The world is a paragon

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.

I am a gallery

I am a gallery, long floored and wide brimmed
      no footsteps from tourists have padded these halls,
       signs suggesting an escape from my reality are nonexistent.
these white-washed walls stand at attention
for my eyes only; examining the lives I lived
many moons before.
                   The doors are barred, blockading the outside world:
these halls will only host echoes and silent smiles,
where my artwork patiently ages …
I must peruse this museum of life alone.

ash, fir, and pine,
framed in symmetrical rows,
     molded and carved between my own hands
until I thought them fine for such golden moments.
               beneath each story, a silver plaque lays its head,
with names etched into them like quill on parchment.
                        these were the souls and bright eyes
    I gave legendary status to;
for once upon a time, they were larger than life
                when my own was full of strife.

                               My Spanish rogue, brighter than la luna
   he dripped in jewels and light, most becomingly
with eyes that always carried a smile, sometimes a little sorrowful
            his mouth covered with wine stains I dared not ask about;
          what morally lost princess could turn away from him,
  he who carved my name into his heart and crown –
                  yet somehow, through my rosy visions, I never noticed
       his backdrop of velvet already dirty.
                            a deeper heart would know, and see,
        through our sheaves of bandwidth and jungle of cords
              that longevity was in the cards, but not eternity;
I did not know how to read them back then.
we rode better roller coasters than Six Flags
                                              swallowed swells and carried waves,
Este amor no estaba destinado a ser
        I longed to hold him to me, for his laugh to touch my ears
              where were the fates when we needed them most?
                                  our nights were filled with passionate music making
            and would wrap the early dawn in perpetual enthusiasm;
       we raised each other up, over mountains and canyons –
                        we did what we were meant to do, and we loved every moment.
                we had triumphed where others had fallen,
                            learning the meaning of trust and hope, even when it was tiring
  and loving with every fiber we could muster,
                 though few others would ever attest to it.
          but, like a woolen blanket spread across the rocks
           waiting for the sun to burn it dry,
   we let the rays soak for too long, hovering on the edge
before ash and fire could be smelt like rain after a hot day
                            all mountains must eventually crumble,
       some into the sea’s roiling embrace.
       we tumbled into a smoky gap,
           with only the twilight to fill the space in our hearts.
an unpredictable future withheld –
                             perhaps that was what kept us going for so long;
         the knowledge of unknowing, looped in mystery …
             but our rope had been cut, shorn like spring sheep
                                  there were too many cards down, too little chips left.
           we were a double edged wound that wouldn’t stay shut.
         our silence felt like harsh singing in my lungs
                                                   like a wet blanket over my mouth.
    we were so young, so in love, so helpless;
              I felt as if years had fallen on top of me, too heavy.
      who said it is better to love and lose
                       than to love at all?
                 life always scolded us, warned us it wasn’t fair.
           I could only shake my head, commit to memory
                     what my heart did not wish to learn,
                             and move to the next story in my halls.

          My little lion man, sharp and a gutter
who shattered the illusion of age
                         a storyteller that spoke of desert dunes,
         wild nights in the field, flames beyond man’s reach
                  uncensored, but not uncouth
         it was just what my lackluster fingers needed.
we tread down winding paths unbeknownst to us
                             finding forks and hidden hollows, dark foliage
            and hopeful shrubs.
                                but we found the bread crumb trail,
              and clear sea breeze skies once out of the woods.
                   I did not go wanting when I yearned
                                to learn something new.
             the old and new age jumped to life
      and we sifted through it all together,
                         his patience knew no bounds, his caring had no scale.
            he drew me out like fresh taffy, sinking his teeth in when ready;
                        discovering dirty secrets, long withheld from friends
                 and heart wrenching stories, long mulled over through tumultuous years
       my mind’s eye took an aerial view of all life,
                                     while the world swirled below like coffee.
        with him, suddenly the moon and stars were in reach,
                   all of creation opened before us like a show painting:
                 we just needed the keys to the ignition.
                      but storms did appear, anticipation and doubt
                                disabled the strength in myself that I once believed in.
                      I was only human, I cried, I could only go where my dreams went
             that was the path I wanted to follow,
no thought of the miles that accompanied them
we did not say goodbye,
                     he could not stand the word.
         I left his side more than once
                    tried to keep my head from the deep blue.
      the pain only grew, vast expanses of blood sinking me
            and I hoped, every day, that it would all end –
                        whatever end that may have been.
it would be many moons before those wounds
          would stop oozing; or, perhaps, stop gushing.
        our story was a good one, our good times were many
                    I played them like a projection slide,
         and slid past him to my next adventure.

                                  My lone ranger, hidden in the woods
              bow in hand, wit at the ready –
                       he was made of fire and lightning,
              earthquakes and avalanches;
        he would twist others into elaborate dances
                             with the grin of a wolf on his lips.
              he was the yin to my yang,
                dark energy to the green light
                                         Dionysus to Circe,
           he was wicked and true,
                       unforgiving and nurturing;
                he could make a woman melt
                           with but a mere sentence
            he created laughter and curated frowns
                       introduced me to cynicism, suspicion
             people were not trustworthy,
                 and heaven help the human who turned on him.
                            he was not of this world; he did not live in this plane
       the water and earth were his home,
                living free on the currents that slipped past his dwellings
                                  the sun would beg to chase his heels,
                  to gambol alongside his daily wander,
he gave and took life away in such simple manners
            it was fascinating and terrifying to watch.
              we were lost kids,
           built in hell and love, burning the countryside together
             we lusted for the mountains to be our backyard,
       and did not have to tame that quiet beast when we sat side by side
                he had a thirst that could not be slaked, I gave in every time
                         and he had a mind that could never be still,
     conversation would go on forever, intelligent or hearsay
        but we did not stop, and we never held back.
fate is cruel, that timeless bitch
             his sanity called for a retreat, falling back to his own
                    I called to him in my dreams, but the response never came
                  I became a nightmare, walking through my own seven circles;
             I had become the sun that begged to chase his heels,
                                only to be met by the night every day.
I loved him thoroughly, no restraints or knots.
                                       he was wild and polished, and he built me like a bonfire
                   I will forever dream of a day when perhaps
       he will be there again; a different life time, the same soul.

              These spiral stairs take me down the lane
          spotlights light on the good times,
                            full of raucous laughter and overflowing care;
       I move past the blank, the dirt: my enemies.
          for over the years, strings are cut –
                       sometimes, yes torn,
       but a puzzle does not cease to be one
         when the pieces are no longer together.
    I can hear the scorn, feel the heat,
                       ‘What kind of person sees love, and not hate?’
         when does the world stop spinning when plunged into night?
you care not how I see the world, light filled and hopeful
                                   love lives on every year, through us all –
          a single human cannot live forever and on,
                                only to see one other entity as clearly as themselves in a mirror.
I have loved true, all my life
                and to this day, I still do,
             my heart is filled with those memories and moments
               to enjoy whenever I need a smile;
             what shame is there to be felt in loving love?
          these are my treasures, my relics – priceless;
                           not tragedies to be mourned and grieved upon.
the Threads of Fate have held us fast
                        tied for all of history to watch over while we sleep
           and the open-minded will see, just as I do,
                    that love does not have to be for only one;
                      for though I love my half always and on,
                                          he was not the first of my suns.

               To him I bring my hopes and dreams, eternal love;
                            he was carried to me on wings of patience and luck
                                    the kind girls can only dare to dream of.
                          his eyes hold the world closely, brighter than the North
               he shines through me like a whisper wind on a summer night;
                    we are the sun and moon, turning to keep the other bright.
        we have knotted our strings, entwined beyond the mind
               our love holds a sacred, unwritten agreement –
                                                     we never leave the other behind.

The doors of my gallery swing closed; oiled hinges make no sound
                                         the key of my design I leave inside, safe-kept by my wards.
                 my timeline is not freely given away to man or beast;
                   I shall carry my loves until I should have long past died.
       their strength in time, and their hold on my essence,
                                  those are the things that make a person become who they are.

And in the end,
     When the doors shut for the night
       We all dissolve into stars;
            I am nothing but a nightlight.

dawn to dust

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.


A 25 minute sprint I loosely based off this image
https://www.deviantart.com/kyendo/art/1996-465220806

My Doctor

You are bone melting –
       Cell reviving, courage inspiring.
   You are time;                endless
         Adventure,      continuous
              Trouble ensnared,
Mischief?       Managed.
   You are the weathered traveler –
S c o r c h i n g worn
     Icy knowledge,
                         Wars delivered.
 You are perfunctory happiness –
          Inverted sadness.
    You are light in our dark,
                          Love in spite;
        Carry hope over death.
              Planet shattering eyes
          Star snaring hearts
     Nebula fingertips
 With a black hole sinking smirk.
You came when we needed you
      When my galaxy was afloat
          Savior of my f a t e
   Gifting spontaneity to me
When the world was making me
                      Old.
      Doctor, my Doctor –
            You will never be alone.
        Not even when
The sun is old and grown.
       I want you safe, from those false Gods.
                You will be thought of,
Remembered,
     And when it comes time –
                                         Saved.

Bad Wolf Bay

Like fire and ice. I feel every heartbeat that pulses through that galaxy in your veins, the super novas and red dwarfs and asteroid fields and diamond planets that crisscross the expanse of stars that have formed your person. Ground shattering revelations make me quake in delight, lighting up the night sky in my eyes. The shade of blue that flashes through my memory, and all those times you didn’t say what I wanted you to say but I told myself that you said it through your body, every time you took my hand.

And there we stood, a lifetime stretching between us, but a brush of fingertips away on a lonesome splash of crumbled sand, the waves rolling in like a sigh from the beginning of time. I felt my heart aching and burning up like the sun, my whole being longing to fly to you, but you were just energy – a moment in between two worlds that let me tell you I love you. I never wanted you to be alone. I wanted to live out my short life beside your everlasting self, consumed by nothing but my one desire to be your companion for as long as I lived. I never told you, throughout the dangers and perils, the tears and the travel, the laughter and the memories. I had wanted so badly to hear you, the man who traveled far and wide, the god who lived through time itself, the only person to have seen what I had saw every time I stepped outside those doors with your hand in mine – I wanted to hear you say that I was too right to love you, that I’d be daft if I didn’t, and most of all I wanted to hear you tell me you loved me back. All those lifetimes, all those people, all those adventures – and you loved me.

And now here I am, light years away, and your name on my lips. And I still love you, ’til time takes me back for itself.

the destiny of fate and time

soul to soul;
      red ribbon of fate
            why couldn’t you have thrown her
  in the irish wind
           back then
     instead of so late —
heart to heart;
        silver string of time
              why wouldn’t you bring them together
    when they called out
             looking for their soulmates
        and the one they could call ‘mine’ —
eye to eye;
        golden weave of destiny
                   why would you wait so long
              to have them now
       be loved by the other when
                they have known, for so long, with such clarity –

canadian autumn magic

   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.

red ribbon overseas

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.

under branches so old

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 ..

Do not fall in love with a writer.

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.