The Invitation

The Invitation

You

are keeper of bees

and rainbow dimensions

and just as playful upon my heart.

Yet, I fear

I have kept a secret,

dear spirit of Spring.

I am chaos

and destruction

and can only keep lost souls

and nightmares

underneath

my indigo-charred skin.

My love, I have given you false promise.

I lack the divine power

to keep you safe in my world

or hold myself in yours;

we are trapped in a circadian spell.

Still, hope springs eternal, even in hell,

and my faithful winter wolf watches

the gateway between worlds

for you.

Carousel

Carousel

Hallucinogenic lights

burn us into being.

Parched, we buy sarsaparillas

and play at being human.

The Tilt-a-Whirl spins us into the fun house

and we kiss on the Ferris wheel.

We leave, again and again,

but the carnival music sucks us into cotton-candy giddiness.

A slipstream on repeat and your hand slides away from mine

on the carousel, and

we lose to this game of madness.

Where do we go from here, my upside-down, inside-out

shadow love?

Sunday, Ordinary Sunday…

Sunday is my least favourite day. It just seems worse than Mondays, because Mondays, at least, are a fresh start. A do-over. Poor Sunday. It just seems to epitomize that droning-meeting-white-noise bored feeling.

But the real issue is that I’m sick. Allergy sick. I got allergy tested (Thank you, Medicaid), and discovered that not only am I allergic to the grasses that make up those dumb turf lawns that are so popular back in my home state, but also a fair bit of trees, certain  kinds of mold, hay, dust, and feathers, of all things. Guess I won’t be going out and hugging any more trees anytime soon. *laugh*

So, when I was cleaning out the art supply closet at work, I got sick. Like almost instantly sick. Within in a few hours, I started to get a sore throat. It wasn’t until a few days later that I found out there was mold growing on some stuff in the closet. By then I was really sick. Lost my voice and everything, but at least it supported the results of the allergy test. But, do you know how BLOODY hard it is to supervise a whole passel of overly excited little munchkins when you can’t even talk? Luckily, the kids are some of the most amazingly sweet kids I’ve ever met, so I was spared a Lord of the Flies reenactment. *laugh*

This morning, I even dreamed I was cleaning out and organizing an artist’s studio. Which would have been really annoying in that I was dreaming about something I’d been doing all week. Except that the studio was an open air one, surrounded by a low stone wall, and real green grass growing everywhere. And it was warm,  but not too hot, the sky was a soft blue with clouds, and there was that wonderful kind of breeze that comes off the ocean–playful and mysterious and reminding you that nature is a conscious, vibrant entity.

And then I got a sense of my muse being present. Not really in person, just a feeling they were watching me (from afar) enjoy the wind blowing all my bad feelings away and tangling my hair. It was too poignant, and too simple to even exploit for a poem, but I just wanted to acknowledge them in some way, in case they are out there reading this blog from an alternate dimension. Even though I know perfectly well they are just my creative mind speaking to me, I haven’t been able to make that connection to the part of my brain/soul that’s epitomized by said muse. But, still, I’ve been missing you, my Muse/figment of my imagination.

And now I have to go clean my own house on this prosaic, ordinary Sunday. While dreaming of an ideal day that was shared over at a blog called “Scotland with the Wee White Dug”. Rain, a quirky museum, and scotch? Honestly, what could be more fabulous?

https://theweewhitedug.com/2017/02/18/hooray-for-rainy-days-in-edinburgh/

Love and other Mysteries of the Spirit…

 

Neelix: Commander, I don’t think you can analyze love. It’s the greatest mystery of all. No one knows why it happens, or doesn’t. Love is a chance combination of elements. Any one thing might be enough to keep it from igniting – a mood, a glance… a remark. And if we could define love, predict it – it would probably lose its power.–Star Trek: Voyager

“Invisible things are the only realities.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Loss of Breath

“Yet mad I am not…and very surely do I not dream.”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Black Cat

What a strange time it’s been lately. (Naturally, there’s a rational explanation, but for now, I’m just enjoying the mystery and the magic. I’ve kinda had an overdose of reality, anyway.)

 

Sleepless white nights.

Or very intense dreams, full of symbolism. Jung would probably have a field day, but…

…in real life, the dreams I’ve been having are echoed by an eerie serendipity.

(Actually, I just realised that synchronicity is a better word choice.)

Like Mulder, I want to believe.

Am I losing my way?

But I think I want to get lost.

It’s so mysterious and beautiful here.

Magic is in the air, especially at the crossroads.

I hope I get it right, this time.

*makes a wish*

*believes*

The Griffin and Sabine series might be a good travel guide.

But I have some animal guides to help me find my way, again. (I think).