aSocial Butterfly

butterfly6.1

Oh Butterfly,
Trapped in a prison of its own device-
Four walls and a floor made of glass;
comfortably confining, a contradiction.
It stares out at the world through these walls
wishing, pining, hoping for release.
Yet, the release that it desires
comes at time of its own choosing-
It need only spread its wings
and soar towards the heavens;
to the freedom of the skies,
To the saintly touch of another.
But these glass walls magnify the world,
Distorting its view-
Creating monsters that seem bigger and closer
than they really are.
Even though freedom beckons,
Fright holds its wings closed.
Yet, when Fear takes hold
The Lepidoptera need only close its eyes,
feel the breeze from above,
and trust in the power of its lissome wings
to overcome the vast visions
of its self imposed confinement.
So, fair sky Contessa,
Shall you shudder behind glass all your short life,
and watch the fugacious world fade away?
or will you transform your fear into courage
and leave your four walls behind?
trapped no more in a prison of your own device
Oh Butterfly?
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In Dreams

 

 

 

“In Dreams we bloom, soaring beyond Time and Space.”
dream turtle

In this moment I grieve for thee

sink

I stand as you stood many times before

laboring over dirty dishes in the sink.

As the warm water washes over my hands,

I gaze at the flowers in the window sill

and wonder if you smiled as I smile now,

smelling the sweet Calla lilies brought to you by little hands.

Did you sigh in relief as the dawn bubbles

removed the final crumbs from the pan,

the pan that you used to bake a cake for every year of my life.

Did your mind ever drift away–

as your hands continued their mindless task,

away through the window, down the driveway,

and the lane where we walked to Church together every Sunday.

As I stand in the echo of your memory,

drying the Just Flowers dinner plates

that served your cheese potatoes and other delights for countless family diners,

I wonder that if I complete this same task, touch this same plate

that you touched just a month before,

if I stand on the same tiles worn smooth by your feet,

will it reverse time, just for this moment,

and allow you to be with me once again.

Formation of a Spirit

painting writing

As a painter treasures a blank canvas for its potential, a writer treasures a blank sheet of paper for its inspiration.  A painter must listen to his canvas and make the first stroke; from which all other strokes will culminate.  So must a writer fill the first page, the nature and connotation denotes the shape and form of subsequent pages.

Color upon the brush: meet your lover, canvas.  Two worlds collide, moving both to a higher understanding. As soon as they meet, the blank and dumb canvas is neither blind nor mute.  He now speaks with the vitality of his new eyes.  Behold: a new creation, though he is only one brush stroke he will grow.  Every new brush stroke perfectly placed; there are no mistakes.  Hence, such “mistakes” give the world its flavor, and if aborted, the world looses another color.  Thus, the world is not colorless; an empty canvas beckons the painter to paint new shades.

Mighty pen: meet your lover, inspiration.  A harsh taskmistress, she is. She demands letters grouped in sensible words, then dressed into full bodies. Minutes bleed into hours and days of this love.  Until, behold, the first page has been born. These hours of labor reward its mother with a bundle of hope.  “What is this new squirming creature? How am I to nurture it, feed it, help it grow?”  The mother inevitably asks. Grow it shall. More pages of life will be added, each new word as important as the old.  All comprise this new creation and give life where none once lived.  One can only live word by word, page by page.

This truth brings the end back to the beginning.  Just as the painter writes with colors for the human eyes, a writer paints with words for the human soul.  Yet, even when an end or completion dawns, it brings new inspiration, new potential for the beholder.

Mariposa

Mariposa

 butterflydreams

I saw the butterfly
on the cold, grey cement.
At first I mistook it for a leaf,
spring green and spotted with decay.
But upon second glace,
I spied two slender feelers
And one beady black eye,
pleading for help.
I had to touch-
a velvety surprise.
Not like a leaf at all-
rubbery, rough or jagged,
But more like a babe’s bum-
powdered fresh and smooth:
fragile.

I peeled the butterfly
from the cold, grey cement.
Its guts, splattered by many hard soles,
had plastered it to the sidewalk.
I wondered how a creature of such beauty
had fallen under foot and heal,
Trod upon, and walked over
regardless of saintly stature:
abused.
Holding it in one hand
I kept if from harm- if only for a while.
With my other hand
I lit the butterfly ablaze-
consumed, consumed—one last
detriment.

I released the butterfly’s ashes
to the cold, grey cement.
No longer plastered to this earth
by guts and wings,
But free to fly
upon the winds of a
dream.

Carpe Diem

CareDiem

Dawn sings her morning song

to wake painful Day.

“Carpe Diem!”

Before she rises!

Kill her in her step,

Let not her head

rest in the sky.

Our time here-

in the stolen grove-

shall never end;

let’s Carpe Diem

and stay in the dark

forever.

Ode to My Precious

A Sonnet of love and sorrow:

Gollum

Oh my precious, my dear birthday present

In this moment I hold thee above,

After a long and arduous ascent,

I have returned to thee that I love.

You shine brighter than yonder yellow face;

Blind am I to this life, this world I hate:

Of fisssh, toothless, tasteless, leaving no trace.

“Gullum, Gullum.”  I have become of late.

Yet, I, Smeagol, promise never to leave.

Hard fought, I stand upon these rocky grounds.

Never again to part, never to grieve.

Death I have forsaken in your gold bounds.

Now, as you descend in the fire with me;

My precious, eternity will I have with thee.