Standing wild-violet-timid in careful shoes, I collapse into Monday.

My internal weather is spiky with low-level nausea. Brain fog, mind-cloudy at first, with a high chance of precipitation across the afternoon. Externally, the settling cold front will bring morning squalls before a high-pressure system arrives in the early evening.

Difficult to know what shoes are needed  
for this day, this time,

let alone what armour, masks, and steel
with this climate, this energy...

Hard to predict what will be stored in memory
by this mind, this brain...

This questionable,
yet seldom questioned,
recording of events,
from my flawed perspective only...

Should I attempt to trust myself today?
The answer neither clear nor confident
Instant reflex shoulder shrug
With gaze-avoiding fizzy nerves
A patent hint that I may be
    a trifle less than competent

What lens will shape my history today?
And will it light me kindly or in glare?
When my parts construct the story
Hope they break it to me gently
But I know that my track record
    not-so-subtle hints beware
  
If my brain detects a glimpse of faults or glimmers of malfeasance,
it will use these torts to make the case that I deserve all grievance
from a host of inner parties with a wavering allegiance
the impedance to agreeance is a tendence to vehemence, so

How will I use the playback from today?
I could use it well in kindness or in pain
With the re-runs stealing airtime
From productive contemplation
I could use it as more proof that
    I should not have trust again…

Tomorrow, I will wear my security boots, with stronghold socks.

Those days when you just can’t wait to go to bed.
Not to slump down onto it in yielding surrender
or fall into it in tears, face first and meat red,
but to gently pull back the pillowy quilt
and the sheets, with tiny blue flowers,
flannelette, like a fresh work shirt,
so that when you slide in carefully
and make your cave in the sheets
the hug is work-arm strong
and reminds you of soil
and wheelbarrows
and gardening
and building
in the sun
as it sets…
and rises…
open eyes
still hugged,
you stand lightly
then soft pad to warm,
dark, sweet, pitch-bitter
coffee, and lifting the mug,
you pause before the first sip
of bliss, flooding deep in waking
flavours from magic beans grown
in ancient Ethiopian forests, noticed
by folk when curious goats turned zestful,
becoming a helper for evening prayer, to allow
hard work and intentional presence to earn well
your tiredness, so that you just can’t wait to go to bed…

Put your burdens down, right here
Not forever, just for now

Let them know you hear their cries
See the blues under their eyes

Tell them there’s no need to fear
You’ll return to mop their brow

‘Til their tears are running clear


They’ll be waiting low, right here
Biding silent, softly weep

Strike a bargain, leave in trust
Then before they gather dust

Greet them as you reappear
Warm them gently in your keep

Carry kinder, hale and just


You have earned your journey pause
Try to graciously ignore

Any loud imagining
That you could be squandering

Chances that are there because
You are shrugging ache and sore

In your weighted wandering


It’s alright to take a break
Not forever, just for now

You are burden-carry strong
Muscles steel and journey long

Listen to your body ache
Needs a rest, if you allow

‘Til your steady ache is gone

my love, you wear silence like a coat
and i am left drifting like a far-out wave.
the wind tangles leaf and sky.
winter is barely noticed, the moon
is a ghost of forgotten flowers where
the night sings to the starry waters,
sings of our love. everything is sailing
like a ship in a bottle, a kaleidoscope  
of brightness, gothic hill and wildflower
ruin, flowing like a silvery stream.
do you dream of me? do you burn when
the night wraps you in her cloak and the moon
unwinds the waters of the seas?
do you dream of me?

A translucent bluish-white mineral with a mysterious sheen

I hear them rustling behind heaven's plisse,
fabric seersucker curtains, opaque but unlaced
One breath and suddenly
I am a teleported into being
letting go of faculties and senses;
I am a prayer, hanging on everlasting hope;
These precious substances of color and charm
both calm and confident, ignite the soul    
and usher you with peace, love, harmony.  
Filled with Goddess energy
they exude warm tones of luminescent, ephemeral light ;
Hold out your hand then close your eyes
soon you will get lost in their clairaudient
Moonstone Melodies;  
Yokiko reveries fill me like no other  
listen to the sound they make
Angels dressed in crinoline gowns,
swooshing and spreading light
everywhere...
Lost in their chime like sound of tinkling glass  
they are un-comparable,
A thousand stars of heaven could never compare
to these moonstone gems,
who seem to claim the heart bit by bit then,
all at once.

Copyright © Mystic Rose 2024

"Physical matter is music solidified" – Pythagoras

You stand there with that rose in your hair
singing that small song in a big big way
your voice cracks and you stare at the air
while everyone else is thinking, No Way !

You once were a mouse with no door
and your voice was a tiny whimper
Today you sing as if your life is much more
than a mere complicated existence, its much simpler

Your stand there with that rose all askew
thinking your a femme fatale, and by the way,
who asked you ?

your music starts and eight counts leave my mind the magic of artistry blends together as twelve individuals move as one months of preparation for a taste of euphoria passion exudes from every pointed toe as their bodies tell the stories of their hearts an honor to behold the wonders of a dancer's soul you run to the wings, overflowing with joy wishing us luck as we admire your performance our team embraces before entering the stage hands outstretched as our music starts

My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough

So many tears
that haven't been cried yet
So much laughter
that has not been laughed yet
So much life
That hasn't been lived yet

Still, it's not on us to choose
When the anchor will be cut loose

But if we happen to be lucky
We will have some provisions with us
for the journey into the unknown......

Our tears
Our laughter
and the love of the people
with whom we have shared all this.

( © Heike Borgard 2024)