Nieninque

White.

I look out my window - all I see is white,
and all I can do is smile.
My cheeks upturn, my eyes brighten,
and my mind flashes.

Images of open mouths catching falling diamonds,
racing through blanket covered rocks,
trying to get away from loving arms,
walking home as white lights tumble from
dark skies.

This is my heaven.
Sweaters & scarf, mittens & muffs.
Hot chocolate & fireplaces, saunas & steam,
cuddly sofas and heated seats.

This is paradise.
The sound of new footsteps, an
unhideable trail small houses and
little men on every front lawn.
Houses sparkle in the night,
it falls so early.

This is my time.
No one is unhappy,
the sounds are all songs -
everything is golden white.
As living things fall to sleep
I am wakened to a new life,
a life of crackles and diamonds,
of hot mugs under a warm blanket,
hand holding through wool,
of soft kisses in a softer snowfall.

This is my dream - this is my world.

Gray

The sky is bleak,
the clouds piles upon piles of gray.
A warm breeze blows,
but I hardly feel it.

I watch the people hurry,
scurrying from one place to another,
fearful of the sun that
threatens to shine through the
darkening canopy above.
I see this all - life passes my eyes,
trees outside a train.
I see it all and I cannot help but smile.
My soul dances with the
leaves on the trees,
our temperament shifting alike.

I feel a sunset,
brilliant yet peaceful,
awe-inspiring yet grave.
This dreary world holds me not.
It cannot contain the magnitude
of my expression, the
otherworldly weightiness of
my melancholy - and yet
all is sum by the joy that
whispers through the speckled
sky, faint echoes of hope,
assurances of life,
worthy life.

These gray clouds cover not my end -
they are the shroud of my beginning.

Strands of Straw

I rebel against myself.

I follow none of the rules I make;

no ordinance of self do I follow

once I’ve set it forth.

Everyone else must adhere to the

velcro walls I create.

Yet I am boundless.

I soar through unfettered skies,

slipping the surly bonds of Earth

over and over again;

far above the rest of you,

I am free.

In this world I have created,

I am free.

Everything I do,

I seem to do without eyes.

I do not want to see what is

coming towards me,

what lies ahead.

I stumble through my own life,

unseeing, unsure;

unwilling to live this life

I’ve carved out for myself.

I want to be saved.

Saved from myself.

I told myself not to fall in love with you.

I told myself you were no good,

you didn’t care for me.

You only pretend to pay attention;

you need me only to feed your

ego – and I fell into fodder for you.

To you, I am fuel.

I am nothing but

strands of straw,

and for whatever reason,

I’ve allowed

you to burn me,

allowed myself to be burnt.

Is there no one out there able to rescue me?

Or am I not worth saving . . .

Million Dollar Smile

I want to see it.

Why do you hide?

Why can you not be

happy just being you?

God made you, and

He made you perfect.

But we can only be

perfect once we

realize that we are

perfect in the One who

made us.

We are Perfect in Pure Love.

He loves,

and you are Perfect.

Feb 1/07

The Song

I sit in my chair, facing forward,
waiting for my cue,
I know I have to wait; it’s
not yet my turn; for once it is right
for the men to go first.
I close my eyes, swaying with
the melody that flows so
sweetly, so smoothly . . .

And then I hear it:

A line of song so pure and
perfect, serene and full of such
wondrous harmony!

I cannot help myself.

I feel it creeping, starting in the
pit of my belly, slowly moving
up my spine, inch by inch,
climbing up towards my heart.
When it hits me, I am gone.

I melt into a sea of bliss,
rolling in the waves of his song.
Rising and falling with each
lilt of his harmony,
I nearly forget myself.

I know that if he were to ask,
I would surrender myself at once,
heart, soul, mind, and body.
If only he would ask,
I would be his forever.
To stay in his song, to
bathe in his melody, to
lie in his harmonies,
O! the music we could create! ---

My eyes open reluctantly,
taking in my lost reality,
and the joy I feel from
creating song seems somewhat
diminished.
I open my book to the right page,
and begin to weave a tune,
half smiling to myself,
because even in the
glorious fullness of the choir,
I can still hear the
purest strain of song,
and in that song
I live.

Emblem

6 of clubs laying faceup in the snow.

Beside

the home an oyster

once knew. Lost.

Desolate.

Alone. Fir trees bend shadows

from above twinkling lights from

in between the white walls

that hold us from moving.

Snow diamonds shine in the

preafternoon light

wear me on its finger,

the slave to the minority. Logos

change to suit 7 while the

70 times 7 live on in

quiet indifference to the birthright they

abandon.