The seasons’ breath whipped through the air and branches bent to its’ will the crowns congregated, the mulch agitated throughout the woodland nothing lay still the earth revealed bore imprint, of habitat sustained and while the foundation lay dormant the spirit remained untamed The unscented air seemed revitalized and oxygenated my core as all things prepare for the year born anew when bud becomes bloom once more
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The Last Blossom As the inky black of night time begins to melt away Its’ grip on the moment loosened by the coming of the day The first shards of sunlight pierce the darkness of the world And I behold the morning born anew, its’ arms unfurled The earth sighs in welcome, its’ breath condenses as the mist Dew forms on dormant bud and yet one bloom persists There stretching out before me, defiant 'til the last A solitary blossom kindles thoughts of seasons past
These words I place upon the page bear witness to the telling, of time and space I occupy, and moments that I dwell in. Of experiences interpreted with mortal imperfection, of sporadic impulses bereft of all direction. Of paths that I have ventured down seeking illumination, of venom that I have endured to recreate sensation. Of countless souls encountered, of faces memorised, of deeds born of pure intent, of some intent disguised. Of dreams that I have realised and dreams yet to be? The exploration of my fate, the rationale for me. These words I place upon the page bear witness to the telling, of time and space I occupy, and moments that I dwell in.
I tighten my grip on the moment and wince against the force, my thoughts, abrupt and untameable, run riot through reason, and tested and tortured I accelerate towards the first eruption incapable of calm, angry am I and I mean harm my will fragmented I fight to keep control, unpredictable and erratic, I am derived of this beast unleashed on my soul, if reason could conquer I would pray for all incapable of calm, angry am I and I mean harm but limited are the merits of my foe, suddenly departed and in its place hastens despair, curtailed at the brink of destruction I stand bereft and abandoned, the penitent man, angry I was defeated I am.
what a jumble, words they tumble through my mind and pour out via conduit phrase as I attempt to ignore the meaning while they try and grasp a web to form a frame when last the final link approaches they dismember, sentence maimed all in disarray, my prose today, a fool am I void of means to purge this unyielding, swollen tide of rhyme fragmented, jumbled, vented, spewed into conscious thought driven by a need to be, reckless in its’ onslaught
In the absence of a few words from me I would like to share a few words written by John Denver, that I have always found particularly beautiful and that have been going around in my head for several days, since I acquired a copy of the song. joy was just the thing that he was raised on love is just the way to live and die gold is just a windy Kansas wheatfield and blue is just a Kansas summer sky If you don't know the song and want to find it, it's called Matthew.
Sometime when the sun was on the downward side of the day I looked across at mountains, saw the tree line curve and laze away if I could reach across the gap and hang on to the very peaks if I could walk on top of crowns, cradled there from underneath Orange glow and gentle warmth bathed me then from toe to tip into lower pools of red I sank my feet and took a dip diving back towards the shadows needles break my fall I close my eyes and dream, and dream again I'll do it all. 1.3.02