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 …
Visit London: Transform Dreams into Lived Stories
Visit London: An Introduction I lived in London for two years and I have endless stories from the experience. I’m in the process of organising years of descriptive emails into a series of travel memoirs. Before all that gets settled, I’d like to let you all into some of my experiences as I continue my …
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 …
The Sky is Our Chariot: A Mythical Poem for the Sky Walkers of the World Tree
They came from the sky our chariots of clouds Thunder rolling under the wheels, eagles swerving at the fore. They came in the silver light of the moon rose high and round, playing peek with the dark. On the ground heads turned up, starlight eyes desire. Hands twitching, grasping at their sides. Desperate wishes to …
Wrapped in Green
Silence, a thick Afghan blanket, settles
heavy at first. Scratchy too. Left idle
for some time.
On tip toes it warms spaces
between bent knee and elbow.
I curl into it. Settling.
Soon, it sits. Natural as beat
of melting icicles to tunes of chimes.
Each morning I release arms
to sky. A form, of one world,
within all others.
Sometimes I spy
clouds turn. An atmospheric mobile
around, around,
mountains, trees and me. Frozen still.
A thick Afghan blanket settles.
A breathe. Air rushes down arms,
hands, fingers to pockets.
The return rolls over,
new, crescent, quarter, gibbous
as if I walked the world with ear plugs.
This lunar cycle blazons return
to when clock hands sit
always on rush hour.
Fingers in pockets. Eyes close. Settling.
Clouds continue to turn.
Facades: A Drabble of Self-Perception
The Mask of Facades upon Old Architecture
Mask, an object worn over the face to hide identity beneath.
I wore a mask for years. Who knows how many, I have forgotten. Right now I wear one, even still.
Then it started to peel. Paint does that. Even the most chemical which leaks into your insides behind labels of “for sensitive skin.”
These chemicals only made me more sensitive. Formed not out of nature but out of a lab.
My eyes leaked from the windows, crying sunlight, when I just wanted rain to dance in.
Whispers flickered shapes across my skin, leaving the impression of wolves about to blow me down.
Soon I kept only straw on the inside. Outside I towered into the sky with walls of brick, and then, the earthquake hit. I rattled and shock, cracked and crumbled. When the clouds rose back into the heavens and the grey danced off upon the wind, I remained, a memory of masks built of material and changing mood.
Today I begin peeling the paint. With hand and hoe. Rock and roll. Faerie dust and book musk.
Have you ever sat on a sidewalk and watched a house, watch you?
It will drain stories out the pipe vents.
What is your mask?
ARR.