The bardess looks at the skies as colored deep lavender with the doves whiter than the angels wings gliding by the breeze, the eclipse of a woman's soul is now unconcealed for the higher art of all things, she feels the tension, fall, and rise of the stories of now and the ones yet to be written, searching for  messages and meanings that are as pieces of magic lingering as lighthouses in  the shades of her.

if you ask me
what i love,
i could give you a long list
of who and what.

but in my top three
would be clouds.

and im sure by now
if you've gotten this far..
you've asked yourself
or the device you're reading this on --
why?
why does this
random user like clouds?

give me a moment,
ill tell you in a few sentences..


it's because they tell stories.

their shapes
and stories are aphonic.
they speak to you
but not really.

that's why i love them.

you don't
know
what is "said"
but you also
know
what is "said"
at the same time.
which is such
an odd out of body
experience.

if that makes any sense
to a sane person.

i anticipate a life long enough to see
the gentle withering of
my face in the mirror;
skin turning papery and thin,
hair flowing, silver silk—
for each wrinkle to hold a memory,
my body bowing to gravity, awaiting
peace with the earth.
this will be my prime
when i’ve loved fully,
lived kindly,
when i sing wisdom from my heart, and
my body is soft, delicate,
          just right for long hugs,
when my home is warm and full of tenderness
and swells with the laughter of the family i’ve collected
along the way—
mellow evenings around the hearth
reminiscing,
sweet cakes and tea—
love and softness—
days and days of stories unraveling like string
and weaving back together into the tapestry
of my life

Where the white land is green and young
but the songs still mourn

for generations gone
in the mists of waiting

on the mountains across
where life is hard and old

where the fireplaces always burn
marmots raise their noses

by the elderly sitting there
picnicking and painting

the creeping broom and the round table
beyond the camomile fields

on the mound behind the heather walls
and the fern hedges in the narrowdale

that still are waving there on the helmets
of drowned iron soldiers

I muse about life and I eat
chocolate at the camel river

Today no mists on the hill
where once stood the Lion Fort

there was nowhere
in particular
that i had to be
or any real reason
for me to be
where i'd ended up
i had been wandering
most of the day
seeing the sights
but mostly trying
to see the city
in its truest

and so found myself
amidst the bustle
of little market stalls
lining either side
of the path leading
to the centre of
a neighbourhood park
i had wanted a coffee
and was ready to
continue my march
towards a flat-white
but urged myself
to rest my feet
to pause for awhile
and enjoy the theatre
of these unconnected lives
unwittingly intertwined;

the young couple
bartering at a stall
while the elderly pair
laughed in pantomime
as the girl passed by
struggling to control
her overexcited pup
sat there watching
i too had a role
playing a part
in their lives
that i would
never know

On the corner of your pages
I'll leave not my name
Nor my wretched face,
But a word of thanks

You let me read your stories
Shared to me your worries;
I somehow became part
Of your wonderful art

I would be greatly honored
If you saw my crooked words
And remember those times
That once our pages aligned—

Where laughters are easy to find
So did our cries and whines.

Someday the clouds will break

Smoke in the sunset
Something like a blinding haze

Surely it means nothing to me
Sinking slowly to my soul
Steeping in the rough cut end of things

Reaching for Gloria.

the unlimited stories
unfold slowly,
words floating in
little minds
already worried about
too much.

we were read stories
as a kid,
too many --
umlimited.

some stick,
some don't.

so let the stories unfold
and take in the words,
let them float around your head awhile.

don't think about the story
too seriously --
just imagine.
let it sit for some time.