Shall I be sensible
a moment?
Oh, dying to live,
dear dreary day.
Let you find me
twisted beautifully
among the berry vines.
Let you be the one
to be sensible.
Tag: Whimsical
She fled her body, to where the poets fly.
Her heart lived in that place,
an angel by night light.
There were feathers on the wind of day,
and music, like a lovers kiss, drifting.
Oh, how she loved, there.
Oh, how she loved.
And how she missed that beautiful whisper
when down to earth
she fell.
Categories
The Orchard
As I sit quietly, alone,
with the birds as my friends,
I watch the orchard
sway with the breeze
and I ask myself:
Is it the orchard, alone, I see?
Or has the orchard become
the miraculous creation
of the wind?
Categories
Flowers
The flowers opened with the rooster’s crow and closed as the sun went down. Everyone called them weeds, and that’s what they were if you were someone other than me.
Whatever their name, they woke and fell asleep with the sun, like us, and that was just so beautiful to me.
I’ve lived in several houses where this sort of ‘weed’ rose upon the front lawn like a problem to be dealt with, and though the grass was neater upon their official doom…it was never quite the same. Never as alive. Never as lovely, such is the vibrance of dynamic life.
And so it was that I loved that lawn much more when the weeds were alive.
Because Shakespeare was right.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Categories
Goodbye Christopher Robin
I cried and I smiled as the credits rolled, and I knew, in that moment, that I’d found another piece of home.
The movie was ‘Goodbye Christopher Robin.’
And it was…really very beautiful, actually.
How very different the world looks through the eyes of time gone by.
How very different the world looks when you become another version of yourself.
The wind will call and you will know.
And it won’t tell you why,
and it won’t tell you what
but you will follow
blindly,
hopefully,
until the sun peaks ’round the bend
and the horizon dazzles
in ways far beyond possible.
Indigo, apricot nights.
Warm breath on starlit cheeks.
And you will know
(oh, you will know)
what it was like
to have lived.
Categories
Tomorrow’s Rose
How delicate it is, the garden of eternity.
Interwoven; the past, present, future
of our sleepy meadow, dear.
One cannot possibly know how
or what
the wind of today will drift to the valley
of tomorrow.
One can only hope to gather roses in arms
and lay them down, admired.
But what of tomorrow?
A dried rose is surely a beauty.
A delight preserved from time gone by.
Take these roses, fine.
Take this heart
and scatter my soul freely
into the arms of the dreamers, next.
Tomorrow’s rose.
Today’s quiet and careful sun.
I just watched Lord of the rings, again;
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Twirling leaves, swaying, falling.
Flowing gowns, floating on air.
Softness.
Romance.
Light and trees.
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Oh well.
There’s always next time.
It would be okay,
I believe,
If you were to make a wish
and put it in your pocket.
It would be okay,
especially so,
if the wish was sweet.
For a wish made carefully
is often much sweeter
if forgotten
(in a pocket)
and found
somewhere along the drifting line
of life.
Somewhere lovely,
of course.
Somewhere really quite lovely,
I would think.
Categories
Little Light
What colour shall I paint my sky?
Soft-pink and grey:
clouds of spun sugar,
sweet dreams that drift me to life?
Bring me a cool breath of clarity.
Bring me a little light,
and I will shine it, wherever I may go.
Though the roads may crumble
and darken
and fade,
I will have my little light.
I will have my sweet dreamy sky.
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