We find the in during the moments of choice… to climb or to remain behind… what is the more enticing force… the fear of the heights or the wonder at what is there… we over come the heights to peer out into the world and catch a glimpse from a different perspective… we have the eyes for vision from great distances yet we find heights to be a bit slippery when wet… and yes they are daunting to climb and to peek over the edge… butt what is more to us… the knowledge or the fear of not reaching out when the muse whispers… we are in during the process of learning that while heights can be some what of a scare they are a stretch of the imagination and most important a measure of the limits to which we will go to achieve the heights in our lives…

The word hallowed or hollowed reminds me of thoughts of being held or holding a thought in mind from one door to another or from one moment to another some distance away in the future… until we meet again may Godde hold you in the hollow of their hand… it reminds me of the transgressions of time and the passing of moments from one time to another… from when I receive words till I write back… till I receive a response or just a thought that trips my soul… it speaks of moments wanted and held in regard… hallowed or even hollowed…

My fingers feel immersed in the pulling and the tossing of the time… a sentinel feeling of watching over the sun rise to the sun set and the darkness in between and all through the light until the sleep captures one not a slumber butt a crash of sounds… an elliptical expression of sounds whispered across the feathered bed… she whispers to awaken the tide and slips between the sheets to sleep in wrapped fragrances of flowers in bloom… it is raining again… and the frost lingers in the air… a brilliant shimmer and where have all the flowers truly gone to slumber under the blanket of cold rain and snow to follow… just when the tide turns toward the warmer climbs the snow comes once more… immersed in the every day clips and clops…

More shards then pieces… more fragments… slivers… slices of moments we are… pieces are too large of a component to handle… we are the sparks of illusion come to fire the prepared tinder… we are flames holocausts… raging storms of ideas… experiences… desires… wants… wishes… longing desires to create… what piece of that is tangible… what peace of that can we take in hand… and hold up to another and say this is me… this is who I am… yet in each sliver of us there exists all of us… so we are a paradoxical equation…

Expectations are difficult to piece together… sound of voice… a framed image then a true imagine sometimes brings down the house… it is often said that some have the face for radio… meaning that their voice does not exist evenly with how they appear… the soothe tones of their tones is in contrast to the image they portrait… that is an illusion however because after a time the true image of another is not the outer façade butt the inner radiance… so we never appear as others imagine us… we appear as we are and they just have to get used to the reality and put aside their distorted image of us…

We are all sins of one kind or another… as saintly as we some times appear it is best to assume that all of us have wandered to the darker sides one time or another… to think otherwise is to think that another is beyond human… and being human our minds stray… our actions are not in all ways for the best… we simple make mistakes and learn from them… we do harm without intention… we do harm with intention… not purposeful butt in the moment we let care slip aside and we dive into the desires we have at the moment… so we do sin and we are sin fill in a moment… so we have desire… and we lust and we wish and desire and hope and fall asleep wondering what if… and we are human… frail… weak… and then strong and sturdy…

New Orleans in a city that everyone should find themselves in once in a life time… or perhaps twice… for the wonder of the architecture… the people… the food… the artists who sit upon the streets and cultivate their art… they are living the dream and finding a way to survive doing what they love… the music that exists in every pore of the city as it awakens until it settles into a restless sleep… some places are necessary for the weary mind to wander in… it is a city of dreams in a sense that it escapes description… to describe it one has to wander in it…

I have found after many days a moment to sit in a reflective silence… a tear filled avenue of thoughts encourages me… spring times is turning over the leaves once more and while tomorrow we will get the last gasp of winter it is spring and with that the hand of Godde will warm the northern lands and send us down the aisle a bit more pleasantly…

Where do the forest go when they watch the night lights flickering to flames… where do the leaves gather in the windy storms… where do the birds fly off to escape the ravages of nature… for they surely find safe haven some where for as the dawn rises next the chirp of the birds greets us… so where do they go…

We begin and we end some place other than home… changed we are by the circumstances of our arrival and our departures… an odd sort of growth becomes us… life has these small elements of change that scope and shape us… we age of course by the hand of time butt that change is a common thread that we all share equally… it is simply the time we put in or shall I say the time we are allowed… the other side of aging is the wear… not the years the mileage as some would say… we came we saw we conquered… and the same is true of those who found our weakness and exploited it for themselves for we all have them… some flaws are obvious… others more subtle… more at ease… so here we are this morning in the far south of some where and it is funny that we feel comfortable so far away from our comfort… familiar surrounding breed contentment… and familiar people breed even more ease than we expect…

I am late once more in getting back to the joy of expression… odd the threads find me as I sit in a darkened room some where on the gulf of Mexico foggy minded and wondering where today will lead me off towards… all the preparations of so long ago opening the door and we stepped through… so easy and so effortless… and of course so foolish to think otherwise… butt our we wise to not consider the alternatives so we are prepared to counter the arguments… for there are always counter arguments to the humorous side of me… I am a simply idea of concept… or shall I say I have simple Ideas and concepts… they are not complex in the least… for my mind does not forge so in depth twisted pairs… just one or two is all I am allowed in the space of my times… slip[ me in under the rug and allow me to seed the ideas and watch as they bloom…

As much as we would like to avoid waiting we do wait… we anticipate… we step aside for time to ride by year after year in the hope that a better time will come around… that is often the case that the time is not ripe… timing is everything they say… and it has its advantages time… knowing when the time is right is as useful as knowing when it is not… a different time and souls miss instead of collide… and that simply difference is everything… in my earlier years I was blind to a great many choices… concepts and ideas… so I missed out on the opportunity to know… and once missed it is very hard to jump on the train again at another opportunity… our shyness increases with the knowledge that we missed the boat… so while it is important to wait… at other times we have to live and enjoy the moments we are granted… take advantage of the rain… that nourishes the seeds we planted… if we allow that then possibly we can embrace the growing of that into some thing magical…

On the cusp of change we sit… an edge positioned wisely evenly spaced as not to cut ones hands or feet… the slightest movement forward and we plunge toward the warming tides of spring… yet in that wonder there is the elements of winter still evident in our thoughts… the cold icy morning wind… the rain when it falls bitter and cold to the core of our being… and yet there is still the promise of what is to be… warmer days… longer… the slow meandering of time so that light strikes us and keeps us open for business a bit longer into the night and earlier in the dawn… a stretch from the candles filled nights of winter… our dark secrets are ready to be revealed… come to me now she whispers for just a minute before the tide catches up with us and be still in the hallow of my mind…

A friend has found something tangible… a long time in coming it has been… that occurs in us as we recover from the depths of our changes and find that we can live again in spite of the turns of events… life certainly goes on and we find that when we join in we experience the wonder… life is also not perfect or our we perfect as people… we are warts and all and political and religious and we are strange and odd and the same and relatively steady as we come to terms with each and every day… people check out of life some times and stay on the fringe of living… surviving from day to day… until they collide with another soul and find themselves wrapped sometimes unknowingly… some times reluctantly… in all times it is what we knead… to get our hands back into the sweetness of life and feel the dough beneath our finger tips…

The odd childhood ill at ease is not humorous when it comes around once more… what we endure as children is not the same when we are stricken as adults… we have all had the pleasure of being under its spell and thank our lucky stars we carry the immunity to it… though I am told there is a variation that anyone can pass on to anyone else immune or knot… truly it is not an experience I wish to reload… still have the marks to prove my passage… as does each of us who endure its traverse into and out of our lives… even such things bring back memories of long ago… one by one the sin toms making their way in and around… until one after the other until all of us incurred the wrath… left marked as such by the end of it… the thoughts our more of the rooms and the laughter and the constant squirm that went along with it… I remember oatmeal… for some reason… and bottles or some strange smelling ointment… such is the strange reserve we call memory…

Many avenues of change are approaching me at this same point in time… I am blessed with an addiction of thought that allows me to wonder widely in slowly expanding circles outward and in truth my mind is rather slow to begin with so I am not so quick on the uptake to leap forward and grasp the brass ring the first that I glimpse… I take my time pondering the steps required by me to fold over the flood of songs… the true delight for me is the sowing of the seeds and then the sitting back and watching as they take root… a single wondrous trial… butt one we all must walk upon in our hours of need and want as well as in our times of trial and finally when we are the hand of relief and the gentle shoulder to witch others lean upon or shed their tears… who we are changes with the tide… who we are is reflected in the eyes of the beholder of us… we are to them what they require us to be… know more nor less than that… so silly of me to wander and yet wandering is what I am… a minute of time installed in an hours worth of words… so Irish of me to spin a tale of a thousand words when ten could do the trip just so eloquently… who are we if not our heritage and our delight at being a singular sin… we are that truly for we are a sin bull of some thing other than self… that sin is a tern of a word or a catch of a glimpse that divides the purpose one whey then another… we switch off the on and on the off to greet the old day newly born across the eastern reaches of our mind and suddenly we are captured in the breeze a slow whisper of time and time and time… so we embrace the notion of time erasing the words in the sand as we write them and drawing its own conclusion about who and whom we are and have become in the dawn of this new day… lingering across my brow is the storm of yesterdays seeping in and out of my tide… the number of words perplexes me and then I wonder are they enough for another to assemble an idea or concept of the passage of the times of my passage… in retrospect… know… how does one record their history properly… the simple stores of experiences does the trip just perfectly… for all choices there is a story we can tell… a legend of family who have journeyed before us… if we pay attention and listen to the tales we can learn a thing or two about changes… choices and where they lead…

We go about wondering where the water has run off too… where the sands go when they are pulled into the sea… where has the rock weathered and worn by the sea fallen to… in the full grasp of that we know that change happens if we wait long enough… and while we may seem a little apprehensive about it… we leapt into its arms… we embraced the warmth and hoped that we would find some thing magical… perhaps we did for a moment… perhaps we will over time find more in increasing amounts… for once our eyes shift from the past to a possibility in the future we see things a bit different… we embrace things easier and more readily… we are similar slices of different pies… yet we are still pies… a mixture of ingredients assembled to a particular taste… it is that scent of us that eludes us that entices others… and we wonder just what is this aura that others sense in us that we are blind to… and we never truly know its refection except in the eyes of those who walk with us a bit in time…

I think that people wonder about how people fit together… the strange idea of relationships perplexes others who know one and then they see the other and the notion is I would never put those two together… on the surface is all they see… surface issues are so much façade and covers that we get captured by the illusion… many books are sold by the cover art only to find it was not as exciting as the illustration led us to believe… and others plain and nondescript have led us on a journey we still cherish… in fact we go back and retake it time and time again… I am all for the thought… that if it feels good we should keep doing it and if it doesn’t we should stop and find another avenue… the lost art finds us when we least expect to be found… I am hiding in my neck of the woods so far and wide of others I am wondering where the sky has gone… yet when the time comes… I am here in the clearing… just as I always was… I don’t fit the perfect puzzle or the perfect notion… or the perfect anything at all… in fact I rather don’t fit into anything… odd shaped as I am… all angles and rounds and squares and rectangles and illusions as to fit and size and features… who knows the flip side of an equation better than the equator… so who fits whom is more substance than illusion… so we have to dig into the substance to find the threads that link one side to the other and back again… and it is that illusion that daunts us and parries our thrusts… our swords are useless against a strong substance… butt they are brutally lethal against the illusion…

The space between tide… notes… tunes… motivations perhaps and even thoughts seems to grow longer and larger of late or perhaps it is just my recollection of the time as I sit wondering where the week has gone off too… the notion of being busy surrounds me yet I feel a sense or a part of the busy is me knot as much as me doing… the days come and they go… and in a blink the change wraps around me… I move in the shadows for a time… I feel the closeness of the dark fringes of my mind… a space opens in the fence… a dense package of leaves rustle at my feet… a corner or turn approaches the bend in the knees a lapse… and then I sit in the corner wondering where the brushes are for it is time to paint…

The door swings… a way in and out… a trap or an invitation… a slap in the face or the rear… a push or a pull… a long meandering slope of dreams… a crystal spark of sugar… a caned man slips from the thrown… for he was tossed aside by the many who once were stood upon… it does not take long to reach the farthest reach… just a moment in the reflective horizon… who sleeps in dreams rest peacefully aware of a better time… time seems to slip faster on me of late and of late I seem to be slower in my responses to times pull… perhaps I will gain a better perspective when all this planning gets taken care of and the wheels of the cart are set into motion…

The former alters the later… the slip to the stream a memory of delights… a localized front streams over the horizon… some one some where came upon a slip in the earth and suddenly the thunder rained hard on the dry ground… the heart of the matter a drop in the bucket… a lapse of memory… a sudden tranquil moment and we are in the line on purpose this time to move along the lane toward some thing more interesting… this ideal of steps is a concept that many grasp as the means to over come the barriers they perceive inside their minds… yet true barriers rarely if ever exist… they are facades we create by our reluctance to dance naked in the light of time…

Doors and windows all… opportunities for the light to filter in… to step from one threshold to another… to cross over and back once more again and yet to close the door behind when the time is right to do so… to open a new one when the anticipation of what is to be sparks us in that direction… doors and the windows that shine light onto our lives as they so often do find ways to entice us to follow the light outside into the air to breathe deep the gathering wonder of dawn and her first delight as it slips upon the land… words have a thread of securing one time with another… words are the pinning of the moment to the solid ground of the time we have left to us… take a door and open it to the dawn and for the most part it will reward you with light and opportunity… let in the shimmering possibility and the day takes on a hue of promise… all perception mind you for the shades we choose to paint with color our world if we wish them to or knot…

The cold wanders to the depth of one’s bones… sinks into the dawn and follows the day… never stopping to warm at the hearth or to slip away for a moment with the sun… the cold wishing to spirit one last reminder that it is still winter flashes the wind and rattles the trees and paints the sky grey and hallow with a dampness that nestled into the very core of one’s bones and just settles in there until not even the warmth of covers and hot water steamed to temperatures warm completely… at this point in time we know for sure that we have become tired of the cold and it is time for spring to warm the dawn and refresh our souls…

The logic of the times or the gender will escape those of another time and the opposite gender… female will never over stand maleness completely though they know how to manipulate it and the male will never over stand the female in any capacity other than to know one has to just sit back and let it unwind itself or just storm off… so girls will be girls and boys will be boys and parents well they are completely different concoctions altogether… at some point we change from the all consuming self to the responsibility for another and that is a pretty easy transition for most of us butt it still weakens the knees when I look back upon the world from witch we have navigated… and the band plays on the and the world goes round and round and some how we survive the tangled webs we have weaved…

At some point all our children must falls to plant seeds of their own… be they of the human kind or the creative kind… each is born of us and nurtured to a point until we can let them go to seed in another place and time and to step back then to see what comes of the nurturing and the sowing into the proper fertile soil… it only takes one seed to fall to create shade for a hundred years… one seed to provide wood for a life time… one seed to nestle into the soil and grow a dream… such is the fragile nature of time and places… so at some point we have to gather the light and scatter the words to the four corners of time…

What is light… what is the soft glow of sight to know of light and dark… language defines it and gives us a means to say what is there or knot… we puzzle over the spark of ignition that stirred the cosmos into action and propelled the universe into being… some questions will lack solid answers for a long time… some questions are purposefully vague in their ability to be answered knowingly… impossible to know… we can with our minds pretend to know for sure how the universe spins and whirls butt in truth we have know idea how it is done or what holds it in place… we define it by our science not by the science of creation… we spin on the ball and we ride it further with each passing year… and we are but a blink to the entire time… we are a single drop of rain in the deluge of time… our entire existence is but a tick on the clock of time… and yet we think we know… arrogant that is… foolish we are… butt we are who we are… and we follow the paths we create for it is the path we know to wander…

Who knows me better than me… who knows me more profoundly then me myself and I… who is a better judge of my missteps and my misjudgments then the person I am within… there are tides I ride and moments when I should butt remain closed to the extended hand… there is a coldness to me at times that even I sense… I am limited to an extent… limited by my own weakness… my own inabilities… my strength has in all ways been what you are witness to… the rambling chorus… the weakness is in the tangible reach… I am blind to the everyday struggle say or the everyday world in witch we live… got up got out of bed… never interested me… as it does so for so many others who wish to know the intimate details of the day share recipes for life and exchange greetings and stories about family… that barrier has provided me a downfall or two or three and perhaps a thousand I am unsure… what I am sure of is the cold barrier that exists where warm once did… and one cannot just assume it is of the opposite attraction all the time… perhaps one or two butt once the pattern becomes a common thread the thread that is common to all has to find the weakness in self… and who better to judge that… harsh I may be butt harsh is the reality… and who is better to know indifference than the one that welds it… knowing and seeing at times confuse the issue to the point of solid rock when one needs to be fluid… the rock takes time to be etched away and flexible enough to be used for necessary shelter… I feel the storm of rage enter the premises and I sense the deepening disaster of pause… I will however consider what is said in the light of time… I have become in my life more thoughtful…

A long bow… a elf kindred in the use of the long bow… a far more wondrous art… a target lingers at the edge of one’s range… and the forest shudders with movement… the sword raised gathers others to the front… some times we need to put an end to those who would be treacherous to us… allowing devious souls to wander in our world is an evil consequence… so it is with the old tales of times gone by… a way of explanation for the unknown… a means to wonder about the universe as we know of it… as we hold onto the ancient traditions of the past we learn the truth of some of our traditions and rituals and find them to be innocent enough butt certainly knot sacred as they once were thought to be… of all such things religious ones seem to change the slowest… so I can take up the long bow of famed past and center a target in my line of site and mark it as possible to sever its being… such is the potential of arrows in figures of speech as well… for we much hold them as arrows at times to slay the dragons of our imagination… so the knots are the lives taken or saved from the gremlins of the past… the elfin kind wander my dreams for some silly reason of witch I am unsure… possibly because I feel a sense of wonder in the realm of imagination that is part real and part fantasy… in this shade of time or veil that separates the modern from the past there is so much more potential…

The often used edges fingered and tattered to find dust… being shy is sitting on that edge wishing for steps to descend into the chaos of the moment and getting lost in the dance… letting go of self in the time and just being one with the soft fabric of time for once… being shy for me has in all ways been the awareness of self… the deep reflective awareness of self… that perhaps time and tides will never dream or weave properly… a means to wander back and forth over the course of my travels a thousand times and wonder what if…

Some art references what we know and some reflects us in its mirror… love is like a flying cat with a violin across the moon perhaps and altered reference to some thing… she dances in the light stripped explores a potential of what exactly… to the casual eye the stripped is a physical one… a naked form dancing… a possibility butt only one of the many… to me the striped is first and foremost one of freedom of self… a dance to strip away the stones that burden us and the responsibilities for a time so we can breathe in the wondrous breath of life… and then there is the emotional release of tears of laughter that one needs to help them pass on what they have learned of self… and finally there is that web of freedom that allows one to bring themselves to extend a hand to touch skin to skin… and be free enough and confident enough and trust enough to fall into another’s embrace… some art when open to such things sees beyond the exposed words to the words that make the most sense… of course it should rain… of course the sun should be radiant… there are angels in reality and they do touch our minds from time to time…

Interesting that comfort is found at a beach in the warm sands of time… the most relaxed I have ever felt is when I find myself on such sands… there is something magical about trees and water… the combination is wondrous… the sound of water rolling toward the shore… the fresh scent of salted water… the taste of it upon ones lips… the warmth of the sun as it reaches forth and tickles the skin… prodding the fires of desire in each and every moment… I have often wandered along the sands of coastal towns and found much solace in them… time to think… time to wriggle ones toes in the sand and water and feel the ancient times there… listen to the sounds of waves that have crashed unchanged for eons of times… and will for eons more after my time has been erased from the sands… there is something comforting in knowing that…

Some music trips the memories so perfectly that it is impossible to move away from the times they trip… stuck I become in the song itself and the memories flood me to the point of drowning in them… funny how certain music reminds me of souls long removed from me… live they still do… but removed… a constant reminder to me that love is not about proximity to self… that some love is best of distance for it un-complicates the matters… makes the emotion simpler perhaps to deal with and hold within one’s breast…

Let go the need to hold back the tide… let go the fear of being the guard that protects the realm of others… let go the need to stand as guard and be the warning shout for others to hold off the waters… at some point even the best will fail to stop the rising waters from reaching a height and over flowing their banks and wiping the earth clean once more… certain tides are necessary… certain waters cleanse the land… much like summer fires in the forests sparked by the heavenly bolt of lightning… a raging inferno that in time renews the landscape… much is the same with waters… at some point I need to stop being the one with the finger in the dyke…

I have tucked away the wandering soul of the past with the present… there is a need in me to wonder of late… not so much to wander butt to wonder… to think in folds of paper… to dream of weather and frosts… to drip with sweat sitting in the sun filtered cold… a dream of tides… of waving trees… of falling light slipping across my soul… I feel a need to grasp a religious ideal and to use that painting the world in a new light… some trials are necessary wonders to have… some are aged luminescence… a glow from some chemical combination other than the sun we adore for its sparkle and heat… we all are born to this life with a purpose we are unaware of and perhaps when we do finally find it we are the more grateful for an awareness of the staff we carry… a symbol of who we are in the light of knowledge… am I truly an artist of words or am I just trying to find my way to who I am… am I truly a conduit between or am I a singular slip of time that travels with another until they find the place they need… and when the bridge falls down do they even notice it once connected to the opposite sides themselves… some days I smile easily in awareness of the truth of my steps… and at others I still wonder if what I do is correct… perhaps I will never know the truth for the truth relies on the perception of another… and that will always be denied… in truth I hope I never hear… for to never hear means that happiness and contentment have finally been secured… and that is a wondrous thought to my mind… some times love has us do the strangest things… some times it has us do the opposite of what makes sense at first look… we do what we can do… we find our lives as easily as we find breath… and when we let go the need to be in control some how the earth still rotates on its axis and the universe moves along the same wondrous lines…

The promise of spring arrived this morning with the changes in time… the springing ahead the loss of one hours sleep for the altering of time so that this evening we are granted an extra hours of light to bathe ourselves in… a promise that spring is butt a few days away… a promise of the new days that are before us… a rebirth of the land is posed before us… a rebirth of our souls and our hearts in that promise… it has been a harsh winter this past few weeks and the recent thaws have added to the woes of those who live near to the streams and raging rivers… for they have all over come their banks and spread their wings far and wide… from the frozen to the liquid a fast phase change… and with that a sweeping wash of the less fortunate…

A couple divided… a string of days split from one side and the other… a series of cuts across the frame… this is mine… this is yours… a clear division of what is one and what is the other… I wonder some times and then I am aware of the differences among the sameness… for all that is the same weighs heavier then the differences the differences become the focus of the pair… at first they are the unique characteristics… over time they become qualities or amusing frustrations… eventually they are divisions that one either accepts or denies… it is the denial or refusal to acknowledge the differences that splits the pairing asunder…

So many roads… so many denials of the choices we make… a simple dance this has become… one step forward two back and for each back there is that denial that it is me… I am influenced by a quiet refusal to put out or deny the truth of who I am in the light of what I know about the fabric of my being… one more defenseless knight lies dead upon the carpet shot in the back by a slip of the tongue… she whispered the angry words one and done and we remain close only in my dreams… when a silence is exchanged in the final seconds the wish list slips from her fingers and falls to the floor to be swept away by the solitary breath of wind…

I shouldered the blameless upon me… captured the damned as they fell helpless hoping to land somewhere soft after leaping off the precipice they found themselves backed into… better to leap then to surrender… never give up… never surrender is a motto of some sort… to those there is in all ways a means of escape that will allow them to survive the chaos of time and cheat death once more if they trust in their abilities to find soft landings in harsh circumstances… they know eventually the reality is one time or another the landing will not be soft butt a harsh brush with the cold hand of fate pushed once too far… that bridge too far away or too far from completion yet we strive to reach it never believing that we will shudder and fall from the grace of having built something rare in the annals of time… a knot is stitched into my coat of arms… a warning against those who would wander into the way in the hope of upsetting the ox cart that I drive down this interstate highway… a slow meandering traveler surrounded by the astral speed of others scurrying to and from and speeding across my path in all directions… much like gnats to me and the ox meanders on… a joker on the page turning over a new leaf and finding a mirror image of time traveled…

The struggle is one of temperament and desire… how much do you truly want the next step in your life… how sure is your uncertainty… how do you leap across the stream to land beyond the reach of the water’s edge for to fall into the water is certain death… for it is not a solid step… it is more of an illusion that we have to survive…

A casual slip of the surreal… a certain set of poetry in motion or perhaps the lapse there of a reality… as each day passes me by and by and the hallows remain quiet there is that certain tune that comes over me… when you are sure enough to be unsure in time the certainty of the choice reveals itself… I may not have desired a change in this direction so many months ago butt now that I find myself here in the moment I am aware of the choices I made to get here… so perhaps we do find our way after all in a unconscious sense sometimes… so the knowledge that we are doing what is correct helps… and each day the distance from there to here grows a bit wider and with that the intensity falls to the way side… the saying that just because you love someone does not mean they have to be part of your life comes to my mind… and it is so very true… though at the same time I am not the best of souls to align oneself with…

I side step the moment to dwell in a dream and then I come awake in the middle of a forest covered with leaves settled over time… a long time ago I rested here and now many years later I awake to find myself nestled in the same age only I have not progressed beyond the age of sleep… so here I sit covered in the remains of the days I have rested here… the space between now and then being measured in tens of years not in single digits… to fall asleep in one time and awaken fully in another is disconcerting to the mind… a hollow hold I have upon my reality of late… a stream of roaming devils haunts my wisdom…

Only one slice of pie per… some how that never seems to be enough… pie is that commodity that speaks to be shared over conversations and tea… a piece of mind and a peace of soul… the pie is the central theme of my mind of late… apple mostly for it reminds me of good company and light hearty conversations… sips of wine… a sip of tea… a warm feeling within that just sighs and resonates through the being… the fruit is the key some say butt apple is the only truly fruit pie I can relish in… key lime on occasion… then my tendency is towards crème pies… for the light and airy nature butt my favorite of course is lemon meringue… the why of that has more to do with remembering then actual taste… it just reminds me of holidays when I was young… and does it have to do any more than that to strike a blissful chord…

As for jumping from the frying pan into the fire I get some what sentimental when I go there… for there are all those thoughts about what if and I wonder that go along with those thoughts… butt then of course would I be here now if I took those leaps into the fire or would I have been consumed in the flames like so much tinder… there is that sense when I remember to remember the situations in a better light… being the shy introvert I am and was it was painful at the time so the light is softer now as I look back… perhaps that is how I remember it… perhaps I should remember the scope and breadth of things a bit differently…

He swings the long stem… the short stem being for special occasions when the time is ripe or when the confluence of rivers join for a festival of tides… the normal tool is the long one for it is used by others as a means to gauge ones virility of sorts… does he still weld the long stem they will ask as a means to know the measure of the man they are approaching… it is considered a time of passing when one takes up the long stem and then when one hands it off to the next and picks up the shorter version for what ever reason… age… health or simple fatigue that forces the issue… some times the shorter version is desirable for a variety of reasons… butt that does mean putting the opinion of others to a side… looks can be deceptive to the illusions that others have…

An awkward silence permeates my surroundings… I am adrift in the silence it seems… so I put upon the ledge a leaf to sit until the winds blow it hither and yon… and when the leaf rests once more inside the palm of my hand I know it is time to rest a while… trying as I am the leaf does not settle easily in a palm… or a hand… after a while the winds take their toll and a rest is not the best means of survival… crumble the time will come and suddenly what was once young and pliable is now drained and crusty and falls to flakes when touched…

My mind has been occupied of late in a sentimental journey coming full circle to the realization that time changes and we have to change with time or forever be left in a single moment… I have felt the pangs of the forest call to me… a single tree of my memory sliding in between the branches… a reach too far once lunged for comes into view… and so I arrive here after meandering down the sentimental lane and knowing that walking away or leaving the previous path was the correct choice… those choices are difficult ones for me… it never occurred to me to leave… I fall silent and wait… dormant to the call or the nudge to fall up and sing a new song… when does the dew rain down and the deep rich flakes of snow rise up to meet the new day as she dawns on me… a crystal fire blazes inside me… and I vacate the soul of my dwelling… so tell me witch direction is home… and step you take my son he says… when you are as far away as you can be as you are… any step takes you closer to home…

I am wistful seeker of intransient dialogue… what ever does that mean… I am sure one day I will read it and wonder what I was trying to say or was I just dripping words out so I could find the fruitful ones ripe and ready to be bitten in two and shared…

Not out butt in… the right way in… the way I seek is not an escape… escape is easy… escape is the silence creeping into ones soul and allowing it to permeate the entire being… a slow and lingering death stroll is easy to allow… one just drifts away into the sullen silence of self… in is the way I am seeking… the way inside the portal… the way inside the creative forest… to dive into the pool and the river and the streams and the ocean of opportunity and to feel the lingering drips of chance… I seek the inner road to finding a way to succeed in spite of my self… perhaps I am just lost and in need of a good strong nudge in some direction… any way is positive if it gets ones feet under motion and decisive… a chill falls to the spine… not a cold chill more a shivering chill of awareness of the position of another close in mind… a memory perhaps that is all… butt for me it is wistful and hopeful awareness of the last time…

Over the river lies a question marked in the grass for all eyes to answer with smiles or a pondering look… over the edge there is this place one needs to consider being… and when the tide rushes in… in the springtime it washes away the traces of your hand… so the work is a fleeting work of artistic wonder… such is the story of my life… fleeting…

Stepped out of the rut into another warm spot of intellect… you know the kind where you feel so wrapped that the words just dry up in your finger tips… an illusion walked past me to sit on the other side of the walkway across the way just over there in the fading light of time… she shuddered off the cold and smiled… a wink told me more than the entire conversation exchanged over the last hour… a glass of twisted tea labeled for my eyes only wavered on the edge of the table waiting for the fall to explode… a little excitement never tasted so good I think…

I wanted to read the dialogue as a conversation butt it reminds me more of a lecture more than a give and take… or a take and give… witch is the opposite of one and the other… she slips on the walk and staggers to the shoulder… butt catches herself in mid flight before the fall and stands for a moment to relax the senses before moving along the way… she was a star long before I was imagined… and still she haunts the mists of another time… so for sixteen years the laughter was unfolding… was and is the necessary difference… she swims in the lake by the pool… a lesson in choices that is…

A little drop of nonsensical fringes… a doily fringed with the tattered remains of the dessert fruity and otherwise scattered remains in the moment a fanciful reminder of the reward at the end of the tangled web we weave with all the best intentions be as they may… actually sat down to answer in logical terms and this is what strolled out of my over excited mind… well time enough for the flow of logic… best to just share the illogical meanderings of the sparked mind… less we fall prey to the cork in the bottle sin drum and then we are at the mercy of the pen once more… a few more and then a few more until the wagon is full and the wheels sink into the soft wet grass… hard to pull a stuck wagon… harder to pull a full stuck wagon… butt then and there we put shoulder to the stones and push it along to the end of the run… I am fully strobed in light and flashing like a dancer in the moonlight…

When in doubt one should make up a word or two to get ones idea across the universe to the other side of the madness that is shared and passed back and forth… a single day turns over into another and we wish for the former to be the ladder to the stars… and it is so easy to sing in the warmth by a faire then to do so in the showers of trees… butt then singing is a very unique hobby… or talent for that matters and for none other than we are here wishing for the turn of a phrase… a horse beats it hoof and we send him to the run… and run we must and run he must and run we all must… until we know longer need the exercise…

Today is the day and the moment is now… today is the moment of getting started or back into the saddle once more a quiet solitude of sounds eases me along the highway that I am on and forever more the reaper pulls me along side the way and I stop and wait in patent silence for the following footfalls to reach me in the tavern on the green along the glen nestled in the trees just off the slope to the far stretch of one’s imagination… hiding in plain sight in the snow that drifts and is wiped away by the rain… the warmer temperatures and the need for spring to take hold…

All of us has to strike out upon their own… we can desire to stay within the folds of home and hearth and be fooled into believing it is safer and more protective… in point of fact the resistance to making one’s own leaps and mistakes will hamper the journey more… being fearless in doing things is an asset in living… being fearless in moving through the world and taking on the day to day and week to week is so much better when we make the mistakes and learn from them… rare is the one who can observe another and learn from their mistake without having a stake in the mistake… for that will never happen to me rings so true… I would be better at noticing or better at responding to such and such and there fore I would avoid the pit that has befallen on you… or so we believe…

The strings of time litter our present… ties us to one another… to the road we have traveled… to the past present and our future… we are the strings of our experiences… and yes a bit more artsy some are then others… a series of knot to leap off the edge tethered to the present so we can climb back out of the great abyss of time and find our way back to the here and now… she sleeps with the angles and runs with the artists and then she goes and sips tea to relax… we have strings upon us and much like the puppet we are moved by the connections we maintain in our lives… they are for each one of us the defining alternatives… and what would we be exactly without them…

Clutter is the sign of a busy mind in full mode… there is always clutter when we are actively in pursuit of the art within… there is time for cleaning up in the down times… in the up times we should strike when the iron is hot and we are fully engaged in the process… there is nothing worse for an artist’s mind then to put off an inspiration and then lose it in the saving for another time… I myself have often felt the pang of missing the strike of inspiration and wondering just when is the time perfect for such bolts to hit home… never we just have to learn to make the moment what it is… and go with it…

Places gather names over time for whatever reason… like an old house known by its inhabitants of old long after they have moved on… the old Burnside place… when the Burnsides have not graced the home in thirty some odd years and yet it is still known as that… stranger is that the original home has been removed and a new one built yet it is still known as that… as if changing the name will some how change the memory of what used to be there or alter the memory of another time and place…

We do form rather odd connections to the media we have at our fingertips… I enjoy the one and I use the other… the machine takes on a personality of its own and I at times find myself conversing with him as if he was what he is not… the actual person I am speaking to… for my writing style is more of a talking style… I stopped punctuating the rambling because well I could not be bothered doing it right… in point of fact I wished more than anything else to do it wrong… incorrect… to misuse and mistreat words and dialects and to just in general say what rolled into my head and sometimes that is a single rambling sentence… though to be honest I always did drive English teachers to the edge of their patience with my ramblings… so the machine takes on some of this personality of mine… ramble on rose…

We all go off the reservation from time to time… it is a necessary evil I believe to get the batteries charged up once more… we all find ourselves in that place in between the sheets… knot asleep… not awake… just uncomfortable with falling back or rising up… eventually we will do one or the other or just get up and move along to the farthest reach of the home as not to disturb anyone else… I have as you are well aware been split in my own mind… and then saying that it all comes tumbling down…

More goes into the simplest of activities and the simplest of things then truly meets our eyes… until we learn to see behind the façades of life we will never over stand the depths a single spoon has… or a slice of cheese… or a single question or a written word upon a single empty sheet of paper… so easy it seems we are to disregard what is behind a stage and take only what is displayed in front… the path of least resistance does not lead to learning… it leads to enslavement…

Anniversaries to me are celebrations of memories… as rituals are not so much for the memory as to keep us in side a specific structure or line of ideals or thoughts… rituals to me are more often religious… or political… therefore they take me down a road that says believe this and ignore that… anniversary of marriage or birth is a reminder of the day when it all began… the ritual is a means to keep you focused on what some one believes you should be focused on…

To get for some is the drawing force… I never wish to attract attention to me… yet I will do what I feel is best to do… if that is outside the buns for some well okay I am good with that because it is what works for me… I am not however one that puts aside the norm just to strike a stare from another or cause discomfort… though that is not such an evil thing… making people think is a justifiable activity…

It is a human trait to truly suffer in silence… people will announce their minor ailments to the world butt when the truly devastating comes along they meet the twist of their fate with silence… when some one falls into quiet it is because they have made their choice… so we go off to find our solace in self and pray to Godde that perhaps this cup may pass us by… witch makes me think of the best prayer to pray… a conversation with Godde is a string of thoughts to me… butt never should it concern self… a true prayer is not for gain of self… butt for the release of another from the place they find themselves… and not in the way we would wish butt in the way that is best for them… that prayer gets answered I believe… for that prayer is about opening the possibilities of choice to some one who sees only one alternative… and hearts break and souls are torn asunder because at that moment they see only one road before them… when there are many choices we can make… some are not easy… in fact when pushed up against it know choice is easy… to knot choose however is tantamount to failure…

A biblical flood of words strikes home… the soul stirs and wanders into the bush for a long walkabout… days later the soul emerges for a time to find their path obscured… their ideas challenged… their sense of self put to the test… so we weave a bit of a tethered string to hold me in the middle not on the edge of the tide… she sweeps into the cloth and vanishes before my eyes and then the rain pours… the dripping wet of time sizzles in the pan as the flames jump higher still… I sweep into the cabinet bare and witness the turning of the last… she winks and disappears… and the rain falls more… strike up the band…

A kick or a shuttle of the mechanics… some times when the well dries up the only measure of getting more is to dig… in digging eventually the depth we will reach will render us the water that witch we need to spring a well of inspiration so that the tide will rise in a spiral… a cloud or a mist of some sort of dampness that tingles the feathers of the waiting flight yet to leap off the ground or from the highest high… the forest of leaves a pitter patter of spokes awaiting the crimson tide to linger in the grass for a moment… some times the best medicine is to just let go of the need and allow the want to flow over the river of thoughts until the fabric of security binds the imagination to the routine of disposition… a luxury of give and take… a rhythm of solitude in the study of the lamp that lights the way…

She wisps the air… drips a cold rain on the heated stones… warms the tentacles of swimming limbs… a paddle wheel spins in the ocean of sand… know where to go to and know where to land… a single spark pushes the fire on feed by the beating flames… a legend of winter washes in the spring listening to the air wandering across the mountains peak… so witch way is home and witch ways is further along… a question that one asks and asks until one day the answer to each is exactly the same… a step in any direction is a step towards home… to have stretch the dream fantastic so far that we are at the farthest reaches only makes sense… for home is where we are and in that respect we are never as far away as we may seem… only so far as we are missed…

Of course the place to wonder about such mundane things is the weaving of cloth… the stretch of the imagination aside the hands busy with a task the mind can stroll along the valley of what if… a series of questions that ponder the alternatives we wish to question… what is the world was made of ice cream and cheese… what if the door swings both ways sequentially… what is the car ran on air… the valley of what if can answer such inquiries… the stream flows backwards for a time and settles in the pool of wondrous opportunities… she stepped aside for the call to come through… riding on a prism the debt followed him to the edge of the precipice and clung to the fabric of his being… it was all over before it began… just the tally of the cost is all… butt then that is why they play the game isn’t it for what if…

I am stripped of the cold and left with the temperature rising in a slow meandering curve… and she whispers a cry of sadness in the falling ocean tide… a single smile of a sadness that sweeps in and dreams of the forest captured in a leaf… a forgotten chimney smokes in a pastel white… she sings a song in her mind and dances to the falling flakes of snow… an archers dream… he listens to the smile spreading the notes evenly across the room… stripped of the fabric a raw necessity springs forth… it is after all a turning of a page day and one ahs to move on in spite of the cold the rain and the sun shining in abundance… she winks at the fire dancing and wanders off to warm hands by the smaller cracking byre…

To free the mind it helps to stop trying so hard… life is actually a very easy series of steps… they happen even if we are unconscious of them… a rambling idealist once wrote of the poetry in motion… and such it is motion… a poem of words… of steps… of wandering aloud… the rhyme is not the issue at all… the words are the music… the notes… the tranquil silence of the lambs…