Flying Song

Daddy what would you sing to me
Mommy what would you sing
What would you sing to your baby girl?

I love you
I love you
Whatever you do

Go fly my child
Go fly my child
I gave you wings
So you can fly

I will cry my child
I will cry my child
But don't you come flyin back to me

But if you cry my child
When you cry my child
You can come flyin home to me

Wherever you go
Whatever you do
I will think the world of you

When I am not your home
And you are feeling alone
You can always come flying back to me.

And we will sing:

I love you
I love you
Whatever you do

Go fly my child
Go fly my child
I gave you wings
So you can fly

Just know that you can't stay
And I will never make you pay
When you come flying back to me.

Being an Observer of Magic

Observe: notice or perceive something and register it as being significant

I sat with this man, this old man with a scarf, that is the main character in the game "what doesn't belong here". As he smoked a pack of cigarettes and sipped on espresso and seltzer, he told me of magic, of hope that is real and his years of pretending. I saw that there are options:you can pretend or you could actually experience beauty in the hands of grace before a meal. Beauty in the way a home embraces you with its color and warmth, the kind of home you encounter a couple times in a lifetime.

As we talked about the impoverished lifestyle of the "famous" street we were on, the sound of liquid streaming on the pavement behind me distracted me. I turned and sure enough it was exactly what I had imagined, yet in a different form. A large brown hound dog was urinating on the pavement right in front of the coffee shop where the man with the scarf and I were talking about the magic that seemed dead in this place. We both leaned back in our chairs and wailed with laughter as I caught his half astonished half disgusted mouth drop at this sight of this rabid beast turned pet making his mark. This dog had no idea how profound his action was at that very moment, he was only responding to nature.

The statement he made is that there was no room for nature on this famous street, only room for cold plastic seats and tattoos that tell half of a story the holder never cared to finish. Therefore it is etched on the authors skin for eternity, hoarded selfishly, never to enter the ears and hearts of humanity around him starving for that half chewed story that he gave up on.

I wanted to believe this man in the red scarf. I wanted to believe that magic does exist, a part of me was picking up on the magic inside of him. The stories he had made from being an observer in his everyday life. We don't have to live in the mundane, we can create and experience magic everywhere because it is inside of us!

Ocean Endings

Why does every good thing
Come to an end?

I will make it last
If I just change out the water
If I breathe into your lungs
Will you stay a bit longer?

Every magical night
And soft lullaby
Slowly becomes quiet. Still.

Then the silence.

Why is the silence so loud
So vast. So lonesome.
It faithfully points to the Truth
Like a river flows to the Ocean

Has the truth ever been touched
It stands as a virgin does
Seductive and Pure
Never to be found in a sentence

It is as mysterious as the wind:
It's beginning rush with anticipation in its wings
The bumps rise to the skin and it is gone.
Washed away in another drop of sweat

The only way to bring it back
Is to set a date with the river
To jump in
And the rivers calendar is full with openings

To make a reservation you must forget how to swim.

Ocean party of ONE your river is now available.

Honeysuckle

Smells of honey and sweetness fill my nostrils. The air is thick and the stands are full.  Orange dirt is under my finger nails as I reach for the bush behind my brother’s baseball field.  I pinch at the long prism and pull it from the stem, racing to put my lips around it and suck the juices from the vine.  “mmmmm” as I feel my delight turn to sound for the outside world to hear from my chest to my throat up to the vibration of my mouth.  The quick rush of sweetness surges into my tastebuds as I look over into the grey and blue eyes of my childhood friend who is mirroring my every move. His eyebrows rise high on his forehead and creases are forming in his rosy cheeks as the corner of his mouth rise.  His hair is dark auburn and wet around his face.  A slight breeze sends the white and yellow buds whispering, beckoning to us, and the ting of the metal bat brings us back to reality.  Patrick’s puffy freckled wrists reach up to grab another thistle from the leaves, as the breeze sends my hair dancing to tickle the back of my neck. We reach for another.

Home

Abba. Give me a word today.
It seems you have left me in the grey.
Come back home to me And
I'll come home to you

Mama. Give me a sign today.
I can't see with your back to me.
Turn around
Let's dance in what's found

Brother. Give me a hand today.
For I am weary and broken down
If you turn that ship around
I'll come swimming to you

Family. I will give you the Truth.
I have left home, turned my back
My ship has sailed

Home. Where are you?
The waters now you are
I still see your face in the tides
I hear your songs in the wind
But I'm gone.

Abba. Give me a word today.
I am home at sea with you
You are mine. I am yours.
Dancing to the beat of the unknown.

The Unspoken Speaks

She is there

She waits

With her head down

She waits

Not knowing if she is giving up

Or taking a break

Sick from all the unspokens

All the filters, the mazes

The weaves and blind turns

She is naeusous 

Motion sick

She used to love roller coasters 

Now they are too real

The ins and outs and upside downs

The yes's and no's 

The supposed to's the shows

The grudges felt but not heard or spoken

The vibration, the tremor of her voice

Coming from the inside out

She has a choice

She purges. She lets go

The ride slows down

She can see, she can feel

She lifts her head

It is real. 

She is here.

Alive and dead

Empty and fed

Proverbs 17 Woman

The highest woman on the ladder, who can find.  

The one with the scars is the most divine.  

Except for the scars are on the inside for none to see.  

For all the Yes’s she gave in word and deed.

What does she lack?  No one knows

Except for the stains on her sheets and pillows.

Proverbs 17 women who can find

The most noble, hardworking, and divine

She gets up before the sun and takes care of everyone

But what does she do when the day is done?

Does she lay under the stars and wonder who is there

If she says No, will someone up there will still care?

The highest on the ladder, who can see

She is too high, even for me.