You strum the strings of my heart with your fingers' gentle touch.
You change the sound of my melody with the firmness of your clutch.
You tune the sadness out of my soul.
You fill me with your rock n' roll.

Please, Oh please don't strum too hard
Or else you'll leave me marred.
For I only have these set of strings
To make my love for you sing.  

Dear player of mine,
Don't be fooled by the shininess of my pine.
My strings have reached their peak,
I am not the guitar your talent should seek.

A jaded history haunts unconsciously.
Fragmented regrets surface to this state of mind,
unhealthily.

But then you overcome me.
you blow my balloon up with relentless joy till it pops
and I can’t even function.

The wetness refuses to halt its rage against my heart’s window.
Though, this is irrelevancy.
My state of faith, so sealed as an envelope.

~

I am so sealed as an envelope.
With the good will in my heart, encompassing,
and the good name on my tongue, spreading
I can do no wrong.

You set the seal there.
You sent it here.
The envelope contains this undeniable love.
But it is not restrained.
No.
It permeates it, through and through
till the oil is spread all about the table,
and drips off the sides, anointing.

The seal sets in the Spirit.
I can do no wrong.
I am not under the law, bound by shackles,
but rather your agape
makes it bubble.

~

The story turns the dial.
The resonance heats the burner.
And your love boils.
The humble ***,
who attempts to brag in her shininess,
is but a homely utensil.

Though ***, need you not be perfect.
There are none now without dents.
They are still usable, still loved.

You see, when the water boils, the metal melts.
In another realm, it is liquid.
Chunks of dirt, bits of dust
swim up to breathe.
And breathe they will,
but it will be their last breath,
at the hand of the sweaty hand,
at the hand of the author.

~

For this story to unfold,
to send the fragments to the ocean floor,
to inflate the balloon,
the ***
acknowledges its dents,
knows the seal is the wormhole to the forge,
submits to the blacksmith, and
doesn't refuse the heat.

And then the *** so pure
becomes one with the oil, seal, and blacksmith.

The world is filled with little moments of magic,
that sparkle and glimmer
even in this dark dark world.
Magic comes in all sorts of forms,
from big to small,
from black to white,
from light to dark,
from chocolate to oranges,
from comparisons that make no sense,
to poems about someone you love.
The magic is everywhere.
There's magic in those dazzling winter days,
where snow coats every tree and rooftop,
and it feels like the snowflakes are just for you.
There's magic in hugs and love and bright smiles.
It's in sweet messages and cat memes.
There's magic in cuddling and pretty girls.
There's magic in space, where the galaxies and planets
find a way to make you stare in wonder.
Magic finds it's way into pretty flowers
that just burst with color.
There's magic in the impressive shininess of stars,
and in friends that tease you when you're blushing.
So look deeper into happiness,
because you'll find little moments of magic as you do,
like a heart flutter or a giant smile
that you'll never forget.

the blackness of our skies
shininess of our stars
wild cold death

Happiness can’t be found
It must be made
Prosper in some way

Happiness can’t be found
In wishing
Or wondering

Happiness can’t be found
In metal objects
Their own shininess doesn’t compel me

Happiness can’t be found
In a dark shower
The rain dripping off of my forehead
Stinging my eyes

Happiness can’t be found
In late night stands
And old band sets

Happiness must be made
In nightly sing-a -longs with old friends near a fireplace
In warm dark showers with music echoing in the background
In crying over something that won’t matter in the end
In finishing what you set out to do

Only you can make your happiness.

When I look at you
I see a (im)perfect thing.
Always with(out) smile on your face.
Soul(less), full of emotions and will to feel.

Shininess of your hair, sparks in your eyes.
Young body trapped in even younger mind.
You want to see the world (from below).

You have so much to (not) live for.
(What are we waiting for, let´s run
into a field of eternal suns.
Where light shines slower
and words are not so strong.)

"SPEAK MEMORY!"

"Mów!"
commands the cat

in Polish
seeing that

it is
a Polish cat.

"Je. . . ne. . .ige!"
chants the snow

falling in French
seeing that it is

snowing
in France.

"Sneachta...sneacthta..sneachta!"
the child cries

watching her first snow
falling 50 years ago

in her Irish childhood
that is always happening.

This moment is like
a moment in a movie

with subtitles
underneath

so the cat the snow
and the child

can all understand
what each is saying.

The words "Speak!" "I. . . sn. . .ow!"
"Snow...snow....snow!"

blown away now
by a gust of the past.

Only the language of memory
sees them as they were.

*

She was Irish living in France and had got her cat in Poland hence the mix of languages that go to make up the matrix of her world. She would always command her cat to speak( "Mów!" in Polish )and the cat would answer her in what she could only assume in cat Polish! Sneachta of course is the Irish for snow and I don;t know if there is a French verb for " snow!" but I thought...ahhh well...there ya go!

She was reading Montaigne and fell asleep and entered her Irish childhood. She had been telling me abut Montaigne and his cat and his essay on...thumbs! In her youth she had touched the toes of his statue for luck thus contributing to their shininess.

“When I play with my cat,” wrote French philosopher and essayist, Michel de Montaigne, “Who knows whether she is not amusing herself with me more than I with her.*”