L'Amour Toujours

Siren

Something about her is just so charming

Off to Pretty Places

Got a map on my wall of a world I've never seen, not much of, really. It's lined, labeled,demarcated and annotated. Lot of good it does me. Just places in a picture, latitudes and longitudes, mountains, rivers and seas. Where would I go if I got out and went? Wandering, just wandering.

So if I'm not on a ship or a plane making my way to some culturally intriguing destination then I must rely on my imagination to get me where I want to be. There's a world so much bigger than the globe where I have creative control and I don't need a ticket to get on board.

It's national poetry writing month and I only learned of it about a week in and somehow didn't motivate myself to do much about it. The month has ticked by with barely a poetic peep out of me but now I'm thinking it's time for a trip to the inside of my mind, a promenade down the path of promise and a dance through the garden of my imaginings.

Directional

The curves are dangerous
I hear this in the back of my mind
and I find
that the downfall is the straight line
that unwavering path
the push and the dash
towards a fixed destination
I'm more comfortable in corners
more relaxed in switchbacks
moving right and then left
like a warp and a weft
I steer clear of all fear
and laugh knowing danger has passed

Tinkering

Tinkering with things tonight, with ideas, beliefs, truths. I am tinkering with space, with time, with dimensions. I am tinkering with my own mind, with electromagnetic pulses, with lucid dreams.
The dictionary definition of tinker aligns it with the phrase mucking about. Yes, I'm doing a lot of mucking about lately. Shaking it up and flinging it around. Patterns will be broken, pendulums will swing in the opposite direction for without balance we are lost. Too long we have walked in a straight line and now we follow a star on a curving path, past all manner of delights. We are free to dance and spin and the journey is not a race. We can take as long as we like and trust that we shall still arrive. There are no doors closing upon us. They open like flowers to the sun, windows to the sea breeze and the destination is laughter...sweet, simple and free.

The Pink House on Sprague Street

It's big, it's bold, it's begging to be noticed and on most days I might gloss over it but tonight I saw it standing pink and proud. I wonder who would choose such a color? Most would think, perhaps, that it's a very poor choice, stemming from overweening ego, exceptionally bad taste or an inability to actually see what color that is. Tonight I preferred to believe that the homeowner is simply filled with enough joy to paint their home a color they love and that they don't care a fig what anyone else thinks of it. Tomorrow I'll probably revert to the exceptionally bad taste theory but it's nice to put judgment on hold for a while.

The Great Run On

The ink in the well, the wellspring of my muse, the source begetting the void, bringer of all, birthing the beginning, setting eternal clocks ticking and I spin on the center of the wheel, trying to feel my way back through time, separating space, or moving it together, pushing or pulling, the maker, the made, the earth in the shade and the sea is a shadow of mist, distilling the bliss and listening to wind in the trees, a sky split asunder, the grass that grows under, a sun melting into the sea.