, or numb,
just when i fear to the depths i’ll succumb,
when i cry out from deep in the canyon of night,
suddenly twinkles a tiny bright light,
then two, and then more, they sparkle and play
till my storm darkened mind grows bright as the day
and laughing, i spin in my own rainbow dance,
and with joy and new hope take this god-given chance.
the words that pour out of my soul and my heart
are as shining and bright as the jewels that dart,
and i think to myself and i hope as i write
that the words will fly out and rekindle a light
and dance for a time in some lonely heart,
my jewel-bright bits of magic and art.


Old Man and the Moon

With a sound like the mating call of a Loon,
Old Man laughs up at the deviant Moon,
Her face sprinkled gaily with red and green lights,
She out twinkles the stars in the face of the night.

And down in the canyon, the fire flares high,
and sparks spiral upwards, toward the lights in the sky,
the Folk dance around it, their voices ring out,
the red rock walls echo with the force of their shout.

Old Man just stares upward, a grin on his face,
and watches the sparks as they soar into space,
for Man has gone outward, to find a new home,
and the Folk will go with them, wherever they roam.

The Moon twinkles welcome, as the spark Folk fly high,
soaring and diving like a Kite in the sky,
And Old Man sits down on a fire-warmed stone,
and just for a moment, he feels the alone.

With a yip and a howl, he sings to the night,
a song of farewell to those still in flight,
then, feeling content, he curls up on the boulder,
close to the coals as the night wind blows colder.

And wrapping his tail around his long nose,
Alone with the Earth, into slumber he goes.
In the morning he’ll wake, and his work will begin,
and even in sleep, the thought makes him grin.

He’ll watch over the land, and keep the light burning,
and keep the Earth safe till the Peoples returning,
and he’ll run with the cousins, and he’ll laugh like a loon,
and he’ll sing every night to the Deviant Moon.


Love Notes

I thought “I love you” meant forever…not until.

She could never forgive him for what he didn’t say.

A Door…A Wall…or A Window.  In the end, which will you have been?

Masks like Bartholomews Hats…but in the end, was there anything there at all?

Love is a meal best eaten with chopsticks, not spoons.

New love is bells and whistles…settled love is silence over tea.  

Beware how far you rise in that first dance…the farther you go, the farther it is to fall.

When you throw your heart to a strange dog, don’t be surprised if it comes back mangled

And last but far from least, beware of flying babies with bows and arrows.  If you -must- get shot, try to take it in the head.


Imagination

where does it go when it flies far away,
where has it gone off to scamper and play,
when it starts to get dark, at the end of the day,
how can you call it back home?

where does it go, down a glass mountain stream,
or under the mountain, where the dragons breathe steam,
or somewhere even further, with the Being of Seem,
even though it’s time to come home?

or maybe up high where the thin branches sway,
or up in a nest, with the eaglets, to play,
or playing come-chase-me with the last flitting ray,
stretching out for that last bit of roam…

But the branches slow down, soft and softer they sway,
And the eaglets curl up, in their warm nest of hay,
And the sunbeams rest softly for the coming new day,
And they whisper “It’s time to go home!”

And the stream’s singing softly, a soft lullaby,
and the dragons snore sweetly in the caves as they lie,
and the Being stands tall, to turn off the sky,
For he knows that it’s time to come home.

So homeward it races, when it hears what is said,
and slips through the window to its own little head,
to lay it down soft on its own little bed,
and I smile, and I welcome it home.