For days it looks like nothing is going on, but a single ray of light can make a huge difference, and have a complete metamorphosis. The once young wound, has now large and colourful wings, and three good things happen. The first one is that it cannot grow any further. The second one is more immediate. It can fly far away! And the last one is that it can only live for a few weeks.
— “Flying Butterflies” by Joanna Vang
These and many more
grace our existence,
drift in shades of dark
Beneath the window I daily love to look out,
scattered mementos rest in peaceful carefree repose.
Objects I’ve collected on many a walk or outing
as a tangible reminder of the joy felt in my discovery—
a myriad of variegated stones both smooth and rough,
bits of tufted moss, brittle pinecones, downy feathers,
cracker-stiff leaves, hard shiny seeds, sprigs of fallen greenery
or blooming flora now dried and delicately preserved.
In passing moments, I look at them fondly and
handle the small treasures with gentle care;
fingering their spiny edges or smooth surfaces,
touching the soft dust-tipped buds, I lay them…
Words, once heavy, weighted with parchment and the mutterings of an iron pen beneath furrowed brow or typeset letters sculpting a monument of ink and leather, now relegated to invisible virtual reality within the parameters of digital qwerty access, carrying a different sort of weight not established by the physicality of the immemorial balance, wherein edit, erase, delete—repeat times infinity—is now the accepted and understood mode of action; words easily written and easily lost, but not so easily forgotten.
Knowledge, once rare, limited to esoteric realms of cowl and cloister, where silence was cherished and holy sounds of chant and…
I have this drawer — you might know the one—top right side of the desk (maybe yours is bottom left), easy-access, purporting to be useful yet serving no real purpose, craving attention yet I lack the guts or inclination to deal with it.
So it grows and grows, a wasteland weed fed by paper monsters, glitter goblins, and office supplies on steroids. But those aren’t all.
It’s a favorite hideout for all my castoff electrical cords, those half-dozen pairs of broken earbuds, several defunct calculators, a handful of decade-old cough drops or peppermint sticks.
It serves as the repository of…
Scabs, scars, bruises, calluses — in a perfect world these don’t exist; in this world, however, they are the invariable hallmark of her haphazard healing.
Wounds dug deep, deliberately carved with piercing stabs into granite surfaces, bleeding crystal tears yet longing for restoration, ignoring the utter devastation inflicted by her own hand.
The flesh is rutted, gashed, rubbed raw, the nails broken into jagged edges
as they twist and rip into soft tissue, sinking deep and crying out for peace, searching for feeling anything other than this quiet deafening void.
She seems too happy. A smile a day scatters like…
Breathing shows me that
I am not alone —
breath is life
breath is a miracle,
and as long as it indwells
my fragile fleshly shell
I am not alone.
Breathing in this moment,
breathing out the baggage —
breath by breath,
each aspiration a steady pace,
transcending the pain, instilling a calm,
a guided freedom settles,
an extension of nature living in my being.
Breath is a constant presence,
a structural foundation,
bringing perception to that which I seek
and release to soul-wearying weight.
Breathing draws me deeper,
down an inner pathway
to a singular focus,
leading to the core of…
It’s not your fault
your talents were
snipped at the sign of
the first green shoot.
It’s not your fault
your questions were not welcomed
but shunned, feared, ignored,
it’s not your fault
your doubts were demonized
to the point of timid compliance.
It’s not your fault, dear heart, that
the river of your consciousness
was diverted, gathered at its head
and sent down a channel
rife with craggy stones and
In many ways, you are
a product of your past,
your misguided authorities,
your ignorant peers.
You were nurtured, tended,
to be an identical duplicate
Sitting here late on a winter night
I’m wondering about fate and things
If a life can pass by unlived, in a blink
If there will ever be peace on earth.
I used to see the stars, my gaze unhindered
But that was before the coming of her
The nocturnal lover of obsidian smoke
Turning my senses numb and my focus dim.
My view isn’t so clear these nights
Obscured by sheets of murk and mist
There’s light up there, my eyes strain to see
While the road before me sinks ever deeper.
I think I’m walking on moon dust…
I love words and ideas. I write thoughtful stories and poems on life. Curious about spirituality, philosophy, history, health, psychology/science, the unknown.