Sunday Storm

Gathering wind, a smattering of rain, fierce elemental forces seeking entrance. Shaking the windows, rushing past the door, taking control of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shuttering.

My soul awakens.

The wind dashes against me as I step out onto the back porch. I feel the raw tingle of rain against my face and am drawn to watch the nodding pine tree as a dozen little aspens quake, their leaves dancing about, above the old garage.

The windows wink at me through the broken glass and the blue tarp that my father has tied on the front is drawn and dashed by the wind.

I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of the rain, as well as the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle mixture that reminds me of my parents home.

Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a darker wet green. Worms make there way up to escape their muddy prisons, I avoid them as I step and hear the bird seed crunching beneath my feet.

I feel the fellowship of the earths spirit, speaking to my own as I walk through the storm, a fitting backdrop for tumultuous feelings. I gaze fearless about me, somehow finding my mind to be clearer, my determination more sure.

Storms come, life is like a storm. Things that seemed sturdy can be shaken and tossed, sometimes shattered. Yet the earth and I have one great goal, renewal and regrowth.

A wiping away of the old and the ugly, sewing new seeds, seeds of beauty.

Longing for the River

The river

It is there as the constant companion to my blood

I can see it, dark, rushing, constant.

I would rush to it,

rush and jump in.

To come up gasping for air, only to dive into the current,

letting it carry me away.

The verdant green branches rushing past, low hanging branches calling out to me to regain my sanity.

Indecision as the waterfall approaches,

daring to put my whole self on the line, I fearlessly face it.

As it approaches I find the way through it, a rush, I go over and drop a few feet.

My mind is filled with the smell of rushing water,

and my feet thrill at the textures,

the cold soft earth of the river bed,

the moss underfoot,

the fish rub against my legs,

elusive as I try to grab them.

My body adapts to the water, I become a part of it,

rushing downstream from the mountains above.

When I climb out I shudder,

is it evaporation?

or

Longing for the river?

Gems

Ironic, that the emerald could be packaged in such a way, that gleaming sparkling gem, dark and green, a cold capulation of summers fair bounties and yet is it not summer? It is not

Mysterious the sparks of steel and flint, the rough edges smoothed away, burned by fire, cut by steel, shined by a soft doe cloth until all is buffed, gleaming.

 The glint is alluring

Yet each gem lies in it's own deep chasm, which cannot be bridged.

Cowboy Camelot

*One of my favorite pieces, my Great Grandpa was a "Cow Puncher" which I suppose meant that he broke in horses. Plus my Uncle Mo is a dyed in the wool cow boy, owns a cafe up the hill from here with his girlfriend.

There is a once upon a time, that exists in my heart.

I can see the daylight breaking over the horizon, crackling morning campfires, and blue hazy smoke curling lazily in the air.

Morning in a Cowboy's Camelot

Biscuits and bacon eaten with appreciation while sitting round the campfire balancing plates on knees.

Listening to the dawn chorus of the birds. How do's and mornin's spoken with drawling tongue and twinkling eye, amusement about life in general.

Cowboys with their leather and beads, their feathers and weaves, a tip of the hat, a bit of a tease.

I can smell oiled leather and smoke in the western store. Hear boots on the wooden floors, bells tinkling on swinging doors.

See the barrels and bins full of horseshoes and pins. Rough hemp rope curled on the ground, sand and dust all around. Saddles and deer heads hanging, country music playing.

A cowboys haven

There is still something within me that recalls, swirling fires in the dessert, dusty tumble weeds over a hot trail, sand and sage, dry dessert air, nickering horses, snakes rustling through tall grasses, the coursing of streams down high mountain passes.

Out on the trail with the cowboy

Whisky and whiskers, old spice and pomade, reclining against a log as melancholy chords are strummed, the pick of the banjo, harmonicas drone, chaps and spurs golden in the firelight, comfortable as the red and azure blues fade from the sky in the west.

The cowboys evening salute to the stars

Building Anticipation

Scorching heat, dry weeds.

Tall, sparse weeds, some cockle burs that stick to your socks.

A lonely desolate place, though somehow it is a place that speaks softly of expectation, as though at any moment "something" exciting will happen.

Languishing in the sun, following the lines down, further and further as the anticipation builds.

Almost giving up, when...

A low rumbling starts, so faint only vibrations and expectation is felt at first.

In the distance, clickity clack, tickity tack, clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity.

Growing louder and louder, the rumbling as well.

Suddenly a long slow whistle, like a lost soul cries out.

Wooo wooooo

Bursting onto the scene is the rattling train, clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity.

The weeds shiver and the smell of coal dust and steel emanates from the shuttering beast.

Clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity, clickity, tickity on and on it goes.

Until suddenly,

Scorching heat, and dry weeds,

are the only thing you can see.

Short lived fulfillment,

as the anticipation begins to build again.

The Birthplace of Galaxies

Standing on the edge of a black hole, I look down, contemplating it.

I feel its draw, the grasp of unimaginable gravity.

Looking around, I see nothing, time has come to a stand still.

So I burst my indecision into a million pieces, shattering the stained glass.

Headlong into the center of the pit, letting it carry me as the darkness swirls around me.

All of my preconceived notions fall away and I am left staring at the essence of my soul.

Staring at something that was lost, inhibited by all of the views seen through others eyes.

and I realise that this hole is not endless, nor is it even as dim as I thought.

No a clear breathtaking shining black.

I have been falling, falling, falling down? or Up? I know not.

Suddenly I find myself bursting forth from the bands which have bound me. Leaping, leaping towards a future that I know not of.

As I am kneeling on a meteor, readying myself for another burst, I am suddenly struck down.

Grasping for the meaning of it all I look around to find that tentacles of hope are reaching towards me out of a friendly cloud.

Showing me that there are places and possibilities that I have never even imagined.

As the rays of sunlight burst forth in a magnificent display I realise that I am actually in a place of new birth, the birth of galaxies, of new stars.

Sudden joy fills my heart, oh the possibilities of letting go!! Of reveling in the joy of creation with a friend who would create new possibilities as well.

The joy of fighting what seemed like a losing battle, reassured that it matters that I do so.

Instead of gravity, the power of the black hole becomes an anchor. I fly with the wings of hope towards dreams that I had never dared to dream.

I am glad that I jumped, it was scary to take the chance. But worth it to have decided to live.

Beautiful Fabric

Beautiful Fabric
As children we make tenuous connections friendships based on a glance from a friendly face.

Giving trust wholeheartedly, willing to kiss and hug one another with no reserve.

How shortly this lasts as other desires come into our little hearts, to have more than the other, to be stronger, or smarter. So kids pinch and they pull, surprised when their little friendships are hurt.

and how deep that hurt can be, innocent hearts, trusting hearts, hearts that thrummed together in friendship can be easily broken.

Hopefully we learn respect.

How innocent is the interest of childish desires. Desires awakening in the breast of young girls, and young boys.

Holding hands, trusting, claiming each other, how short lived is this little bond. As young hearts, growing still, bump up against each other, mixed with the messages that they have received from the adult world around them.

This adulthood bond, what does it mean? Holding hands, a kiss on the lips, a look, laying in bed?

Awakening children reach out to each other, hiding in the van by the house to touch lips together and wonder at the meaning of the sparks that fly.

Holding each other close, as they lay in the grass, Edens bed, innocent still.

and innocently hurt each other as well. There is so much more to understand than children know.

As they grow, so does the curiosity. So does the intensity of the flame, they test this flame, to find that it can burn. That with the give and take between them that immaturity can mean more take than give and intense encounters can leave a heart broken and empty.

As adults we find that there are threads, they reach between two separate hearts connecting each to the other. These threads are formed by the trust that is given, one heart to another. Hearts that have faced the reality of imperfection, hearts that know each other.

These threads are woven each time we choose each other, woven and made stronger with the experiences that we share. Forming a fabric, creating something beautiful to wrap new little babies in. Forming a fabric to insulate each other from the harshness of continual judgement, the judgement of the world.

With the trust comes true inhibition. The flames formed from intertwined hearts can be strong and beautiful.

That is, unless... you break a little thread here or there, little hurts, little disrespects. Little things that tell me that I am not all that you dreamed of.

Little words said, mistrust, abuse, judgement of the other.

Pulling away, snipping at, cutting at the threads you believe bind you. Not willing to give your trust, not believing in the theory of intertwined hearts. Never reaching that climax, because of dissatisfaction.

and it hurts, it really does.

I believe in the theory of intertwined hearts. I have woven beautiful fabric, and I have sipped at threads. Then I have sewn them again, and refused to let the threads be cut, they sometimes are cut. I have felt that hurt.

It is hard to trust.

Yet, weaving beautiful fabric together is worth it.

Of Dark Matter

Gaze out over the night sky, as dark as a fathomless pit, yet with a different quality about it. I believe they call it "dark matter."

Not realizing that what they mean is that even in places where darkness reigns, is a matter, so powerful as to let its presence be known.

We all have those dark places, holes left after the brilliant star that was shinning there has burnt out. It may seem like there is nothing there, but the observant know what is left, no insignificant emptiness, no.

A space that will fill with tears as you walk down familiar paths, a memory of something that is no more.

Yet brilliant stars can leave diamonds of memory also, cold after the warmth of the sun, yet no less beautiful.

Do we wish these fragments of memory to be gone? We may, yet without them the brilliance of the star will be forgotten. Without them we cannot feel as deeply as we do now and the joy's in the future would not mean as much to us.

Even matter that is dark is a reflection of something beautiful, made up of brilliant memories.

Sunday Storm

(Rick's piece reminded me of this piece) ;D

Gathering wind, a smattering of rain,

fierce elemental forces seeking entrance, shaking the windows, rushing past the door,

taking control,

of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shattering.

My soul awakens.

The wind dashes against me as I step out,

A raw dash of rain hits my face,

and I gaze at the nodding pines and aspens shivering in the wind.

Aware

of broken glass and tattered tarp flapping in the wind.

I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of rain,

the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle scent.

Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a wet dark green.

I step over worms, and hear bird seed crunch as I walk,

walk away,

the earths spirit speaks to my own.

A fitting backdrop I think,

to life's storms.


(Or if you will, the original version)

Gathering wind, a smattering of rain, fierce elemental forces seeking entrance. Shaking the windows, rushing past the door, taking control of the pines and the aspens, sturdy fences shuttering.

My soul awakens.

The wind dashes against me as I step out onto the back porch. I feel the raw tingle of rain against my face and am drawn to watch the nodding pine tree as a dozen little aspens quake, their leaves dancing about, above the old garage.

The windows wink at me through the broken glass and the blue tarp that my father has tied on the front is drawn and dashed by the wind.

I walk against the elements, appreciating the smell of the rain, as well as the scent of wet cedar wood and pavement, co-mingling, a subtle mixture that reminds me of my parents home.

Puddles gather in the cracked pavement, the grass of the lawn a darker wet green. Worms make there way up to escape their muddy prisons, I avoid them as I step and hear the bird seed crunching beneath my feet.

I feel the fellowship of the earths spirit, speaking to my own as I walk through the storm, a fitting backdrop for tumultuous feelings. I gaze fearless about me, somehow finding my mind to be clearer, my determination more sure.

Storms come, life is like a storm. Things that seemed sturdy can be shaken and tossed, sometimes shattered. Yet the earth and I have one great goal, renewal and regrowth.

A wiping away of the old and the ugly, sewing new seeds, seeds of beauty.

Becoming

Out of silence, a cry, oh beautiful sound a new life is born.

Feel the beat deep down in your soul, the pulsing realness of life, the throbbing of the earth moving through celestial lights. Gaze up into the atmosphere at the blues and reds, the undulating waves of the universe.

Taste the sweetness of fresh vibrant food, of strawberries picked from the sun warmed earth, of an apple just off the tree. Can you taste it, it is the living energy of the earth.

Dance!! Pulsating beats awakening the spirit in you, the spirit that has been crying out for release. Your body moves, you close your eyes and feel.

Remember the most sincere hug that you have ever received, the spirit of another reaching your heart, taking some of the ache away and sharing it as their own.

Remember caring, remember a good cry, remember feeling so angry that you wanted to scream and hit your pillows and bed in frustration, remember laughing until your sides hurt.

Dance, sing, scream with passion, become!!

Running

Running, running, down the sidewalk, by the river which is rushing.

Rushing over stone and cascading over falls.

Running in a careening, loose sort of way feet falling over feet bringing emotions to the surface, joy and sadness mixed together.

Limping, limping down the sidewalk unsure of where to go, with the lights of the street sitting dimly in their orbs, no inspiration. Just turn around and make it work.

Balancing on the railroad tracks, listening for the train, the echos sounding in the distance as though trapped by the trees and the fields which hold many lost sounds.

Running away, being chased by the sadness, the anger, questioning why? What now? What should I do?

Running in the sand dunes, each footfall causing the sand to cascade down with gravitational attraction to the earth. Each footfall causing your muscles to ache with the effort until you reach the top where you collapse panting for breath.

Walking, carrying the weight of your burdens on your shoulders, shrugging to loose them, shrugging with self doubt, you look only briefly at a strangers face and paste on a smile that you are sure they know to be fake.

Carrying your little one home from the store, wondering how they did it in days of old, how their arms held out as they were driven, driven from their homes out into the snow where there footprints were seen as bloody shadows of their beaten owners.

Watching as the powerlines glide over the night sky, between the stars out in the open field as you drive trying to find that lost place where no one will hear as you ask the questions that no one has answers to, no one but God.

Then you run, run by the lake as your emotions run out and you gaze out at the moon on the water, highlighting the ripples as the wind blows.