Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Waiting for light, 

the first call 

of rising wings, 

sunlight glimpses 

upon the horizon, 

lifting the dawn, 

of darkness, 

the wind, 

for she whispers 

in the sky

of branches 

who shake 

and tremble

the first song 

of today, 

the first song

of life and love, 

to breathe 

again,

blessed

once more

in the birth, 

of the day.

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The smell of morning rain

The smell 

of morning rain, 

hidden behind 

the curtain grey, 

birdsongs quiver 

across a drowning 

city park 

melting 

in the fading 

starlight

awaiting the light

of day

for the dawn shivers 

and awakens, 

the trees bend,

drip and fall, 

their shadows stretched 

in puddles, 

against 

the broken 

graveyard wall 

Until the bells strike 

and chime, 

the church spire 

pointing at the dawn 

sublime, 

as the skies lift  

the sun 

the earth, 

and the clearing 

doubts of rain, 

she awakens 

the light of day

bringing dawn

to life again.

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Nous.
A word from the Greek meaning mind, intelligence, ‘a practical, intuitive apprehension.’
…it is shaped from experience or is inherited -or both. It might be culturally rooted, or some quirk of relationships with the people you grow up with, the society you keep…or just plain beginners luck.

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No Dawn

No dawn, 

dull and grey, 

the morning’s turned 

his back 

upon the skies 

of today, 

castles, 

clouds, 

turrets of fog 

mask the sentinel tops 

of trees, 

a single bird calls 

across the darkness,

‘Wake up! Wake up! 

The earth needs your light

 if you please!’ 

And then behind the curtain of time, 

late but rising,

the sun blinks 

with her morning eye, 

and rises 

at the end of the lane, 

orange and gold 

and awakens the sky

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It’s a long path 

to springtime, 

the skies 

behind 

the hieroglyphic trees

they are golden,

of peach

and blossom,

in havens

of birdsong,

and summer 

dreams

of leaves.

But the leaves

are of autumn 

they lie frozen,

crisp 

and hard

like memories,

just passing

from the edge

in the silence,

of my footsteps

as they are taken,

and lost,

upon the 

solitude way,

as if 

awakening

and yet, 

asleep 

for the years

since passed

and today

And above

there’s a scythe 

of moon,

left

hanging, 

her time left

suspended, 

across

the evening hush,

the softness,

still left 

forever

in breaths

and sighs,

for she whispers

farewell

for today,

as she must,

as she must

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‘….Utilizing all of these, switching between them effortlessly in your movement forward, choosing different relationships, or gear changes, and training with them in terms of preparation, and their application, is called wisdom.

Some call it Gumption. 

Or, or one my favorite word over the years, little used and undervalued is nous…’

More about nous in the next episode….

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Before the snow

Before the snow, 

the white frozen petals

from a hundred thousand skies, 

the wind had stopped, 

the earth was still, 

and the trees beckoned 

to the sun, 

beneath her frozen blue, 

her forever 

morning eyes, 

As time had, 

at that moment 

stopped,

the trees were stripped, 

bare of their leaves, 

left clutching 

at the clouded skies, 

for all was still, 

upon the frozen fields. 

And along the lanes 

and pathways, 

that led 

to this holy place, 

the wind 

became hushed 

and silent,

honoring the spires 

and bells of grace.

And so,

as silence spread, 

across 

the honeyed lands, 

the chimes 

in amethyst lights, 

in diamonds 

along the hidden pools 

and tumbling streams 

and sands. 

waterfalls gleamed 

upon the stars

of winter

over her crystal bridges, 

her glass towers,

snatched from 

heavens  

and dreams

above,

for the snow began

to fall,

and the earth 

became quick

and silver

and in the sky,

fell feathers of light,

shaped in the wings

of doves.

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Buttoning the Moon

Do you know, I can press the sky with the silver button of a rising moon? 

It’s high in the stars and I can reach it in my wishing ballon.

At midnight, I can climb up high, on an invisible ladder of stairs

Up beyond the rooftops, the trees, the clouds, left quiet and unawares

And at the top, I can step into the dreaming, the basket of light

And let go of the anchor and sail in the balloon, higher and higher, into the  rivers of night 

And along I can  drift to the constellations of worlds and times left hidden, lost and unseen

To float across landscapes bridges and cities of millions, all busy and living in my sleeping dream

And when I look down upon the great curve of secrets the blue and grey, the changing  of skies

I think of our sun, a star, like a blink of daylight in the shrinking tears of our hurrying lives.

And so I reach out to the passing streams and rivers, the oceans and mirrors of thousands and thousands of stars 

And grab two handfuls in the rushing of darkness and turn back from the warning blink of the planet of mars. 

And when  I reach for the moon, this silver button in the blackness of darkness in the the middle of night

I press it with my thumb and switch on the morning for I want it to be beautiful wonderful and light.

And then I throw out my stars from the basket and the awakening dreams of my balloon

And sprinkle them across the morning, the laughing of dawn and the tickling farewell of the moon.

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Time-January

Tumbling

across the rocks, 

the river flows 

between the awakening skies, 

reflected 

in shimmering pools, 

mirrored,

in the passing glimpses 

of her dawn 

filled,

and trembling eyes,

for January stretches 

longer, 

the minutes 

lengthening 

each of the passing days, 

the nights,

shrinking 

back into darkness, 

winter bites

into a frozen earth,

blinded by her gaze.

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The pull and tensions of our lives are akin to the tightness  of the cable that binds us together: too slack and we surfeit our own ability to control the journey through the landscape of our lives. Too tight and we can simply snap…

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