I am an idea.
A mountain of thought, atop which
a peak glistens
afar, in the light
of the ever-rising, ever-setting sun
You would think I was royalty--
King of the Mountains
and a kingdom of rich valleys in my midst
But that is an idea,
and I, no more than that.
Realized, I am a river, running
from the King's lonely heart
Twisting away from him
Through and into distant lands, until
Then, I am not.
For there, is naught.
In your world there are magnetic lines that draw your needle North. Polaris and the Great Bear guide you home from clear moonlit skies, so that you may stumble into your hearth at night. I was told that in my heart was a compass rose, with a needle like yours, pointed and true. But my directions are undifferentiated. Ursa hides behind dark clouds and the magnetosphere is interrupted by the fiercest of solar winds. The needle fights to find North caught in an endless loop. The way home is unknown. But somewhere I know you are waiting for me to arrive, for the storms to pass. You would wait a thousand years. And though my compass is broken, I am reaching out my arms to find my way through the brush. And someday I will find you.
He walks through the forest
following the horizon, hurrying towards it
though it remains, always in the distance
his eyes are glazed with sadness
even in darkness where he thrives
they miss nothing
not the sparrows or the doves
that he has paused to admire along the way
nor the coyote
who watches him at night, keeping his distance
he is accustomed to the sounds of the forest
he has learned them
as he has learned the paths
carved by those who walked before him
fueled by his certainty, he is in motion.
he was in motion.
once there was a flutter of wings
and a flash of color
sudden and vivid, unexpected.
it came from deep in the trees
and then, a sound.
it was a most beautiful song
the song of a gentle creature
but he turned away
he had always kept the depths of the forest at bay
he feared it.
yet he could not escape her song
her music filled the forest now
and he stopped.
this was no ordinary bird
he must find her
for the first time he left the path
into the trees,
into absolute darkness
he tried to turn back.
it wasn't the right time
the horizon seemed so close.
but he was lost.
the creature's song became closer
sweeter, more enchanting
it was her.
it was the one.
she came into view at last
with feathers of pink and blue
the loveliest shades.
they were long at the tail
seated with the most innocent eyes
yet there was an unspoken strength about her
it was threatening to him
he had not encountered such a duality
"come, little bird" he said
and she came gladly
she perched upon his shoulder, chirping happily
then she flew,
one tree to the next
and he followed her
to worlds unknown.
she showed him waterfalls
and calm pools.
beautiful stones and flowers.
all the wonders of the forest.
a world of fantasy and timelessness
she was certainly the one.
he was sure of it.
he pulled out a pouch from his breast pocket.
he had always carried it
was always waiting.
it contained the finest, most delicious seeds
and he fed them to her
she grew to eat nothing else.
though she flew to him each day, he worried.
what if she flies away and never returns?
it was unbearable.
it was what kept him away all these years.
from his pack he pulled out a cage.
it was well fashioned and intricate
he filled it with his seeds.
when she flew to him, he placed her inside
she was hungry and did not resist.
though he kept feeding her, she grew to be sad.
she missed the forest
he talked of keeping her forever
and her heart began to die.
he felt her fear
and he feared losing her.
"If you would just let me fly amongst the trees once more, I will always visit you, everyday forever"
he could not understand.
his sharpness collapsed under his fear
one day the bird no longer pleaded.
she no longer looked upon him with the same gentle eyes.
she lost her appetite for his wicked seeds
and did not hunger for them anymore.
she unleashed her strength upon the foul cage
and burst from it
how could a creature such as him find a place in the forest?
she flew away
and no longer sang, but wept quietly in the highest of trees.
down below, he wept too
but he grew angry with her.
he hated her.
she had wronged him, she left.
but he would never forget her song.
Light fell in love with Dark,
then he was no more
She tried to touch him softly,
her rays cascading upon the floor
But every time she reached for him,
she found she was alone
And only through the distance,
could dark, her love, be known.
Dark fell in love with Light,
for things unknown only she could see
He longed for her evermore,
but where she was he could not be
Every time she reached for him,
there was naught he could do but to retreat
And in his blind loneliness mourn,
that light, his love, he could never meet.
Each day, as the sun awakens, the painter prepares a delicate tea. A white peach blend. So subtle is the taste, yet the calm that follows, so immense. Alone, on an old floor pillow she smiles. A smile of tea, of happiness, of sunlight. It coexists beautifully with the calm of her eyes. Her lids rest gently on their lower counterpart, there on their own accord. Not a single muscle is tensed. Aged silver strands flow from her head and rest on her breasts, yet it is only the color that's been tainted. Still as soft as a child's hair, it shines. The teapot, an old friend, sits beside her on a stout wooden table. He appears to be ancient, perhaps Japanese. Sometimes she smiles a teapot smile, glancing over at him, acknowledging his years of service. Almost as old, slight wrinkles have formed in her face, and crows' feet beside her eyes. Not distortion from mistreatment, rather small folds of time and wisdom. Perhaps an hour later, when the sun has warmed her face, strong arms, and legs, and the teapot has tipped out his last drop, she rises. An easel stands in the center of the room bearing a canvas, which reflects sunlight in rays unseen before submitting itself to a life of color, of bottles. That is the destiny of each canvas ever to sit upon this particular easel, for the room is decorated with bottles- ornaments of the ceiling. There are no walls, only windows. Large panes of glass that have withstood years of the sun's entry. From the ceiling and hooks dug into the slices of wood between the window panes, dangle an eclectic collection of bottles. Hung from different heights. Different colors. Different shapes. Translucent pastel blues and greens, light purples, dark navys, rosey pinks and the like. Together they look so strange, so beautiful, hanging from the ceiling as such. An odd concept indeed, but a sight to behold. Even more so is the light that refracts from within them casting colorful stripes and dots on the floor, never ceasing to dance til the sun goes to sleep. As the woman rises, she walks to the blank canvas. Closing her eyes for a moment, she goes within and asks to be shown her composition. Almost like a compass, her body points her to the north star of the day. Green eyes wander upwards and lock the view. Sometimes they choose a single bottle, sometimes a few, sometimes a whole landscape. Suddenly the painter takes on a sharp concentration, noting the curves, the diameter of the lip, the shades of color that make the bottle appear translucent. One day it might be an exact copy. Perhaps the bottle is what it is and is beautiful that way. But sometimes the bottle's essence is not in what is seen, but the images they incite in the painters mind. A rosey pink bottle looks rather delicate and cute, but the essence of some is darker, curvier, more violent. Or a light orange bottle might be begging to be complemented with shadows of blue. Whatever image comes to mind, whatever way the universe has wished her to paint what is before her, she takes her time. Just as she does with her tea. There is no rush. The sun's visit is long. For hours she will stand and paint until the vision is at last complete. Stepping back, she observes what she has done, looking upon it with new eyes, until she understands it and smiles once again. A smile of paint.
Someone wrote a biography of a man. Said he liked to write poetry and spend time in nature. But there are many things its readers will never know about. The streams of thought, the analysis, confusion, the Sadness, sprinkles of joy, the Transcension. A strange man he was..sweetly strange, but strangely bitter. At odds with the halves of himself..or perhaps thirds. But who will know? Someone wrote a biography of a man, but didn't say he was crazy. Or that he had a sharp mathematical mind and tried to add up the components of life to find it wasn't an equation in the first place. It was omitted that he was not merely a man, but of some other kind, often missing his home and his people, though he didn't know who they were. They didn't say when he became deaf, that he still played his favorite songs because he could feel them all the same and see them in colors. And no one knew that he refused to write in pen, but pencil only because one day his work would be rubbed away by the sands of time, just like his body. Someone wrote a biography of a man, but there was no account of what he did on a beautiful day, like the time he sat by a stream pondering his life and rewrote the biography of a man.