Serenity’s Storm

“I think that the ideal space must contain elements of magic, serenity, sorcery and mystery.”

 – Luis Barragan

Wash away, all the same

Breezes blow, I will trade

Tranquil bows, some not all

Pass me through, I’ll not call

Feelings so smooth

 

Like rocks worn, by the waters rush.

Feelings quelled, by the hush

Cascades of warmth, not ambient

Inside it burns, not transient

Easy comes the calm

 

Many searching, souls exist,

In this world, of gentle mist

A serenity that, cannot be trained.

Never before, traveling this lane

I’m now savoring

Tempest you will, draw my attention

Pleased I fall back, there’s no tension

I turn again, to the lonely sound

Never having, to leave the ground

Lost in the moment

01162011

Tempest you draw my attention

Pleased I fall back again

I turn to the sound

Never having left the ground

Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

Tempest you draw my attention

Pleased I fall back again

I turn to the sound

Never having left the ground

Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

Tempest you draw my attention

Pleased I fall back again

I turn to the sound

Never having left the ground

Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

Tempest you draw my attention

Pleased I fall back again

I turn to the sound

Never having left the ground

Lost in the moment

– See more at: http://www.opinionsofeye.com/2011/01/serenitys-storm.html#sthash.zcpyzVfB.dpuf

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Her-icane

“If people were rain I was a drizzle and she was a hurricane.”  
– John Green, Looking for Alaska 

The hurricane was coming.
 No more wondering, no more warning.

 

Grabbing the tools to put up the ply, 
I began to work, an eye on the sky

 

Nail after nail, I secured what was mine, 
my loose ends are bound with white twine

 

Wind tugs my sweaty hair now, 
as horizontal drops begin to pound

 

Forgetting one thing in all the hurry, 
the open front door in rain now blurry

 

Rampaging through my unprotected gate, 
the raging storm expresses all of it’s hate

 

It’s all over with damage everywhere, 
all of my belongings strewn around there

 

I could have prevented this wind that blew, 
had I stopped myself from loving you

02082012

She Sings

“Dance your pain, sing your sorrows, because there is nothing else tomorrow.”
― Santosh Kalwar
 

She beckons one, she caresses you from afar.
You can’t see her, she knows you
You can’t hold her, never in your arms 

Hearing her singing in the trees, their leaves rustling her name 

Now you want her, feeling her desire
Now you long for her, feeling her power
Now you look for her, hour after hour 

Hearing her singing in the wind, the breeze whispering her name

You know she will fool you, she will give you great pleasure
You know she will hurt you, she will give you great escape
You know she will lie to you, she will give you great fantasy 

Hearing her singing in the storm, the thunder shouting her name
 

Left with nothing but what the struggle brings
Love wins once again, who’s next? 

She sings….. 

Also published in: Broowaha

12262011 

The Emperor’s Katana – Lessons from the master craftsman

“ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes homines”, “as gold is tempered by fire, so strong men are tempered by suffering”.

skywing12

He took the metal, valuable and unique, and laid it in the fire. With an innate passion watching it, until the hue was just right, the color of heat, moving as storm cloud over the plain of the metal. Lightning strikes and thunder claps induced by his worn sledge shouted changes to nature, destroying the original form. In a violent move, calling out the tempest, he plunged it into the muddy water, clouded with ash and clay, a chaotic mix of elements, ugly in their application, wondrous in their result. Angry steam rose, the steel yelling at the breaking of its will, a will formed by nature, broken by the same. Fire and water, opposites, yet being used together to create a new thing, taking their turns as catalysts, creating beauty and power unsurpassed by the ordinary, waiting for their turn in the flames. Thousands of times, the process, the rhythm of breaking down, bending, melding, heating, were repeated, shocking it, breaking it from the apathetic staleness of commonality. The old man smiled and, in his careful hands, the metal changed, growing finer in composition, growing closer to its’ polished destiny as the Emperor’s Katana.

Accepting the opposites in my life, the fire and water of pain and joy, allows me transformation. My life changed by them from an ordinary, dull life of discord, into a life of gleaming beauty, purpose, and fulfillment. The trials, the pain, the joys and successes, I will let them have their way, not fighting what will bring me to completion. My destiny, wholly original and amazing, a rare and exquisite life, being declared as the Emperor’s Katana.

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

12212011

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

“The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 

But beauty faded has no second spring.”
– Ambrose Philips

“Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

“The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 

But beauty faded has no second spring.”
– Ambrose Philips

“Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

An Essay of Change – Great change comes from within

In the death of a moment, there lies the birth of tomorrow

I give way this time, but in the end, no sorrow.

crestock

    
I have to clear the way for a change to take place. I have to shove off from shore, from the expected, the habitual. Push myself into the storm were I will see what I am, and better yet, become a new thing. How will I know of what I am capable of unless I‘m pushed to the outermost limits of my understanding and endurance, physically, mentally, and emotionally? I must embrace the cataclysm of my existence. Great man are great by passing through the vice-like press of doubt, fear, loneliness, and tragedy. Through being broken, I can be made whole, maxing out my potential. 
     
I have no way to explain that who I am now, is no where near who I was a year ago. Remnants, yes, perhaps. It is a strange knowing, a responsibility, to be made whole after so long. No more blame for the past, no more excuses. I am tethered up so high on the crux of the rock, that even if I fall from here, I will never be as far down as I was earlier in my life. Now, I set my sights ever higher. To the next summit, the next storm, I will press on.

An Essay of Change – Great change comes from within

In the death of a moment, there lies the birth of tomorrow

I give way this time, but in the end, no sorrow.

crestock

    
I have to clear the way for a change to take place. I have to shove off from shore, from the expected, the habitual. Push myself into the storm were I will see what I am, and better yet, become a new thing. How will I know of what I am capable of unless I‘m pushed to the outermost limits of my understanding and endurance, physically, mentally, and emotionally? I must embrace the cataclysm of my existence. Great man are great by passing through the vice-like press of doubt, fear, loneliness, and tragedy. Through being broken, I can be made whole, maxing out my potential. 
     
I have no way to explain that who I am now, is no where near who I was a year ago. Remnants, yes, perhaps. It is a strange knowing, a responsibility, to be made whole after so long. No more blame for the past, no more excuses. I am tethered up so high on the crux of the rock, that even if I fall from here, I will never be as far down as I was earlier in my life. Now, I set my sights ever higher. To the next summit, the next storm, I will press on.