Not one alike
and when combined
than a single snowflake
DemeanorThe frame of mind
we have inside
can change the way
we see today.
A gloomy cloud
can cause a frown;
the sun above
fills us with love.
The outside world
changes us within,
but it should be
Our self inside
can change the world as we know;
we just have to let it out,
and let it roam.
Today was a good dayI slip,
into the vacancy of the cosmos,
where the sun,
a burning cyclops eye,
I soar, and,
when I return,
I speak of my journey
around the stars, behind the moon,
to a place where Pluto
is no bigger than my thumb,
and a star can be crafted
into a beautiful diamond ring.
DoubterScattered, fragile dreams,
destroyed, on the ground
no more. Alas,
reason shot them dead-
a spray of skeptic bullets
coming from our mouth, our mind,
our friends, our enemies.
"Nothing is impossible
but everything is distant."
REALity IS reLetIvE"Eat healthy," mom always told me. "Eat healthy, because I don't want you to have a heart attack in your teen years." And I always listen to her, even after my teen years, and eat healthy by barely eating at all, and having a cup of herbal tea once in a while like she says. Because mom's always been here with me, walking where I walk, sitting where I sit, following me with her advice always handy, and I don't want to disappoint her while she's here.
But at the same time, I know she isn't-is she? I saw her dead all those years ago, I saw her lowered in the ground, her calm face looking up from the shiny black coffin, which lay on the green tarp they use at funerals, and I put a blue rose on her grave, which cut my finger, and I knew she would never be there to bandage me and kiss my cuts and scrapes.
Or did I? Because after the funeral, she joined the others who walk with me, one of the many who speak to me, and told me to make sure that cut didn't get infected, to put some Neosp
Ashes to AshesI stood in the middle of my soft forest clearing, soaking in the pleasant night as I waited for my guest to arrive. Ignis isn't going to be late, is he? I wondered, running my fingers through the creases of my brown dress, and looking up at the moon-less sky. No, he's never late; he always comes when least expected, though, according to Tempus-
"Terra." The sound of his smooth, light voice made me turn my head, and there he was, standing at the leafy entrance of the clearing. He wore a silky black tuxedo and shined black shoes, along with a red tie to match his orange hair. A perfect smile was stretched on his face, and for a few seconds we simply stared at each other, he with his green eyes, and me with my dark brown ones.
"I'm here," he said finally, walking into the clearing and towards me, stopping about a yard away from the place I stood. I resisted the urge to smile in delight; he was comp
RFS- Part 3She snapped her fingers, and the chain immediately released the grip on the Streamer's windpipe, returning to normal size around his neck, and he collapsed on the ground on all fours, gasping for breath; he was mostly breathing up sand, she noticed, which caused him to break into a coughing fit after a moment.
His breathing slowly quieted as air refilled his lungs, and soon the sound of his breath mixed with the light breeze that had picked up. She turned away from him, thinking of the right way to answer his question.
"You know I was asleep, brat; don't try to deny it," he snarled quietly, causing her to wince a bit. Even when they'd met four years prior, he'd liked to call her "brat". "You still have that stupid sensor in your glasses, don't you?" he snapped, starting to stand up.
Soon he was at full height, towering about a foot above her, and she looked up into his eyes, calmly meeting his glare. "Yes," she said, straightening the glasses, which sat on the bridge of her nose
Storm CallSeasong carries
over water, away
Sailing the wind
To the end of day
High fidelity, hearken
A weather eye
When autumn skies
Clouds scatter and flee
Before taking flight
Between here and away
The moment stretching
The pause between breaths
The calm that comes before the storm...
Ocean already tugs at the lifelines.
A whisper of cooler Atlantean air
The storm comes
From the breath of susurration
To the thundering wave's drums
Inexorably now, it comes.
Caught up by horizon storms
The shore beneath you disappears
The sea provides fair warning.
And from the savage night —
Full-throated furies howl and rage —
High and dry by morning.
Cast up by the sea
Strange creatures and mysteries
Leave beachcombers to wonder
But what the sea provides
The storm-surge yie
Painting the SkyMother Nature:
Effortless in her grace,
Flawless in her beauty,
The world a canvas,
With her palate of infinite color,
Any method or tool at her disposal.
She is the master of pieces,
The composer of ancient lyric,
The writer of every story,
The artisan of all trades.
She paints the heavens at dawn
With hues of violet, orange and rose,
And strains the clouds on the horizon.
The rising sun’s light reflecting off their surfaces,
Cascading vibrance onto the weary eyes
Of those in slumber, and those awoken long before.
She calls the birds to sing the melodies
Known to them by heart,
And as they face the new morning,
They bravely sing the intricate verse,
A language all their own,
But one that all are blessed to hear.
She takes her brush and streaks it across the clouds,
And carefully flicking the moisture down to earth
She adorns all things with the finest crystalline water,
Dew covering the grasses,
The weaving of spiders,
The flowers untouched by crude hands.
She gently blows a sin
NaiadI am of the tall kelp and hard cliffs made
I do not bow, I do not break
I am coldness, I am hunger
No one is older, no one is younger
My soul is pure yet deep as the lake
Into which Bedivere returned the magic blade.
If you find me hiding in the reed
Do not be frightened by my blue-grey face
Men who come wish to cover me in dresses
But I’m fine, my dignity saved by my black tresses
Women may leave an offering of delicate lace
Or gold coins, as if my hunger is one of greed.
But don’t come too close to the water brink
I am the guardian of all those who sleep
Eternally in seas dark and rivers wild
I embrace every spurned lover and unwanted child
And drag them down, for my sisters to keep
Close to their hearts, their blood to drink.
each autumn is another springautumns where every leaf is
a fumbling wildflower and
every deep sunset where colours bleed
against the horizon,
pools of melted copper and
shreds of cloud like glittering morning
i hope you realise how each
autumn is another spring
three blackbirds fly across painted skies,
tearing up the dust i
can still taste the peppermint the sugar
hills and every midnight, dandelions they
dance in my chalice of
chipped china coffee mugs.
slept, bluebells, baby crocus
buds swept a
peek round my doorway and
I didn't prepare for a drenched bouquet of
silk netted soaked morning lights on
my doorstep when
i'm still dreaming of circled
street-lamp hues as soft as whispers that
hang high above the
dew drops in the air
-come take me there.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,
this, our neighborhood of galaxies,
in which only a single star
is even remotely reachable.
And we tell ourselves
to dream big.
That hard work
will get us there.
But on the cosmic scale
our collective capacity
For every star in the Milky Way,
all four hundred billion or more,
there is a galaxy.
Even the Local Group
Yet since dreams are orbital
we hold our breath to reach them.
And when we perish in the vacuum
the stars still burn
everything that matters.
Low Newton-by-the-sea, October 2014 (18th - 24th)a)
(i.e, Day One)
Ocean burst first
from eggs called seashells.
The Kraken, a baby prawn.
Ceramic fans from pre-Japan
opening up the primordial pearl.
softens to pub-food Swiss cheese.
Barnacle pastry breaking, cracking
open to reveal dinosaur-wells,
excavating the latticework of the sea.
Underneath are the oceans that separated
to rock pools. Rebel lakes who
cut the murk-mahogany woods underneath
waves. One such “weed”,
an octopi’s maple leaf,
lies shipwrecked on a driftwood-dry shore.
The stalk of a crab, breathing out
deep blue treacle from its crimson roots.
The beach thins to a kitchen knife,
stretching into a submerged point
before everything becomes liquid.
the foamy fat.
(i.e, Day 2)
The sun lumped
a dollop of overexposed butter
on to the sea, blinding me
to go the other way.
It’s a mini Gobi,
wet desert safely near
the Blue Drink.
The wind shoves me forward
rain angellie down on the smooth footpath
it has been warmed by the sun for
lie down and feel the heat against
your back and the ants that begin
to crawl through your dry hair
and read the sky
spread out your arms on the footpath and
into the roiling black heavens
just wait there, wait until they
open upon you
blotting circles pattern around you until the sky and the path are painted the same
but for a smiling rain angel where you lie
sheltering beneath you
and that strong, heady scent of petrichor that surrounds you
everything becomes wet
carbon, concrete, chlorophyll
the tickling ants run for shelter and you
let this all-consuming deluge wash you away
forget the nuances of a crowded, bustling life
money, jobs, responsibilities
for just a few minutes while the warmth fades
you don't need to be afraid
you are a child of the earth
and free your mind
when you are done and drenched