Friday, February 21, 2020
From crimson shoes to red hair on his head.
He ate tomatoes, sliced very fine,
And drank only semi-dry, dark-red wine.
One day, on the border with the world of blue,
A cerulean maiden was tying her shoe.
Her azure dress caught his roving eye,
For it matched the color of her world's sky.
His bloodshot eyes met hers -- deep blue...
And in that instant, they both knew
They'd struggle to find a secret place,
For their purple passion's fond embrace.
But there wasn't any place to hide;
So they straddled the border, half on each side.
Their romance glowed with rainbow hues,
And soon they shared some gladsome news.
They loudly called to all with grins,
"We're pregnant, with a set of twins!"
Their offspring were a startling sight:
For one was black and one was white...
Each day they searched again, anew,
For harmony in spite of hue,
And lived a lesson for me and you:
They're family - black, red, white, and blue.
I found this poem, unfinished, from March 2008. I liked its message and finished it this morning.
Posted by Mick at 12:58 PM
Thursday, February 20, 2020
Exist, and share the magic of their tales;
That simple stories, told with passion, will
Prove that imagination still prevails
Against the darkness of our modern age --
A separation by technology,
From wonders shared upon the printed page,
From truths captured in words for all to see;
That riches based on privilege and gold,
Are mirrored shadows shining brilliantly,
But truest riches can't be bought or sold --
A precious gift from friends and family;
That no one can survive alone, apart,
And magic's true source is the human heart.
I discovered this poem buried on an old thumb drive, probably written in the wee hours of the morning and forgotten the next day. It seems somehow appropriate now. We need some magic.
Posted by Mick at 9:07 PM
Saturday, February 15, 2020
The me I am is prone to give me pause,
To stand apart, to see what I can see:
Am I "cause célèbre" or Santa Claus?
My memories have mirrors full of smoke;
My mental movies flicker and demur.
A dagger of the mind I can't uncloak:
The life I used to live has grown obscure.
Don't get me wrong, I love that I still live,
That I still have a story to be told,
That I still have a gift or two to give.
The me I am is something to behold!
I love that I'm still here and I am me,
Yet, still I grieve for me that used to be.
Although I still struggle and fight to remain alive and adapt to my new life, I suppose it's just human nature to still grieve a little for the way I used to be.
Posted by Mick at 11:59 PM
Monday, February 03, 2020
I sometimes wonder what I’d hear,
If the hissing wind stopped blowing.
If voices whispering in my ear,
Went silent -- silently going.
What would the sound of no sound be?
Like darkness in the blackest night?
Or is it soft, dark, real to me,
Like blackest earth in deep twilight?
Just once in church’s nave to pray,
And sense the angels listening,
While multicolored light of day,
Reveals my eyes are glistening.
To offer love and silent prayer,
In plaintive voice of mind and soul,
And hear their passage through the air,
As upward they soar toward their goal.
And then, to quiet heart and mind,
Let stillness bring peace and accord;
To listen for the subtle wind,
The silent whisper of the Lord.
I’ve never known the sound of silence because of the windless wind in my ears.
Posted by Mick at 1:20 PM