Thank you my dear friend Jennifer for showing me this today. Beauty.
Countenance
Metatron, pray be kind; I am weary and falling behind.
These earthly shoes I so did choose;
tofore I went, up off knees bent,
shoulders squared, the Dark beware!
Silver shortsword swinging at my side
in synchronicity with my stride,
poised and ready to stand for life, ne'er a scintilla of fear for strife,
aver Heaven's army behind my knife.
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.
This heart not so brave as resolute, courage was an absolute;
No trepidation on my nape, nor uncertainty to lay in wait.
The road was cobblestoned with truth,
each brick inlaid behest to move in patent exhortation;
not in need of explanation.
Imperceptibly the way turning slowly with each day
from the solid, even ground, into something more or less profound.
Steeper and steeper yet, cobbles loose and slippery wet;
here a wall straight up to scale; now a chasm of a vale.
Wilderness around my head, pays no heed per hap I'm dead.
Strain my eyes to find a trail, blazes have all long past failed.
Compass now my dearest friend, guides me as I wind and wend;
thank you Metatron, for this, an onliest and precious gift.
The shortsword silver at my waist is heavy and its blade oft scrapes
at my own flesh while forth it swings.
I might trade it for a pair of wings
to soar above this baleful trek, and find a hidden place to rest,
or rocket off into the sky where angels do not care to fly,
and carry off away from here my very heart, my young so dear.
To anger, no, to rage, I'm stirred, to be inadequate as shelter
for the one whose charge I'm called, against this mortal caterwaul!
I loathe to see his feet are sore, his crown unshielded, spirit torn;
Just how and what, how much to guide, and when to know to step aside?
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.
Dear Metatron have mercy still
when on your book you work your quill:
my given name if your hand writes, pray see me in a friendly light.
Forgive my frail and human form,
not always strong against the storms.
I fell and faltered, on knees and hands,
at times my legs refused to stand.
Such beasts you sent to challenge me, to hone my foil mastery.
Not every one I recognized; my shame that I was hypnotized.
And avalanches, hail and mire! Chasing me from wrong and dire
shortcut paths that I desired to use instead of frost and fire.
Grateful is my beating heart for gracious wisdom you impart
to this unworthy little soul, battered, torn and unconsoled.
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
But if I may have one request, to find a cool, soft place to rest.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word;
continue on this quest I will. And pray for mercy with thy quill.
~M.Black
East Face
Blaze morning! Open my windows
from the vaperous caverns of sleep.
Deliver my name from the indigo canyon walk with dream horses
and shadow winds that whisper spirit words.
Burn away yesterday's dirge,
burn out the gloom corners from back rooms
filled with empty boxes,
useless coffins dry with dogma dust.
Sweet morning!
Incalescent on my cheek freshly turned from sins of the other,
still chill with last night's dewfall,
still chafed from last year's bitter cold.
Still stinging, but only in memory now,
fading as with the night,
soon to be forgotten in the yellow-fire horizon.
All is now and here, clean and newborn,
baptized in forgiveness.
Peaceful in stillness like new snow.
Gracious morning!
Evaporate these self inflictions,
illumine my feet so I don't misstep,
my hands so I don't injure,
my lips so my words land sweetly.
Let this be the new blazing day;
let the long, dark night diminish
until only half-remembered tales remain.
from the vaperous caverns of sleep.
Deliver my name from the indigo canyon walk with dream horses
and shadow winds that whisper spirit words.
Burn away yesterday's dirge,
burn out the gloom corners from back rooms
filled with empty boxes,
useless coffins dry with dogma dust.
Sweet morning!
Incalescent on my cheek freshly turned from sins of the other,
still chill with last night's dewfall,
still chafed from last year's bitter cold.
Still stinging, but only in memory now,
fading as with the night,
soon to be forgotten in the yellow-fire horizon.
All is now and here, clean and newborn,
baptized in forgiveness.
Peaceful in stillness like new snow.
Gracious morning!
Evaporate these self inflictions,
illumine my feet so I don't misstep,
my hands so I don't injure,
my lips so my words land sweetly.
Let this be the new blazing day;
let the long, dark night diminish
until only half-remembered tales remain.
Silent Moment
This is the one, then, Rider~
Take it all away, for a silent moment,
hide it in the day for a year.
What I'm saying here is strip yourself of all things,
then sit back and watch what appears.
Look inside the life He bestowed upon you,
know this life is yours alone.
Think before you speak, the answers are the questions;
you must live and love your own.
When you're facing winds of blood and chaos,
cling to your own flesh and soul.
Strength of Spirit has no fault to break or crumble,
Prince of Peace has paid your toll.
M.Black 1988
Take it all away, for a silent moment,
hide it in the day for a year.
What I'm saying here is strip yourself of all things,
then sit back and watch what appears.
Look inside the life He bestowed upon you,
know this life is yours alone.
Think before you speak, the answers are the questions;
you must live and love your own.
When you're facing winds of blood and chaos,
cling to your own flesh and soul.
Strength of Spirit has no fault to break or crumble,
Prince of Peace has paid your toll.
M.Black 1988
Aeon
There will be time to sleep but it is not this hour here,
the one we are setting in, this hour that wraps around our backs,
enclosing us in its shelter like the walls
of the great grandfathers' drawing room,
our fervent philosophies echoing upon one another,
bouncing and colliding,
building in magnificence to a cacophony of intendment.
Not this hour here, that we are awake in,
this hour that surrounds us like a soundproof bubble,
within it our laughter growing louder and louder with each tick of the clock's long hand,
rising up in a tangled riot of shrieks and giggles,
weaving together like silken threads,
to float back down as song.
The lamps glow golden here, now.
Our words have no restrictions, our yarns we can spin
for as long as the strands hold together,
as long as the fibers remain unbroken;
our tales will turn and turn
until our waggling tongues grow weary;
our glasses will remain full; the Golden is timeless.
We will remain here, untouchable, invincible,
unsinkable, until our reverie breaks
and we begin to forget again.
But not this hour, the one that we are alive in.
It is not yet time for sleep.
M. Black
He is here~
the one we are setting in, this hour that wraps around our backs,
enclosing us in its shelter like the walls
of the great grandfathers' drawing room,
our fervent philosophies echoing upon one another,
bouncing and colliding,
building in magnificence to a cacophony of intendment.
Not this hour here, that we are awake in,
this hour that surrounds us like a soundproof bubble,
within it our laughter growing louder and louder with each tick of the clock's long hand,
rising up in a tangled riot of shrieks and giggles,
weaving together like silken threads,
to float back down as song.
The lamps glow golden here, now.
Our words have no restrictions, our yarns we can spin
for as long as the strands hold together,
as long as the fibers remain unbroken;
our tales will turn and turn
until our waggling tongues grow weary;
our glasses will remain full; the Golden is timeless.
We will remain here, untouchable, invincible,
unsinkable, until our reverie breaks
and we begin to forget again.
But not this hour, the one that we are alive in.
It is not yet time for sleep.
M. Black
He is here~
Summer
I'm glad that summer is here;
Liberty, Freedom, parties to celebrate the temperature; old friends, new friends, old music, new music,
people who are a pain in the ass and the grandest people on the planet, all at the same party; bonfires, boats, fish, mostly nude men, a million ways to forget the jerks who caused pain the rest of the year! No room for game players, no room for the timid! Time to let them all go, w00t! Pahtay my dark and light elf friends, my Wizard and Warrior comrades! (bows) (casts a spell)Gather ye wands and stow your Mana, pack the rucksacks, shine ye weapons~ Time to be taken by the season! Time to shed those who prey on your good nature, time to set boundaries and celebrate our own beautiful worth!
Liberty, Freedom, parties to celebrate the temperature; old friends, new friends, old music, new music,
people who are a pain in the ass and the grandest people on the planet, all at the same party; bonfires, boats, fish, mostly nude men, a million ways to forget the jerks who caused pain the rest of the year! No room for game players, no room for the timid! Time to let them all go, w00t! Pahtay my dark and light elf friends, my Wizard and Warrior comrades! (bows) (casts a spell)
Dream Theater - Surrounded
I know it's easier to walk away than look it in the eye
But I had given all than I could take
And now I've only habits left to break
Tonight I'll still be lying here
Surrounded in all the light
Pulchritudinous
At the edge of the brook I perch on a bed of emerald green moss,
my right leg folded under me,
my left foot skimming the water as it sluices by,
my hands in the softness of my moss cushion.
The sun on my head has changed my hair into a halo of warm gold.
A twin Paper Birch behind me scratches affectionately at my back
as I rest against its soundness.
My skin delights in the contrasting noon heat, and cool, slow breeze.
A Rockbass breaks the surface.
A cobalt dragonfly stares up at me from my knee.
Two amber eyes appear from beneath a tangle of reed grass,
then quickly vanish.
Downstream about 50 yards, two does bow their heads to drink;
they have not spotted me.
Another I have fooled with my silence:
a chipmunk investigates my shorts pocket;
I stifle my breath, but he only stays for a moment.
Above the trees a Red-tailed hawk glides ceremoniously
across a sky that could not be more deeply blue.
A tiny black Jumping spider, glinting metallic,
catapults sideways off a nearby stone, startled by my toes.
The does raise their heads to regard my presence,
find me innocuous, and resume their business.
Another bass breaks the surface,
a second hawk rides the thermals.
All of this glory surrounds and envelops my small self;
my spirit floats in blissful wonderment;
my body sings with the resonance of life around me;
and yet I wonder just how much more (beauteous) this would all be
if you were here to flash your brilliant grin at me~
M.Black
RIP
Louise Bourgeois, artist, December 25, 1911 – May 31, 2010
"She continued creating art until her death."
(Pia Catton)
"My childhood never lost its magic, never lost its mystery, and never lost its drama." ~Louise Bourgeois
"An artist can show things that other people are terrified of expressing."~Louise Bourgeois
Rest In Peace, Madame Bourgeois, but may it be your kind of Peace.
"She continued creating art until her death."
(Pia Catton)
"My childhood never lost its magic, never lost its mystery, and never lost its drama." ~Louise Bourgeois
"An artist can show things that other people are terrified of expressing."~Louise Bourgeois
Rest In Peace, Madame Bourgeois, but may it be your kind of Peace.
Someday
She bought a new dress today, something simple, yet elegant;
it took her 3 hours to find what she was looking for.
It still doesn't really reflect her personality, but does anything, ever?
She wonders if she should wear it around him,
or not.
She can never tell what he thinks of her.
He gives nothing away.
Then again, do they, ever?
She has never been courted the way the older folk speak of,
those dawn-kissed days when a young man called upon a lady.
She can picture it in the cinema of her mind;
he would ask her, "would you accompany me on Friday evening? I am inclined to seafood and white wine, and afterwards, the theater"
She would reply "why that would be lovely"
He would say "wonderful, I will pick you up at 7"
When Friday comes, he will arrive at 6:55, and he will not forget, or make other plans, or decide to work late, because she is the person he is thinking of.
She is the one he is looking forward to talking with, lamenting with, laughing with.
He will open the door for her, just to show her he thinks she is a lady.
And she will blush at his handsomeness,
and he will admire how lovely she looks in her lacy dress.
For the rest of the evening they will speak only to one another, caught up in solving the world's problems, in solving each other's botherations, in conspiracies against the other patrons, in unbridled laughter.
He will tell of his grand adventures and frightening ordeals, and he will listen with rapt attention when she tells of hers.
She will delight in his myriad shining talents and accomplishments, and he will goad her into telling hers.
They will stretch the evening into the night, after all the Greek diner is open for breakfast in the wee hours.
He speaks of his friends, how silly they are, and how much they are going to like her.
She will not be conscious of her fading beauty, her face lined with laughter and fatigue, make-up undone, and neither will he.
He will not notice the voluptuous waitress who blatantly snubs her and vies for his attention, and neither will she.
She will not notice the exquisitely lovely man three booths over who seems to find her very interesting, and neither will he.
When they can no longer hold open their eyes, they resign to the night, to their humanness, it is time for sleep.
And she will dream of him, and he will dream of her, and neither of another, and they will each know, and no longer wonder if they will ever find the other.
When the credits roll she is not sure if she feels more hopeful, or less.
It is not an extravagant dream.
She is sure that it has happened before, and it will happen again.
Just, perhaps, not for her, not in this lifetime.
So she picks up her pen again, and opens her notebook.
Not many pages left, time to buy a new one.
Something elegant, yet useful.
Something that will reflect her personality this time.
~M. Black Photo: Bertille Black
it took her 3 hours to find what she was looking for.
It still doesn't really reflect her personality, but does anything, ever?
She wonders if she should wear it around him,
or not.
She can never tell what he thinks of her.
He gives nothing away.
Then again, do they, ever?
She has never been courted the way the older folk speak of,
those dawn-kissed days when a young man called upon a lady.
She can picture it in the cinema of her mind;
he would ask her, "would you accompany me on Friday evening? I am inclined to seafood and white wine, and afterwards, the theater"
She would reply "why that would be lovely"
He would say "wonderful, I will pick you up at 7"
When Friday comes, he will arrive at 6:55, and he will not forget, or make other plans, or decide to work late, because she is the person he is thinking of.
She is the one he is looking forward to talking with, lamenting with, laughing with.
He will open the door for her, just to show her he thinks she is a lady.
And she will blush at his handsomeness,
and he will admire how lovely she looks in her lacy dress.
For the rest of the evening they will speak only to one another, caught up in solving the world's problems, in solving each other's botherations, in conspiracies against the other patrons, in unbridled laughter.
He will tell of his grand adventures and frightening ordeals, and he will listen with rapt attention when she tells of hers.
She will delight in his myriad shining talents and accomplishments, and he will goad her into telling hers.
They will stretch the evening into the night, after all the Greek diner is open for breakfast in the wee hours.
He speaks of his friends, how silly they are, and how much they are going to like her.
She will not be conscious of her fading beauty, her face lined with laughter and fatigue, make-up undone, and neither will he.
He will not notice the voluptuous waitress who blatantly snubs her and vies for his attention, and neither will she.
She will not notice the exquisitely lovely man three booths over who seems to find her very interesting, and neither will he.
When they can no longer hold open their eyes, they resign to the night, to their humanness, it is time for sleep.
And she will dream of him, and he will dream of her, and neither of another, and they will each know, and no longer wonder if they will ever find the other.
When the credits roll she is not sure if she feels more hopeful, or less.
It is not an extravagant dream.
She is sure that it has happened before, and it will happen again.
Just, perhaps, not for her, not in this lifetime.
So she picks up her pen again, and opens her notebook.
Not many pages left, time to buy a new one.
Something elegant, yet useful.
~M. Black Photo: Bertille Black
Memorial Day
In Memory of soldiers fallen in combat,
and of soldiers who have passed on.
In Honor of those who have served,
and who serve now.
You are the protectors of our very future.
Thank you for your unparalleled courage and strength.
Thank you for your sacrifice.
Because of you, we still have Freedom, and Hope, and Life.
God Bless Every One Of You.
and of soldiers who have passed on.
In Honor of those who have served,
and who serve now.
You are the protectors of our very future.
Thank you for your unparalleled courage and strength.
Thank you for your sacrifice.
Because of you, we still have Freedom, and Hope, and Life.
God Bless Every One Of You.
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