A Summer Day

There is beauty in the dance of the butterfly

An image in contrast to the blue of the sky

Her yellow wings beating out rythm to nature’s song

A peaceful presence helping to move time along

And magically blending the colors to green below

With a pleasant smile I say to her a quick hello

Her time more important than you or I

It does not matter when she makes to me no reply

Silence

The katydid and tree frog chirping out a lullaby

In the shade of the great oaks

The summer sun now just breaking above the distant hills

Filling the air with warmth

A soft breeze moves the green leaves and tall grasses

The passing cooler air drifting down through the hollow

Carrying with it the smell of flowers from beyond sight

Lulling tired old men into a quiet reflection

Silent as a shadow

Breathing in the peace of the world

Someday Often Comes To Late

The dreamer dreams in lingering thought of reality unending and stories yet untold. Painted visions of peopled cities of different make that rise and fall like the breath in sleep.

Here there is no ticking clock to arouse the slumbering Buddha. No changing season to cast alarm to those senses that watch the sky for rain.

The dreamer dreams of reality unending, and of stories yet untold…

Pat watched the passing traffic. All the drivers going by shared the same emotionless blank face and self absorbed gaze. It didn’t take a detective to see their minds were distracted by secret thoughts of what they wish to do to the other assholes driving. Occasionally one would act upon that emotion and swerve into another lane. A succession of honks and horns would immediately erupt from the offended then the offender. There was nothing entertaining about watching it.

Across the street a mother and daughter were just exiting a white SUV. The child looked to be six years of age, very short, and very thin. The mother was only two feet taller, slim waisted, with a half starved but fit build of a runner. The black yoga pants she wore left little for the imagination to guess at. Perhaps she was in her early thirties. Nowadays it was becoming more difficult to guess a woman’s age. Even the daughter, depending on the size of the father could have been twelve years old and malnourished.

Here too was nothing of interest to the watcher. Maybe if the woman had red hair or was a large busted blonde Pat would have given her a much more intensive observation. Instead his attention went more to the little girl and what was held tight in her left hand.

A long slender ribbon tethered a bright red balloon to her. Recently bought or gifted the elastic shine of it’s red bobbed back and forth under the tension of her pull. The nearness of the slow moving traffic sent it eddying this way and that above the girls head.

Pat watched as the two figures disappeared into a resale shop. The red balloon bobbing even as it faded from view in the store.

A silent prediction was made that upon returning the red balloon would be absent, and the little girl’s mother would be dragging her by that very same hand. The pleasant expression upon their exiting the white SUV would be gone as well…

A dark cloud lurked upon the distant horizon. It looked like more than just a small rain shower on the way. A stiff breeze blew past. The storm was going to be strong enough to carry a mix of dust and leaves with it.

The traveller looked impatiently over her shoulder then back to the approaching storm. The sun was already a soft rose colored orb drifting down behind the tree line. It looked to be a cold damp night with still more distance to make before she would feel comfortable enough to seek shelter.

The look of the path ahead was of one well tended and high trafficed. The chosen route would be an easy one to travel. Still the uncertainty of the present and her purpose here was an annoyance. It had been to many times that the traveller had been caught in the open that they would ever allow it to happen again.

“They”, she repeated out loud. The host was still attempting to override the situation she now existed in. This insanity had the tainted smell of witchcraft. Whatever daemons had possessed her during the night and coaxed her sleeping body into this unplanned pilgrimage was not going to continue without fighting it the whole way. At the moment she had to admit to the sensation of being thoroughly screwed and a bit out of control. The voices inside her brain, and constant hallucinations overlaying the real world were enough for now to keep her following the path “They” had chosen.

They continued further into the wildering darkness. Like the insanity of voices, and the deepening night, the enveloping woods soon swallowed her up from the world she once new.

Pat watched as the sun slowly sank behind the grey clouds of rain. Even now the rosey reds and brilliant rays of gold were becoming muted by the storm.

The once invisible homeless became active moving about. They shuffled by with cardboard tucked awkwardly beneath the arm, strips of plastic or confiscated garbage liners clinched tightly against the blowing wind.

Pat could see the same lines in their faces and hands as his; The same age worn stains upon clothes, tired odd sized boots and shoes worn brown with neglect.

“How many times has it been?”, the voices asked.

As if in reply one green eyed transient looked nervously back over his shoulder.

“To often” came the reply blown upon the wind.

Idle Times

Had it been seconds or a lifetime of ages since the last time a visitor had past. The doorman was starting to wear thin like the door mat he had been gifted by an old travelling salesman.

At first he saw the humor in the gift as a poke at his own purpose in being. Often the thought had been contemplated that his only purpose was to keep the mud and dirt from getting through the door. Even though the wording and color was beginning to wear away, the doorman still felt “Welcome” in the stylized flourish of flowery writing. After all it never rained or snowed here in his land of make believe.

After all, in all the land of entrance and exit, only he had a comfortable mat to stand upon. Without a doubt a true gift to someone bound to stand until forever ends or begins. Whichever came first no longer mattered to him.

On some occasions the doorman would move his mat down the white halls of light. In picking a new place he had hopes of changing the view for a time. Nothing ventured, nothing gained was the latest saying he had heard. It made perfect sense to him. Of course the only change was in the mind of the doorman. A cityscape of blinding white never dimmed or changed in contrast. In truth the only purpose in seeing at all was his purpose as watchdog. Never open, never close, never allow another beyond the threshold. Absolute and uncompromised in that one task this whole time… Orders he never did really understand. Why have a door then?

The rules never applied to the Author, or Dreamer, nor even to himself should he venture beyond. Somehow they were the same as he or she depending on your train of thought.

Another was someone like the man in the grey suit, but not like the traveller. As hard as it was to tell the two apart only the traveller could gain entrance while the grey suit would just fade away into the darkness beyond the portal.

The thought of the grey suit saddened the usually cheerful doorman. “Could you imagine being aware and completely capable of communication with another sphere of being? Only unable to bridge that short distance of understanding to join. It could drive a being to do horrible things, all the while thinking you had a purpose in stopping something.”

The doorman stared out into the white patiently waiting for an answer. After what seemed an infinity to him he heard a reply.

Some days it felt that it was a wasted effort to take the time to go to work.

And with that the doorman moved his mat once again.

The Nightingale Calls

There is a time when the stars all align
Showering the heavens glistening crystal brilliance down

And the blue sky turns to blackened velvet
Sparkling with the light of an infinity of diamonds

Green oceans with frothing white capped waves
Become pacific and restful
Mediterranean mixing with a Persian hue bringing with it a deeper calming blue

The once tempest winds idle into a soft southern breeze
Blowing tropic scented fragrance to allure the mind

And all this beauty is here just for you

A paradise lost to a wanderers sight
Remembered only in silent pools of memory and regret
Not nearly forgotten by his heart
Those binding devotions of words and emotion

This love I still have of you

A Night of Long Knives

The dream stalks me into the wakeful world. Glimpses from the corner of the eye confirming what the unconscious mind knows.
They are all here. Shades waiting for their chance to overpower, to overcome me in my own passive inattentiveness.
Quickened steps echo from out of darkness. Fading into the quiet with each hesitant breath the faint movement mimicking the rustling of wind.
But I know and in an instant of white rage the invisible horrors show that they do too.
Blinded by blood and pain that race through mind and body like burning streaks of lightening. I weaken and tire

A wounded elk staggers beneath the burden of the wolf packs extra weight. Muscular limbs and tethered tendons rip free with the jagged sharp bites of death.

With one final attack to the exposed throat their prey topples to the pavement. Liquid life in fleck and splatter now pools a thick crimson about it’s dying host.

The traveller’s day passes into the night; the dreamer slips deeper into sleep.

The sage awoke to the pounding pain of a migraine. Eye sockets feeling ready to shoot out the orbs they protect. The stiffness of age taking second place to the extreme torture of joints enflamed with arthritic swelling.
The thought of an alcohol or a self induced drugged comma crossed his mind in a neverending dialogue of desired relief.
The morning also brought with it a sharp pressure building up in both ears and joining the blistering agony that was currently burning in his throat and chest.

This and the gruesome vision of the Travellers ending was nearly to much.

Being near immortal as in the concept of time often had it’s benefits. Sadly living for infinity also offered up it’s own punishment. One being he still aged. Time waits for no man, it drags him along in a riptide. And still being human the same sickness and diseases could and would often infect him. The only difference between his life cycle and those of other humans was simply their difference in opinion about time.

The seconds trickling by actually didn’t. That’s the misconception about time. One second referenced on it’s fluidity and the next laid out flat like a tape measure. In simple math the blissful people of the world never realizing they had mixed up the units.
Even the simple concept of trying to place time to a line was ludicrous.
Next the world would be demanding equal rights and free speech as seen on a bell curve or slide rule.
No, such a thing was functionally incorrect and impossible.
Try and explain and the doctrine educated book smart population would always shout you down. They had to of course. If not they’d have to admit to being idiots. That is something only the wise and enlightened were ever able to do.

As the Sage finished the first cup of coffee he could feel the long day ahead was to lengthen into another all nighter at the desk.

The Dreamer tossed restless in a emptying abyss of black. Random images and short lines of text drifted in an out of existence.

At times the dreamer felt his boundaries limitless only to suddenly see them explode into a new world and lifetime. A resounding blast of sensation and experiences flung upon the blank canvas of perfect zen. Then in the next instant to be drawn off in a predetermined fashion to a stranger place of a dusky, dank, must filled room. Here time was lined and stacked, shelf on shelf, into infinity and then back again to the start with pi. There nothing was forgotten, every moment documented in the very black that filled the Dreamers slumbering world…

And under its own pull bent back upon itself infinite.