Waiting for Change

There is a color, deep and glistening, a turquoise-black-blue. And when I see it, the world is shining and I cannot turn away. There is a contrast of white on black that is unmoving yet unpredictable, and when it pushes upward, it mingles with its antithesis that always floats away.

There are blades of grass that cover this place. But instead of inches, they have grown and grown and grown.  Their black, brown, green stretch far above me, forming patterns in the light and darkness, purpose in the shapes and forms.

There is water, so much water.  Water that is dark and cold, water that is blinding in excitement.  It forms liquid parades that quietly march through the feet of unknowing bystanders.  It forms gushing forces that surprise and astound all who see it.  Water produces transformative changes in a moment and through a millennium, both with dramatic results.

Streams push past pebbles, and clouds push past peaks, each initiating a newness upon that which is still.  Though it is impossible for mountains and trees and lakes to change what they are, they are consistently transformed.  That which can only flow and trickle and mist, initiates change upon that which is insurmountable and unmoving and waiting.

While drifting waters perform the task of bringing forth change, while those that are still, perform the task of waiting.  An empty and exceedingly difficult duty.

Waiting for water to fill, blanket, and flow. Waiting to be formed, reborn, transformed. Waiting for the revelation of beauty amidst the change. Waiting for a new season to begin.

December First

The winter winds have kicked up, right on cue.

Bits ooze through, growling, the sound of Halloween

already nearly forgotten.

I hide inside my cider and worn out songs.

The first of December.

Lights gleaming in the window are not perfect because twisted wire sometimes fails.

But, oh, it is perfect, perfect indeed.

The children wonder how something so ordinary could be transformed.

“How do you make it so. . . so beautiful.”

December first is a fight, tangled wire versus sheer delight.

Creative expressions are hung, boldly for all to see.

And the moon is jealous.

The ever present light plays second fiddle to momentary whims.

So it hangs low, close, so it can be reached.

A sliver of light purposed to reveal a promise, a coming.

Poetry 312

A mirror is said to reflect, yet as I observe its gleam I understand ‘knowing in part’. I do not see anything familiar; whether dressed and drawn or bare and true, it is no reflection.

For each wisp and whimsy has left me.  Each follicle a traitor, deserting to escape death.  The haunting of every traitor.

My hand runs over the smooth surface.  Waiting. Watching. Like the eyes of an angler watching the sea.  Searching for some detectable change.

This uncovering does not manifest a true reflection. I am who I am.  Below the surface, my mind continues on its travels and my heart remembers how to yearn.

Yet the waters reveal no ripple.  The traitors were blown away leaving a smooth surface, for all to see.

 

Poetry: 224

You traveled here a million times farther than I have gone today.
For me. For now. For us.

I sit and rest and feel you upon me.

The warmth gives me peace and overwhelms me at the same instant.

I can pull away, and often do.

You traveled here, in mere minutes.

Yet I could never. Impossible in science or fiction.

Even if I tried, I have been warned by melting wings and towers above.

This is a one way trip.

You come to me. My place is to rest and listens to the stories of your journey.

Beauty, a reflection

I have looked into the mirror and found something lacking.

I do not miss the eyebrows for the sake of brows; or a hairline for the sake of a line.

The lacking lies in a bigger search. A search for what we call beauty.

But as I have grown comfortable with my reflection, whatever that may be, I realize there is more to the word; which is something I may have forgotten for a moment or two.

There is a beauty that comes from a sense of home; from a pleasant word, or phrase spoken in a familiar tone.

There is the smell of onions in butter with a translucent garlic swirling in a copper pan.

A dark velvet pillow that draws you deeper into the couch and urges you to lean back on the one beside you.

There is a comfort in a garden, in need, that draws your fingers into the earth for a gentle touch to loosen the roots.

There is a joy that comes from a place that is forgiving and loving and learning to be kind.

There is a bravery in being needed, wanted, always sought after.

There is beauty in being favored; a confidence that rises from being accepted; a purposed stance that comes from an embrace; and confidence leads the way to re-imagining and redefining.

There is beauty in being good and fair, though this may be difficult when your strength is gone.

But remaining pleasant can sometimes be easier when you are worn, for your brain is too slow for sarcasm; your tongue too thick to hurt.  In this moment, beautifully pleasant can be an option, with a simple smile.

If you are in need of a vision of splendor, adorn yourself with embellishments of hats, crowns, and shimmering distractions.

Just remember to walk boldly in the confidence of your other beauties, or all of  the shimmering  will not do the trick.

Finally there is the beauty of finding yourself ready in the moment, in the trial, in the purpose before you.  Finding you are ready, your hour is right, and you are able to flourish;

Hair or no hair.

224

224  Chasing butterflies

A gleam of light reveals something that did not exist.

Silently floating.

A swipe of the hand can stir, quicken, slipping through fingers, with every grasp, every attempt.

Sometimes monsters. Sometimes fairies.

The unknown and unrecognizable becomes a place for imagination to grow.

Do you see beauty? Do I see fear?

Do my fingers grasp at something that cannot be caught?

My efforts in vain. Or is it a process of seeing; for the first time.

The knowledge of presence revealed.