Monday, April 30, 2018
Gazing spellbound at a lavender sky,
As webs of stars knit from fiery skein,
Traced golden contrails of a firefly.
An azure forest was marching abreast,
In time with a thunderstorm's hue and cry;
Whilst a purple raven paced long, hard pressed
To shrewdly determine a reason why.
I shielded my eyes from the bluish sun,
Left the talking raven to chat alone...
I returned to where my dream had begun,
To walk once again into the unknown:
Climb a crystal bridge o'er a starry stream,
And follow that span to another dream.
We can travel anywhere in the universe...in our dreams.
Posted by Mick at 10:38 PM
Monday, April 23, 2018
Brightly shines in the first light of the dawn;
Until golden sun burns silver to brass,
And to liquid diamonds on verdant lawn.
A radiant river of morning light,
Flows over rooftops and falls to the soil,
Chasing dark shadows with rapids so bright,
The glittering eddies dance with turmoil.
I long to swim in the River Starshine,
To bathe in effulgent, radiant peace;
To drink of the flashing torrent divine,
Liquid aurora of gold and cerise.
But I must remain in the dusky shade,
To watch from the banks, alone and afraid.
I applaud the wonderful sunshine glowing outside, around our house and across the Keweenaw. Yet, once again, I am reminded by a skin cancer scar, that it’s not for me.
Posted by Mick at 8:56 PM
Monday, April 09, 2018
A lilting call of a nightbird unseen,
Echoes down hallways of cold Travertine,
Shocking out dust from ancient shelves behind.
Then stirring motes in air chill, still, and stale,
From alien statues tall and cold and pale,
And teasing flames of candles a'dancing.
The twilight veil is pierced afresh -- as Thought --
Afoot on slippers cracked from long disuse,
Wobbly, wizened, and wickedly obtuse,
Shuffles, stumbling from dark stacks all dusty,
Jouncing old tomes both mildewed and musty,
To blink rheumy eyes in the light gone fusty,
The source of the nightbird's call a’chancing
Thought is a codger abroad in my house.
He wanders the library halls alone,
And mutters -- his voice like cracking stone --
Talking to himself, just to gripe and grouse.
He once was quick, but crawls instead,
As though his battery was too dead,
To power this late nightbird romancing.
A nightbird’s strange call was heard once again,
Its echo alive in the dormant stacks,
Pulling old Thought from his ancient tracks,
Wincing and whining as though in great pain.
Suddenly, past him the nightbird did fly,
He followed its flight into the night sky,
Sending a new Thought skipping and prancing.
It has been said that to know your own mind, you must spend time there. In my dreams I visit the grand library in my own mind. Since the chemo, it seems I've been more visitor than patron...
Posted by Mick at 2:04 PM
Sunday, April 08, 2018
Brightest noise in the silence of the night?
What power can make it travel around,
Pushing air in waves over noiseless ground;
Reflecting, refracting, audible light:
Mirrored for ears with auricular sight,
Blinded by stillness dark, voiceless, profound...
Or speak a word, to a raucous abyss
So loud, it creates a silence intense
Enough to cover anything remiss;
Swallowing howls of self-important bliss,
And the constant drumming of common sense.
Does an echo have any real defense,
Or dissipate fast as an angel’s kiss?
When I speak these days, I feel like an echo from the past, lost in the silence of weary ears.
Posted by Mick at 9:41 PM