little things

Off to See

The sea’s the source of life that be.
Life’s the beginning of all’s journey.
Journeys inform of real diversity.
Reality is what we individually see.

Fantasy’s what we make it to be.
Science is what we think may be.
Thought is time with mind set free.
Free is what we’d love to be.

Love unites, we all agree.
Hate divides universally.
Together to agree to disagree,
a reality of peace we then may see.

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Journey’s Home

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I’m not just me, I’m at least three.

One sailed far hoping to be free.

One steamed airless more recently.

The oldest walked a vast frozen sea.

 ~

With passing generations this matrix grows complex.

A boundless atlas made of tiny specks.

Paper lines divide the pages of our time.

Ignorance is bliss, blindness sublime.

 ~

Unfurl the man-made charts, the journey’s just begun.

The ship of fools adrift, nowhere left to run.

Invaders, settlers or immigrant be –

all driftwood from the churning sea.

 ~

Time whispers on the ever-changing breeze.

One-eyed pirates still plunder all the seas.

Children wander a water-less beach.

Welcome shade out of reach.

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To find a paper line they roam.

To find a future to call a home.

Pages of the atlas grown,

each a page we call our own.

*

The End

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Selfscape

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On a canvas of life we paint every day.

Some burst with color, some dull and gray.

Each stroke has consequence, broad or precise,

all mediums large though most will suffice.

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Hue’s all made one from another.

Texture’s built on a base we smother.

Shadows lurk in black and white.

Brilliant moons portray the night.

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Love is felt on glowing skin

Hate pours from the blood within.

Seas of green churn, gallant ships tossed.

Crews-o-many flounder, all forever lost.

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Happiness’s awash in the bright blue sky.

Sadness gives it time to dry.

Realism reflects an instant in mind.

Abstract’s more real when meaning you find.

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Yet in two dimensions we do all conform.

Our edges and corners define the norm.

Then we sign, frame and place on a wall.

There hung with the others, all very small.

~*~

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Tick, Tock, Tick…

Once upon a time, almost never twice
You chance upon something, feels real nice
It makes you feel better than you really are
All wounds seem to heal, leaving little scar

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Time passes, cracks begin to show
Cuts re-open; ooze, fester and flow
Till’ hands pure re-mold the cast
Mind’s reset, ticking fast

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Bells ring, rings true
True’s just another shade of blue
Blue bells, bells ring, birds sing
Trees to swing, around again to spring

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Ride the arc, end the wait, start the climb
Rise and fall, once again, upon this time
The ground is hard, the heavens nice
Journey’s there, never twice

~

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Well, Almost

We live on a sphere, well almost,
surrounded by air, they the host.
Warmed by a star, pulled by a moon.
We’ve day and night, both come too soon.
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We’ve loads of life but most unseen,
covered in rock, water and green.
There’s lots of smells, feelings and sounds.
We’ve love and laughter, yet danger surrounds.
~
Failures abound, they’re always free.
We’re fully exposed to freely see.
We can be tasteful, and risk being eaten.
We can be colorful but risk a bad beaten.
~
Lie, cheat and steal and then freely boast.
We’ve the freedom to choose, well almost.
We’ve still time to finish what we start.
Well, almost there; war or art?
~*~
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The Art of Living

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From hand scrawl on a damp cave wall

The stroke of genius to start it all

And then another, discovered recall

A timely chance, the past in freefall

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The renaissance screams in-between

Painted queens upon medieval scenes

To modern memes of tomorrow’s dreams

Our nows are relative or so it seems

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Hung to transcend drawn to a friend

Contemporaries’ always free to lend

Future’s descend, questions to tend

Conclusions offend but only one end

~*~

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A Village Uncommon

~*~

Birds are first to welcome the day.
Second’s the stable boy, warm in his hay,
next the rooster with a cockle-doodle–do.
The sun then knows it’s time to shine through.

The day’s now begun on this little village farm,
sounds are awakened, no need for alarm.
Chores are done first before breakfast’s had.
The boy gets scraps for which he’s glad.

He then fetches water to fill troughs high,
looking down he reflects on the sky.
The birds passing by all wave hello.
The boy too would like somewhere to go.

His only companions where pigs in the barn,
a colt in the stall and a blanket of yarn.
The pigs are noisy but warm at night.
The colt’s always worried something’s not right.

The boy and the colt are both small for their age.
The colt’s awkward stance was more prone for a stage.
The boy’s body covered in hair but none on his head.
His face more pale than a ghost long dead.

He was missing teeth, what’s left are brown.
When out to run errands he’d limp back from town.
He was bullied by piers, pitied by the rest,
that’s why the barn is where he liked best.

The barn’s on a farm the boy’s aunt owned.
The pigs are theirs but the rest boarded or loaned.
The crops all prospered by the boy’s hard work,
though all profits were spent on his cousin the jerk.

The jerk had a sister the boy thought faire,
as did all the mirrors where she did stare.
The boy’s aunt was mean and her husband’s a brute.
They all wore frowns but the dog was cute.

On the boy’s return to the barn for the night,
he was much surprised by a most curious sight.
Pigs were in a circle the colt standing tall.
The hens in the middle said nothing at all.

The lonely stable boy was their only concern.
So a plan was hatched for the love he earned.
The colt too had thoughts in his growing mind.
There’s something, somewhere he needs to find.

Then suddenly a change right before their eyes.
Within the hour the colt doubled in size.
The bumps on his shoulders grew larger too
As did his hooves, now too big for their shoe.

The discussion’s now over and all agreed.
The boy and the colt should both be freed.
Some details whispered and the time was set,
for a barnyard adventure to never forget.

The boy donned his blanket like superman’s cape,
then mounted the colt for their great escape.
First are hugs all around before they depart.
Then the barn doors cracked for the plan to start.

The hens muffled the rooster so time was bought.
The sheep flocked to the door as they were taught.
The ducks then quacked to cause a commotion.
And the brute awakened without a clue or a notion.

Pigs started oinking and the cows crashed the gate.
The little dog barked but it was too late.
The boy and colt ran fast past the posts,
waving goodbye to their ungracious hosts.

A tear was shed for the friends left behind.
But his blanket’s aroma would always remind.
The pair dashed down the lane by the hedge-row.
Then flew over the hills where the uncommon go.

In search of a world thought fantasy.
A place imagined by you and me.
A place where all’s different and the same,
where none is wrong or to blame.

This place called fantasy’s not make-believe.
It’s a place that’s real we feel and perceive.
As the pair now see how much they’ve grown.
They come into view of a sight unknown.

Not commonly known this uncommon sight,
there welcomed warmly in the setting sunlight.
The Uncommons filled their common and a party had.
There all are different and all are glad.

A one-legged sprinter hopped by to say hi,
as did the unicorn and an eagle with one eye.
A lady strolled over who walked on her hands.
Her arms so long they dragged in the sands.

Her daughter followed and sparks then flew.
The boy didn’t know that there could be two.
His Pegasus introduced with shakes all around.
Their hands all touching made a warm clapping sound.

Hugs soon followed and a tasty dinner had.
The boy almost forgot he was ever sad.
He cuddled a tiny kitten that roars really loud.
And played with two-legged puppies that only bowed.

There are two-headed snakes and a toothless beaver,
also the tail-less mouse from his aunt’s cleaver.
Here everyone’s loved and their love they share,
who wouldn’t love a giant dancing bear.

These commons are full of Uncommons galore.
Though anyone’s welcome, there’s room for more.
The boy’s party ran late and he rose with the sun.
Then all’s back to normal in a village uncommon.

~*~

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Let’s All Build Forts

As a tot I built forts up on my bed

Then Bedtime took them away

as a kid built castles in the sand

Tides washed those away

*

As a teen built hideouts in snow

The sun melted all away

As a young man built other‘s dreams

While mine were slipping away

*

Now I build wordtopias that I call my own

A place where imagination’s never outgrown

In these stories are steps with no ends

There’s a place big enough for all my friends

*

With paper tents and pencil posts

we’ll grab some time and share a toast

so if you’re ever passing by this way

Come enjoy a fort that’s building a sunny day

*

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Gigawhat

It might be age, I really don’t know,
but I liked it better when things were slow.
Cars are too fast and so is the news.
Just to keep up we wear running shoes.
~
Everybody’s rushing but never in time,
pushing and shoving, no reason or rhyme.
We hustle and bustle to make others rich.
Then we get a slogan: “Ain’t life a bitch”.
~
The economy’s crazy and DC’s a joke.
The great halls filled with mirrors and smoke.
Yet time’s the same as it always was,
long before smartphones and the digital buzz.
~
Peaks are reached, valleys to follow,
real intelligence needed surviving tomorrow.
As the pendulum swings to and fro;
balls get slammed, this I know.

~*~
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Magic Carpet

~

Full moon’s high in my window pane,

a sleepless night yet again.

I think of what that old moon’s seen,

and the billions of days in-between.

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Billions of stories it could share.

But few like grandma’s can compare.

Her life began long, long ago.

Raised in places few ever know.

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In forests, jungles and never-ending plains,

there were exotic cities and quiet country lanes.

Naturalist nurtured traversing the globe,

her parents explorers and professors in robes.

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She too attended their university,

majoring, of course, in anthropology.

She graduated at the very top of her class.

Then returning to a high mountain pass.

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A place where dear friends made, one nevermore,

new will be made though not as before.

For the sisterly love they both did share,

her dowry passed from generations with care.

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Their rug was presented for the mutual esteem,

more cherished than a simple weaving would  seem.

With sheep twists dyed and hands knotting all day,

life’s artful history’s made to give, barter or pray.

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That winter spent mourning by choice and terrain.

Gram then ventured east with the new spring rain.

Her path soon ended on a long Pacific beach,

her life of the past now far out of reach.

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She then called upon as never before.

She volunteered proudly as a nurse in the war.

Through years of blood, pain and tears she served,

refusing all the medals and honors deserved.

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Though her true love was found slumped on a cot,

they soon returned home, where time was forgot.

Gramps got better and a new family sown.

their many shared scars were never to be shown.

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Her old rug was placed by hearth and chest,

each full of stories though not all are best.

It’s a place we’d sit to hear grandma recall,

sometimes a place to do nothing at all.

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So I tip-toed downstairs since sleep no option,

I’ll rest on that rug where dreams are begun.

It’s where secrets are shared and magic seen,

then a place for relaxing time in-between.

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Once sewn as a bag keeping safe, precious things.

It’s been many a blanket with a picnic to bring.

It’s been a shawl in the cold and hood in the rain –

and a comfy pillow on the overnight train.

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Adventures had in time that’s flown,

together worn from long years grown.

This rug’s grandma’s confidant and oldest friend,

soaring together their wove lives transcend.

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Though colors now faded, ends torn and frayed,

beauty more timeless cannot be remade.

And when the winds do bellow just right,

we’re drawn up the flue and into the night.

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Holding fast and climbing high,

we touched the stars in our moonlit sky.

We’d see twinkling lights in our town below,

then off to the hills where roads don’t go.

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Over the wood, back to the place we all live,

where the door’s always open and love’s to give.

There blissful slumbers had snug as a bug,

whilst wrapped with a hug in grandmas old rug.

.

~*~

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Sandpaper

I know not how this came to be

Or when the sun shall rise

Or how the glowing sunset

Disappeared before my eyes

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The streets are full of evil

The dead roam the night

Whilst the darkest of the darkness

Survive till mornings light

~

With every passing cloud

Across the lunar face

I step into the shadows

Leaving not a trace

~

Yet tread I must

Feeling blind

Touch is unfamiliar

Fearing those of kind

~

Where all are equal

When none’s to gain

We all are free

To share the pain

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All paths uncertain

When never to be seen

All life is questioned

When living in the mean

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Colors may return

To these blackened eyes

Head facing upwards

Awaiting bluer skies

~

And in the hour-glass

The sands of time do fall

Space above buries the low

Lest the destiny of all?

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Rushing to an end

That is but a taper

Slipping into despair

To bleed on sandpaper

~*~

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Life’s a Beach

Simple words writ in sand

Sculpted with a simple hand

Words of meaning I can’t hide

Yet disappear in the changing tide

 ~

Time takes all that we need

Gives anew to thus be freed

And toil we must to hold our ground

While standing straight on a world that’s round

 ~

By day, by night we return to see

Miles for shore await you and me

We’ll mold our lives in these sands

We’ll rewrite “I love you”, holding hands

 ~*~

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It’s Time

Lifelong habits surely die hard;
new routines are an old canard.
But time for now is all my own,
a new sensation since I’ve grown.
~
I’m gonna ride my bike and stay up late.
I’ll play my guitar until I’m great.
Ice cream for lunch at four o’clock.
Then feed some gulls at the dock.
~
With walks to the hill for sublime sunsets,
life will be as good as it gets.
Plans for the future now fill my head.
But all that’s tomorrow, it’s time for bed.

~*~
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What A Day

In the still of a new day’s dawn,
quiet of mind and blissfully drawn,
all’s free when darkness gone.
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Sun’s arisen, shadows loom,
sounds of day muffle the gloom,
stones to turn, bloom or doom.
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The hour golden, day’s soon to fade,
moments collected, time’s paid,
life’s spent, remains made.
~
Day concedes, moon’s on the rise,
countless stars fill endless eyes,
space between kept wise.
~
Dreams await, troubles naught,
loops thrown, catches caught,
my day was what was thought.

~*~
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Forgotten

Was a cold winter’s day and there’s nothing to do.

Same as yesterday, nothing’s new.

So I took a trip to the attic to look for words and a view.

The crisp winter color of sky and water, reflected in deep icy blue.

 ~

The cobwebs hang heavy, there’s nothing new to explore.

Cold and flustered I stumbled back to the steps and slammed the door.

I went back downstairs and took some time to reflect.

Those things worth finding shouldn’t be that hard to detect.

~

Unless of course what seems lost, was never really had.

Though loses always remembered, it’s the forgotten that make us sad.

 ~

I went back upstairs where memories go to rest.

Pushing through the spider’s webs, to that place I like best.

It’s just a seldom seen pane of glass that compares to no other.

It’s a picture perfect painting, painted in the seasons changing color.

 ~

I sat upon a shaky box hiding something long forgot.

Steamy breath fogged the glass creating what can’t be bought

I viewed the shifting shades of pinks and blues that end every day.

Then I shared the chill with the fading sun falling into the bay.

~

Turning from dusk to shades of infinite grays with shadows intertwined.

I lightly step, hands outstretched and leave my little pane behind.

*

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