Listen to the Walls Where Stories Talk Sunlight whispers in eaves, hugged by leaves. Wrapped in green. Skylarks whistle to their Juliets. Who walk with eyes turned high, upon the blue sky. In this place, stars echo and stay in cotton shapes on blue paint. They swirl down the wave of tree top hands. Sunlight …
Google that Thing
It is a truth universally acknowledged that Google can be a light in the dark. Or is it? Don’t know the answer? Google that thing. Sitting down on the curb, on the park bench, the bus stop. Phone out. Phone ready. Just in case. Always. A thought passes through. Passes by as the cars zip …
The Lighthouse
Above the clouds, with the stars, sits a lighthouse full of books which wrap around the winding staircase until the tower’s peak hits the ceiling of the universe.
At this peak is a light which shines through a window. A long trail of gold which glitters brighter than any pot at a rainbow’s end. Those are just illusions you know. But this light, this light is real.
When you look out your window, in the corner of your house, or glance at the lamp at the end of the street, that light you see, flashing from the edge of your eye, that is the trail which tracks from every planet in every galaxy, right back to the small window at the peak of the lighthouse.
So when you greet the new year, the new day, the new hour, look up above the clouds, with the stars. You might just spot the lighthouse.
Lyric Poem: Far Below A Whispered Moon We Seek
A Lyric Idea
A lyric poem written in celebration of stories. The image which inspired this piece came together thanks to various images from creative commons of flickr.
I value that which I can create with my own two hands, so this is a rare piece. However, I sometimes find as much value in creating new images or stories from pieces of others. A remix of sorts.
In this, I refer to both literal stories and visual stories, told as oral tales in ancient days or photographed and formed by people today.
To the power of the story!
Far Below A Whispered Moon We Seek
Far in the misted west, lingering in the deep of the moon, hear the call of the white wolves, whispering to the loons.
Long ago and past the fields, full of thundering deer, sits the silverwood in faerie song that echoes across a lake’s mirror.
If you hear the voice of adventure, don’t forget your hat. Wear it high and proud in sun song, but when the rain storms down, beware the thundercat.
Listen to the wind as it circles empty branches, a herald to the snow that comes, crashing a wave of avalanches.
In the deep night of spring, ‘round circles of stone, hear the call of the folk, it speaks to the stories in every bone.
ARR~Moony
You Will Be Queen When Nine Geese Fly: A Mythical Poem
You will be queen when geese fly Six in a row across moonlit ladder to sky. You will be queen when dust on the wind Wanders from sun lit shards to its constellation kin. You will be queen when clouds roll back In a tell of the truth over fact. You were meant to be …
This Dream of Ours Shines Fireflies: A Poem for Wanderers
This dream of ours sits on the water
buoyed by a flame of fireflies.
They dance on the edge of vision
before fading into the arms of the moon.
This dream of ours lives in legs of wood
framed in firelight. Making dawn out of darkness.
It feels smooth in a fist of hope at the edge of the lake
where we stand. Ready to walk the waves
and rise with the fireflies.
Into starlight, beyond thought.
This dream of ours. It breathes
sparks of fire light and flies into a sky.
That we touch with every hand which grasps wood
and walks on, into this dream of ours.
Muse: Upon the Mighty Quest for the Perfect Pool
Background
On the eve of my adventure to the UK for two years I went down to the dock below the house I grew up in. It fronts onto Kalamalka Lake in Vernon, British Columbia.
It’s a popular spot for tourists all over the world, but to me, it was dry, dull home. I rarely go down to that beach and that twilight. But as I sat on the dock and looked over the water, to all the mountains rising above the valley, I realised life is only as perfect as we decide to see it.
The Mighty Quest for the Perfect Pool
I made myself a swimming pool.
Long and deep as the sea.
I made it warm as bathwater
but as clear as the waves of Tenerife.
I made it for an afternoon
when life got long, grey and rough.
Like sandpaper concrete and construction
work that means no thought is free of a
cuss.
I made it and waited for the perfect
day. Sat on the edge. Toes dipped in.
I waited for the clouds to pull back
and sun to shine as white as a beluga
fin.
I waited so long my toes turned to
prunes
and dozed my way through the day. After
day.
After day. After day.
Until a friend stopped by. Head popped
over the fence.
Can I swim in your lagoon today?
I looked askance. Lagoon? I had but a
round, sterile pool.
I looked at my pool next. Eyes wide as
they soaked in water.
Full of weeds and algae. Fish and
fronds. A monkey and a waterfall tree.
I had waited so long to think my pool to
perfection.
It got there fine on its own.
It got there so fine it had started
living its own life.
Quite done with my bothering not to live
my own.
So if you make yourself a swimming pool.
Don’t forget to swim in it too.
Otherwise the dream will get bored and
do its own thing,
until someone comes along with a dream
to add to.
My friend has a lagoon pool now.
Sometimes I visit.
But I decided to make myself a tree fort
instead.
As tall and grand as the sky.
Only this time. I’ll remember to swing
off the branches.
Play football with the stars. Before
construction ends.
I’ll make myself a tree fort.
Could Dream
When I was five I wanted to be a cat. So I could reach the sun and climb the apple trees. When I was ten I wanted to be a ninja. So I could leap from rooftops and defeat evil. Looking back I just wanted a katana. A samurai might have been better. …