Maybe in another space,
another time,
another place,
another silly rhyme
we would gently collide,
in a dance of serendipitous destiny and fate;
and all that the blessed heavens could cast in our way
Falling stars, like ethereal butterflies touching our lives without us even knowing,
with whispers of ‘meant to be’,
transforming the colours of life that we once took for granted

When the tired and crimson sun sets on another distant horizon,
know that chance and coincidence are sometimes pure and beautiful random happenings . . .
meant to give our lives an oh, so deeper meaning and understanding
but for the biggest part, they give us love
from a place that’s not so mysterious after all; the heart.

Mine whispered.
And yours answered.
But that 1 click ultimately took us on a long and still unforgettable journey home . . .

for Kel

~m

Time is like liquid,
an ephemeral step towards truth;
the marching forward of decades,
years,
months,
weeks,
days,
hours,
minutes
and finally seconds.
Sloppy seconds at best when you consider the moments that are totally wasted.
Time is like water,
dripping endlessly towards an endless sea of little to no meaning.
Or not.
3:13Am is no time to be kicking your legs off the covers.
Unless you can see the dials of the clock . . .

~m

I tend to go all indigo at this time of the year,
not for the laughs, and not for the seasonal tears,
I just go this funky shade of blue; no reason, no tears, no season, no fears . . . no.
And once again,
No.
It’s a seasonal dysfunction in need of correction,
a part of my life in need of direction,
in need of some indigo inflection and words that will never rhyme no matter what I do.
And I do.
Black. Obsidian. Shaft. Last.
Map of nowhere that I will ever be found.
It’s a yuletide cave of sorts; one that’s long, dark and godforsaken for seasonal reasons that will forever elude me.
Indigo . . .
is simply bluer than blue
Like Me.
Merry Me.
Merry, merry, me, where intricacies of the heart are a silent but beautiful holiday accident   . . .

~m

Deep inside this garden of souls lies the bones of a lifetime drowning in half-truths,
Of long and slowly forgotten days that were sadly beyond repair,
Of nights not unlike the darkest side of the moon

A few insignificant touches of the brush would be all that it took,
to make life go on as she thought that it should;
Unbroken and bright, the simple and small
while echoes of unwanted things filled the silent grey halls . . .

Of her Gothic cathedral, sadly visited by few, where three skeleton keys
were kept hidden from view
because life wasn’t meant to be that easy, and she kept it that way, anyway
maybe all the way

The tall stained-glass windows soaked with rays of the sun
kept the white light of truth from touching the soul of anyone, near or far,
it never really mattered
distance was never a fragile thing

Deep in this garden of souls lies the bones of my life, my blacks and my blues, and yes,
my oh-so-not-insignificant life
But you will know I was here by two things left behind
originally unwanted but in the sweet by and by
they would find . . .
You.
Somewhere
deep in Gethsemane
with two deep sunset roses nearby . . .

He was walking in the morning, Sunshine
a green and red pizza-sliced umbrella hung over his head
like a clown’s frown
He was neither here nor there but anywhere was better than his here and now

With a grey rag wool cap on his head and
a scratched up pair of $3.99 Aviator sunglasses covering his tired and muddy eyes,
he looked like some godforsaken Howard Hughes, waiting for Godot
But you wouldn’t know how he carried his world full of blue in a wrinkled leather satchel,
his personal box of rain that seemed almost attached to his hip

It was far from cool, this game, maybe this joke
kept his rarer than rare smiles in his bag, next to his smokes
because nothing made sense anymore, and it hadn’t for sometime
his box filled with rain, this life without rhyme
So one day He was walking in the evening sunshine
at least the sun don’t ever lie
and sometimes that just has to be enough
for a guy called Sunshine . . .

I close my eyes
trying to dream of something better than this
anything true, a slightly bruised honesty would do
Maybe it’s because nothing feels safe anymore

So I close my eyes
and dream of distant Norwegian lilies
of beautiful and colourful things, the slumbering truths of my past
Although nights of black rain are making it so hard to sleep

But I close my eyes
And dream of opening them to the tragedy of a bleeding truth;
that life is never quite what it appears to be
to these sad and sleepy eyes of mine
And that innocence can only be found caught between the teeth of angels . . .

Cumulonimbus, in purples and lavender greys
it’s heavy with rain . . .
it smells like rain, feels like pain,
but there’s little need to look back again
because it’s just more of the same
cutting it deep

Lightning rains from the heavens above,
the brilliant flashes of pure white light . . .
it illuminates all but the darkest and sacred of corners
in a room where the walls are ever-changing,
re-arranging the unfathomable fractures of the soul
sadly caught up in a crystalline hurricane

One thing is tragically clear,
a storm has settled over here,
as the clouds shift their gossamer form . . .
with a heart on the mend, tired of trying to bend
the soul looks for the eye of the storm
And maybe hope will rain
someday . . .

His shadow, embedded in ice
frozen in time,
Inescapable in ways unimaginable
with cold that numbs the very soul,
winterness

Night train, with no destination in sight
on the broken hands of time,
a window seat overlooking an arctic world
searching for signs of his life,
winterness

Eyes cry freezing rain
a polarized crystalline blue
with hopes of some homeward bound image
but it’s never safe from zero
winterness

michael’s on ice,
a seasonal flatline in black
like the snow-tipped mountains of forever
with a soul numbing wind of 1 below zero,
winterness

found this on the Jonathan Carroll website/blog.
written by 20th century German poet Rainer Maria von Rilke::

God Speaks to Each of Us

God speaks to each of us before we are,
Before he’s formed us then, in cloudy speech,
But only then, he speaks these words to each
And silently walks with us from the dark:

Driven by your senses, dare
To the edge of longing. Grow
Like a fire’s shadowcasting glare
Behind assembled things, so you can spread
Their shapes on me as clothes.
Don’t leave me bare.

Let it all happen to you: beauty and dread.
Simply go no feeling is too much
And only this way can we stay in touch.

Near here is the land
That they call Life.
You’ll know when you arrive
By how real it is.

Give me your hand.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

~going to try and get back to a state of blogging equilibrium here this week.
Life has been crazy. Thanks to all that have read and commented.
Much appreciated.
~m

Feels like invisible
no one can see me, but through me, never inside of me
a social quarantine, so absurd, so undeserved; a sucker punch to my internal notion of bravado
it’s the sudden realization of the parallel lines in my life that make it so
invisible . . .

Feels like invisible
not wanting the outside in, the vast shores of my life littered with too many complex intangibles,
opaque panes of cracking glass concealing inadequate truths, bruised skies of lies and the tattered directions to a place Google will never find, written on a discarded paper napkin,
the raindrops fall, rendering the Zhivago ink
invisible . . .

Feels like invisible
wounds, mainly self-inflicted; the worst and the thin, slicing kind
(they never heal and don’t bleed)
you’ll never see them, hemorrhaging my insides
but there’s a mirror in my mind, foggy and grey
and I reach out my hand and with my thumb, I slowly trace the letters:
i-n-v-i-s-i-b-l-e . . .
a shattered mosaic of my face stares back from deep within the dripping script;
the parallel lines of life and light making me a virtual prisoner, a blurred stranger in my own midst

Feels like invisible,
but not like everyday, but maybe for today,
it feels just like I do
invisible