From Threads of Silk

864 G From threads of silk

From Threads of Silk

I am copper
I am steel
I am liquid that you feel
Blowing in the wind
Cross fields of grain…
I am diamonds
I am jade
I am gems you cannot trade
Flowing in the marrow
Of your veins…

I’m the hunter
I’m the prey
I’m the potter sculpting clay
Molding faces bare
Of make believe…
I’m the spider
I’m the fly
I’m the tear drop in your eye
Folding threads of silk
In webs we weave

I’m the silence
I’m the roar
I’m the secrets neath your floor
Keeping safe the truth
From troubled minds…
I’m the battle
I’m the hush
I’m the artist’s rarest brush
Painting portraits paled
By tithes that bind

I am hatred
I am love
I’m the push that comes to shove
Speaking words of truth
Inside your head…
I’m the dreamer
I’m the rhyme
I’m the traveler in time
Breathing in the song
Of words you said

Namasté

Michael33

Being Different

Being Different 4

Sophie’s favorite place to watch Animal Planet

Funny Picture… Serious Poem

Being Different

Darkness bides in black and white
Rainbows fade in tempered light
Lines are thin tween wrong and right
Yet… humans really aren’t that bright

Walls torn down tween love and hate
While clergy cope with faith or fate
Behind closed doors we’re gay or straight
Yet… humans… tend to desecrate

Love that’s lost or love embraced
Lines we’ve drawn and lines erased
Passion longs for touch and taste
Yet… humans spawn the toxic waste

River’s wide tween rich and poor
Tween rotten wood and golden doors
Tween angel’s breath and sultry whores
Yet… humans loath the even score

Must we choose tween fight or flight
Are choices only left or right
Answers clear as day and night
Yet… humans really aren’t that bright

Michael33

Namasté

Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved

Of Mortal Minds

Of Mortal Minds

Of Mortal Minds

Once again, the storms rumbled in the night
Awakening the most sound of sleepers
In the wee hours of the morn…
Wind howling through the trees
Through the cracks beneath the door
Like ghosts who’ve gathered
Beneath the floor
In the asylum for the mad…
To avenge what they had lost
To destiny’s child

Yet fate lies undetermined
Neath the rotting of the wood
As darkness seeps down tainted walls
In shades of haunting hues…
Echoes of the muffled screams
From falling crystal stones…
Yet closets with their doors nailed shut
Can’t hush the buried bones

Hail does not fall softly
On the plains in early spring
Though I often scribe the rhymes
Of distant thunder…
Yet no man can asunder
What shadows may prevail
In the wee hours of the morn
Of mortal minds…

Michael33

A Sparrow’s Voice

a-sparrows-voice-3

Perhaps in one’s search for perfection… our sense of what is beautiful becomes lost… searching for what has really never existed in our world.  Perhaps we search because of a sense of remembering from where we came. 

Maybe one could imagine what is perfect within their own mind… though my mind wanders in such imperfection that I don’t believe it would ‘know’ if ‘perfectness’ wandered through it.  Maybe one could dream the perfect dream and linger in that moment… but then… their awakening would be filled with the cruel emptiness of reality.

How does one portray the ‘beautiful’ they find inside their dreams?  There have been those who have attempted to paint them upon a canvass… There are those who have tried to express their dreams in rhyme… Yet… there seems there are no hues of color nor words in rhyme that can cast before our eyes, filling our hearts and souls with the ‘beautiful’ that lies within our dreams. 

Gathering wisdom through my many years spent on this earth, I have found nothing of perfectness… There is nothing that exists in nature that stands with perfection.  Yet… I have found more that is beautiful in all of nature’s imperfections than I could have ever imagined.

Perhaps that is in itself, part of the ‘beautiful’  within us… our own imperfections… our imperfect attempts at creating reflections of what does not exist.  Of course we must realize the often heard phrase that “beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder”… and isn’t that one of the ‘truths’ of the universe. 

So… I will remain in my imperfection… continuing to write my thoughts… my dreams… While others remain in their search for what is perfect… While they are listening to the beauty of the song birds… I will be finding what is most beautiful to me… in the voice of a sparrow.

A Sparrow’s Voice

Caught in a dream
Finding myself half there…
Half here… although here is not
Where I feel the most at home…
I dreamt of all the beautiful
That lingers beyond this world…
Sometimes finding its way
Into our forgotten consciousness…
I find no way to trace the lines
For there are no words
To engrave upon the mind
What lies beyond our human comprehension

If I were an artist
I would search this world for a canvass
That could bear the magnificence of a masterpiece…
And paint for you… “my dream”…
Though I have never found
Within my humanness
A palette borne of such brilliance…
Yet it is often within
Those very shades of other worlds
Where our soul discovers its longing…
Perhaps the effervescence of ‘coming home’…

Though Vincent tried to paint his dreams
One lonely “Starry Night”…
The morning star… the light before the dawn

His paintings often lined the walls
Of silent kings and queens…
Yet, never did he find the hues
For portraits of his dreams

Though I am but a sparrow’s voice
Upon the parchment bare…
I have searched this world
And that of another
For words that could paint
Upon this canvass…
A dream…
Yet I have found only lyrics of my humanness…

Caught between the reasons
Of life… as though it seems.
Never having found the words
For portraits of my dreams…

My mom was an artist… and a dreamer… a painter… and a poet. She often wandered this world and that of another and I thank her profoundly for sharing just the thought of that possibility… and for her endless encouragement… from this world and from that of another. There were times… while painting her heart upon the canvass… I could see the frustration upon her face… feel the pain of her compassion… for she too… could never find the hues to paint her dreams…
And yet…… We still can dream.

Namasté

Michael33

Tuesday Rain

rose-3

Tuesday…

It’s a beautiful cold and rainy Tuesday morn here in the southern plains.  Most folks might feel that I am a bit ‘touched’ in the mind for feeling this way, so perhaps I should explain.  I woke this morning in the wee hours… eyes opening to a new day… to explore the wonders of the world… rain playing a most beautiful melody upon the window pane… Stepping outside the door with my first cup of coffee… the cool, fresh morning air offering the wonderfully clean aroma of Mother Nature’s perfume… with one who has always lingered in the scent of love… my breath, but a mist… sparkling in the streetlamp.

Perhaps it is my age… perhaps I have learned along this journey that has brought me to at least a fragment of wisdom… that has brought me to know love.  For love does not come with hors d’oeuvres at the finest restaurant… nor in a box of chocolate… nor upon the petals of a rose… but in the words one speaks in kindness… in the smiles one brings to the face of another… in the soft touch of one’s fingertips against the skin of one who longs to ‘know’ love…  It lingers in conversation… in sharing the silence… the quietude… knowing… without words… that you are loved.

Love is not defined in a single day of celebration… but in love shared with one another… on a most beautiful cold, rainy Tuesday morn…

Happy Tuesday… May your day be filled with love.

Namasté

Michael33

Of Morning’s Light

of-mornings-light-4

A little about the author of what some may think as poetry… and some perhaps of nonsense… As some of you may have presumed from my writing, I have delved deeply into meditative and altered states of consciousness.  Although I actually think that ‘altered states’ as some refer… really alters nothing and is just the result of a more direct focus of consciousness.  There I have found words of the ancients… insights… poetry… often, they share their mysteries.

Perhaps I am an ‘old soul’… perhaps I am merely a lost soul in search of the unknown.  I seek adventure… to wonder of the world… of the many worlds that surround us… those that linger outside our normal, human vision… the most alluring.

On one of these meditative journeys, I found myself sitting at a wooden table in what appeared to be a kitchen area resembling what one would think existed in the 17th or 18th century.  I was wearing somewhat bulky red and black clothing from head to toe.  My fingers were adorned with several large gold and beautiful gemstone rings.  Staring down at the marble floors, I felt a tremendous sense of sadness… to the depth that I have yet to shed from my memory, the intense feeling of heartbreak and sorrow.

In a bit of synchronicity… the morning following this meditation… this encounter with what I must at least consider as a possibility of an image of a past life ((hope I didn’t lose too many of you on that statement))… the local newspaper had a very small, irrelevant  article that spoke of Louis the XIV having placed marble floors in the Palace of Versailles.

Now… I certainly had no presumption that I was a king… yet… perhaps I ‘could’ assume by the way I was dressed… the rings on my fingers… the setting… the marble floors… that just perhaps… I was in some way associated with someone of significance in that era of time.

This Friday morning… at 3:30 a.m… I awoke with poetry in my head.  I laid awake repeating it over and over to myself… to avoid letting  the words I was given from worlds unknown, slip from my memory… That same feeling of extreme sadness, loneliness, longing…  again overwhelming my being…  At 4 a.m… I could wait no longer to place the words in safe keeping…

These are those words…

She has lingered so near to my heart
The sound of its rhythm
Echoes in the silence
Of a cold winter’s night…
Words never spoken
While bare feet danced
On cold marbled floors…
Yet faded runes
Still fondle walls
Of cryptic cellar stone…

Loneliness hath no forgiveness
While souls still wander
Down castle halls
And whispers soft… in garden bloom…

She has lingered so near to my heart
The light of my soul
Now burnished hues
Of morning’s light…
Yet voices heard in dark of night…
Keep mortal flesh in silence…

Namasté

Michael33

I would truly like to explore those cryptic cellar stones!

Perhaps this was all just coincidence and dreams… but perhaps………..?

Copyright © 2017

In the Breath of Wolves

the-breath-of-wolves-5

In the Breath of Wolves

It’s been a fortnight or two
Since the wolves howled
Near the edge of the prairie…
Hungry beneath the moonlight…
Eyes that glow through the thickened brush
Searching for those of imprudence

Paws… in their silence
Pressing quietly the forest floor…
Their mouths tasting the night air
As if the mist itself were filled
With the taste of ambrosia
Warm… against their tongues…

Twas midnight of the half moon
Shadows dancing neath the black oak…
Flutterring sounds from the wings of the wise
Evading the thirst of the hounds…
Sagacity roused in patience of time
Searching for the scent of innocence

It’s been a fortnight or two
Since the wolves howled
Near the edge of the wildflowers…
Hungry beneath the waxing moon…
Yet warm moist breath lingers in winter’s night
While the prairie bides in its silence

A breeze is stirring through the valley…
Willows crackling in the cold night air…
The distant sound of the nighthawk
Echoing across the meadow
As I stand in wonder on the edge of tomorrow…
Listening to the hush…
                                              before the howl…

Michael33

Thank you for dropping by and reading “In the Breath of Wolves”.  Now I would like to ask you to take the time to read it once again with the thought… that just perhaps… this poem is not about furry, four legged animals……….

May your day be filled with beautiful moments…  while “listening to the hush…”

Namasté

Copyright © 2017