living truth

“Living in the modern age, death for virtue is the wage, so it seems in darkest hours, evil wins, kindness cowers.” ~ Dean Koontz, The Counted Book of Sorrows ~

the roots are sealed and whole,
the seeds have been sowed
here in lies the truth,
here in lies the soul
of those once lived to this time
of those once lived to this treasure
whimpering in displeasure
as one seems as light as a feather
from wandering into depths untold
visions held, less than bold
triumphs of the day
forever gone astray
to be gazed upon
another day
when the world seems less bold
when the lines of shading hold fast
when the seams of the fabric of time linger past
the hour of deception stays
with this ever present of days
towards the final hour
of the night
where life is found to be too bright
and all one wants to do is stay beneath
that ever wandering light

(as a random side note: this quote appears beneath my high school senior portrait)

church and faith

You ask me
where my faith is?
You ask me
where is my church?
Do you have time
to take a walk with me?
Do you have time
to take a moment away ?
It is here,
upon the mountains
where time sits still
and the light wanders
through the trees,
cascading within their brilliance
and their love of dawn’s first light.

This is where you will find me,
this is where I belong,
sitting among the roots of the tree,
listening to their song.

chicken tales

Once upon a time there were three little chickens. I don’t know what their names were cuz in those days chickens didn’t have names, but they always knew one from the other, as was the ways of chickens.

The first chicken did what a chicken was supposed to do. She ate the grain that was given to her and she laid the eggs that were expected of her and she died as in the proper way that was known, which is to say the farmer took the ax to her head and then when she was dead, she thought to herself it was a good life and death is fine for me.

The second chicken did the same as the first but she always felt that there was more to life than the grain and pebbles at her feet, and so when she died, she was not happy, but having no notion of what more there was, she spent her evenings haunting the farmer and his wife for many years. A clucking could be heard just round the corner but when they went to see where the chicken was she was nowhere to be seen.

The third chicken was an exceptional chicken. She would not eat the grain that was laid at her feet, but rather, she walked out into the fields to pull juicy worms from the ground and scratched only at the dirt that lay beneath the grasses felt between her claws. When the farmer came towards her with the ax she ran about the yard making quite the racket and ruffled many a feather with her squawking and gawking about. She was in such a tizzy that the farmer chose to leave her for last, but by then he was tired and not wanting to chase after such a feather duster, and so she lived out her days in the farmer’s far off fields pecking away at the dirt and feeling the grass between her toes.

holding trees

i held space
with the trees today
with the grass covered rocks
the winds of change
blowing freely over
the top of this mountain
through the branches
playing with the leaves of time
swirling and twirling around me

i held space
with the trees today
wondered why
it had taken me
this long to come home

techno plagues

i am being neurotic
not supersonic
my mind is going bubonic
perhaps i could use a gin and tonic?

sadly, there is only meade
or homemade elderberry wine
and given the time
it does seem prudent
lest there be rudimentary logic

that now is not the best time
nor would it be the best rhyme
to begin such meanderings
as can be held within
pedantics of extreme precision
and divine feats of grandeur
lest we slander
those most tender thoughts
in which we have engendered
once forgotten
and now remembered

for another day
for another year
for another time
for another place
for another rhyme
for another reason
for another season

of regret
to whom we shall fret
over semantics
that can only be the result
of panic gone bubonic
not supersonic

the 11th year

It is the eve of my 11^th year wedding anniversary and I think it’s possible we are coming full circle, or if not a circle, than an ever expanding spiral. I am awake as everyone else sleeps, waiting for my sister to arrive. She needed an emergency place to crash for the night, as she did the night before my husband and I were married.

The difference between tonight and the night then is that I do not have to write any vows, although since she’ll be here soon I do feel the need to rush, if only just to finish this before she’s here.

There are probably more oddities and vagaries that can be said about this evening. Suddenly, inexplicably finding myself working on a Thursday night, rather than in writing workshop is probably one of them. As is the notion of getting two tattoos next week, but since those things are not dependent on our wedding, I suppose they do not matter as much.

eve of 34

It is the eve of my 34^th birthday and for the first time ever I am sitting exactly where I expected to be, in the darkness, typing away at my computer as my children and husband sleep peacefully in their beds. My cat is outside somewhere, prowling, or cowering, against the sounds of the wild night, and I am here, awoken after a very short spurt of sleep, and honestly, I should have known this would happen since I was composing an email to a beloved friend moment’s before I fell into sleep’s arms. Yet, I tried to stay away from the inevitable, I tried to be still and rest, but some things, like nightly excursions of typing, cannot be held in check before your day is done, and the oblivion of sleep is allowed to completely take over your consciousness.