These feet trodden benumbed
enslaved by the weight of the load
loamy earth no longer soft , supple , forgiving of cold tender feet
the pang of crystalline frost heaves beneath winter moss
as if walking barefoot on frigid rocky ground
each step taken in effort to draw nearer ,
apportion the distance between a place once so close ,
and yet ,
now the distance appears so wide
the gravity of the metaphysical makes me weak in the knees
and I drop down and kiss the wintry ground
knowing all my cares lie frozen far below ...
the scent of burning sage
sweetgrass permeates the chill ,
smoke rising like mist into the mystic
a healing smudge carefully brushed with reverence ,
an abounding LOVE cleansing in this earth ,
the atmosphere stirs
I feel the muted words' silence emanating in the air
... knowing I’m not a stranger in the hands of the maker
Do not let them see
The jagged pieces you hold
For blood might scare 'em
Sometimes it's too much
For a broken heart to be
Seen all tattered up.
Do not let them see
Your blood shot drained of tears eyes
For loss might scare 'em
Sometimes it's too much
For the rivers to be seen
Drained of love and soul.
A dark river
The treacherous rapids,
and stretches of gentle water,
that never last.
Even the river ends,
spilling out into a lake
or an ocean,
or even another river.
Some rivers are underground.
Those are the darkest rivers,
one hopes they can cross when the time comes.
But from this position,
on top of a small pile of rocks,
in the gentle stretch of the river,
there are rapids ahead,
another battle to be fought.
But beyond the churning water,
is this mist.
it's so beautiful,
it feels safe,
but it's unknown.
And if the battle is won,
i'll be lost in that sparkling mist,
that hides all shadows.
When the sun rises
and the mist fades away,
will I fade as well?
Or, when the mist fades
will it clear my vision?
But I have to leave my island
and fight those dark, churning waters
Then I'll know for sure.
The Sun's not shining today
Winter casted clouds aren't allowing any light
To warm up a standing dead
Not quite as graceful as I remember it,
Back in the days when I used to hunt rabbits
With my father just to spend time with him;
We'd forgotten our guns at home on every occasion
But it falls,
Under an overcast sky
Tantalizing to the touch
Tactile, white and intricate
Full of holiday, youth and spirit
A reminder now;
Cold, fragile, weak and
Not quite as graceful as before
A perfect metaphor
For what my life has become
I have a friend in Rapid who I haven't seen
In months less than it feels
We used to build tree forts
Bridges across rivers
We used to pretend we had tremendous powers
To control the weather, earth and fire
What I'd do to have them back
Toy story was our favorite
We'd watch it every night
Later on even re-enacting it
I haven't seen him in such a long time
Maybe a foot of snow by now
It's largely all my fault
It's because I'm not sure how
I can explain to him that over the course of a few years,
He's since aged to a happy 15 and I've,
I've somehow hit my mid-life crisis
In the same time period
How does someone to from a vibrant young youth
From 15 to 54?
I'm not sure
And I don't bother with explaining
So I never said goodbye,
I couldn't face him now
"Where have you been?"
I've been attending an on-going funeral
My innocence was found hanging from a tree
I won't tell him that it was found hanging in one of our old forts
He'd go out and look for it
Make an adventure back to when we had tremendous power
I can't have that
I'd break down and cry
I'd become angry knowing I died so early
With so much in my hands
I'd hang myself coming face to face with what I lost;
Be a Doll could you,
Be sure to classify it as a murder will you?
old souls cast aside by immature thoughts
encrypted speech, hide passion
that blood flow? runs too red
common is not plagued locus or antibody rivers...
there are no makeshifters! when collectiveness is used wrong
the world of the majority supersedes that of any other
we are a mob.
without tommy guns...we run the streets, bat and knife
utensiled to our palms.
never breaking knees for payment--or dumping bodies in mucked water
but hunting down that which is corrupt
that which needs change
because what we consider loose?
is not the only thing that should be contained
She appeared first in a dream
when I was fifteen. Yes,
this was the fire of ecstasy and those first licks
set my world aflame.
She's a shape-shifter, sometimes
blonde, sometimes dark,
but always softly naked when she comes.
She often whispers secrets
in the molten nights.
But when morning breaks,
and I'm alone,
I struggle to remember.
So I search the cities,
the far off mists and mountains
and the subterranean rivers
every writhing, glistening day.
But it won’t surprise you to know
that where I mostly go to find her now
is under the volcano,
the place of endless fire.
It's where us dreamers and the demons
dance with our desire.
Mike T Minehan
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and dirty dishes,
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
waiting to be caught, just as long
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such lines from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.
stirring tantalizingly ...
blowin' the winds
pinot noir horizons
bordeaux swirling dusk
burgundy starlit twilight
A toast to a spectacular setting sun in freezing temperatures this eve...
...and there is a pink moon so the 2 minute song , Pink Moon , by the late Nick Drake
Sometimes I forget that you
cannot absorb as much
as you like to say you can.
I forget that you are human, and not more,
not the impassive statue that you
would like to be.
I have seen you
in your weak points and I
have helped you through
some bad days and I
your true form.
Forgive me, I
am so full of words tonight that
I overflowed and nearly
drowned you, even as you stood
ready to try and help me safely swim
the dangerous currents
of my own disintegrating being.
Forgive me, I
would mop up these streams and
plug up these holes and even
divert rivers in the tradition of Heracles
to clean out the accumulated grunge
of everything I have dumped on you.
I would let my mind
stop burbling and my words run dry
if only you will