The Girl and Her Tiger: Wandering Together When the fog rolled over the northern moors, doors were shut and lights went on. A practice designed to keep away the wisps which danced and the voices which talked and led anyone, foolish enough to walk in the fog, far away to never returned. Like the little …
Embracing Vulnerability: A Motivational Poem
Vulnerability One of the most debilitating emotions anyone can ever experience. It feels mortifying to walk into a room and because of looks, experience or lack thereof, dress, voice or anything else to do with your personal identity, you feel less than. You want to run, hide and never walk into that room again. But …
Hello, Friend, Farewell: A Poem for the Solace of Nature
Hello, friends! Unlike with the Doors of Moria, when the Fellowship in the The Lord of the Rings seek to enter the mines, there is no secret pass code for finding peace, happiness, love, any of those things. However, I find all those emotions exist at once, in your grasp, if you step out your …
The Point of You
ARTHUR: Yeah! I love going through the X-ray gate! It’s a bit like a game show, isn’t it? There’s always that moment of ‘Will I make the buzzer go? Will I make the buzzer go?!Yes! I didn’t make the buzzer go!’ Or ‘Ohhh, I made the buzzer go!’ GERRY (laughing happily): All right, then! Well, follow me! DOUGLAS: …
When We Built Airships
In every history lived a little girl or boy who found a book.
It’s pages crinkled and curled over, hugging the faded ink scrawled across and spilled into a story. A story which rose up around the child in the form of warriors and airships, kraken and unicorns, castles and cliff edges where wit and rapier crossed.
Deep in the curve of caverns and under the sunny seas, these children leapt into exploration. Because of curiousity.
Until one day, they found a loose scrap of paper. Pink maybe or blue, one of the sticky note squares their parents used to decorate the refrigerator with.
These squares told them what they needed to do. It gave them a quest toward fame and fortune. Go to school it said. Get a job it said. Find a partner it said. Get a house it said. Have children it said.
The children went to school. They left their books under a pile of reality. Delving into new worlds, still clinging to curiousity.
Until one day someone said these children spent too much time imagining. They were lazy. They did not know how to work. Even if they wore suits and fetched coffees for bosses. They only had thoughts and no skills.
The children turned away from these square people who lived when imagination was not a universe of pixels stringing paperback to backpacks.
They returned to their books. They built an airship, they fashioned a compass and they found a map. They took to the skies and disappeared in the clouds, among the million flocks of birds with the same brown wings.
Their history passed down to friends who built airships and a few family members too but caught, between the curve of each word settled the quiet meow of a cat, as it fell asleep next to another book.
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