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
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.
Angels
"We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." ~Luciano de Crescenzo
Inimīcus
that reach to slice and cut.
These are ones to turn your ear from,
they seek to thwart you and yours.
You will know them by their ill and muddy yarns:
tales not of the great deeds of another, not of the courageous heart of another,
but only of weaknesses, failures, imperfections and eccentricities.
Do not be fooled by their lament of martyrdom.
You will know them by their rigidity.
Their stories will not cast their perpetrators in a flattering light,
there will be no compassion in their words,
nor acknowledgment of their own transgressions.
They are adamant in their goal to convince;
their words will leave no space for speculation,
their ears will not be open to hear discussion,
their minds will not be seeking any other viewpoint but their own.
Beware of those who seem energized when speaking ill of others,
do not let them sway you.
Find the truth for yourself.
M.Black
Rain
(Kevin, is this the one? It's about T. S. )
M.Black 1987
Rain
Friday blue turns blacker
flying high tonight
and my Gypsy blood flows freely,
Gypsy look so right
Stars like neon pin holes
in the velvet sky
take this broken mind and hide it
I don't wanna cry
Oh, Rain, fall on me,
Oh the pain~ gets so bad that I can't see
I can see Him clearly,
then my eyes are blind
can you help me Lord I'm falling,
I don't wanna die
(can't you hear me calling you...)
M.Black 1987
Rain
Friday blue turns blacker
flying high tonight
and my Gypsy blood flows freely,
Gypsy look so right
Stars like neon pin holes
in the velvet sky
take this broken mind and hide it
I don't wanna cry
Oh, Rain, fall on me,
Oh the pain~ gets so bad that I can't see
I can see Him clearly,
then my eyes are blind
can you help me Lord I'm falling,
I don't wanna die
(can't you hear me calling you...)
J.R.R. Tolkien
Tolkien sings the troll song
Troll Sat Alone on His Seat of Stone
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim.
As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.'
'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Skinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone.'
Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!'
'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now.'
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
Troll Sat Alone on His Seat of Stone
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim.
As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.'
'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Skinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone.'
Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!'
'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now.'
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
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