“When there is stillness,
the Beloved enters like a mist.
I am disarmed of my words.
There are no empty pages to be found…
and my pen has run dry.
The hours gaze from a clock with no face
and I am delivered from the clutches of time and space.
My eyes reflect light from that of a lantern
held by a wayfaring messenger.
She says, ‘I am not writer, I am written…”

~ Skip Maselli @Proseplay

A Day of Rain & Contemplation

arch rain
the sky outside is gray, threatening.. ominous

the rain pours in a vengeance and a fury

like a lover trying to express emotions that words can not convey

and so he hopes the intensity of his eyes will speak for him.

but a storm is still a storm..

and it carries within it a foreboding of fear

heaven is weeping

It has been a day of deep contemplation,

a day of heart ache and sadness

a perusing through a hazy window into moments shared between two lovers;

one almost feels inappropriate..

and looks  away..

thru window

but the images are there, already carved and engraved..
standing like  memorial statues

   i wished i had not seen them

      i wished they weren’t there

          wishing they would disappear

             wishing you would make them disappear

each time I saw a picture I liked

or an image i was drawn to,

there it was..

   a conversation,

      a clue as to who was behind the camera

the one behind the camera is just as significant as the one in front of it.

and so I looked, and I looked..

I was in the rain

immersed myself in it,

it immersed itself in me..

rain in stairwell

and I bathed in the pain..
inwardly and outwardly
soaked myself in its cleansing downpour
in an effort to put out the fire
remove the discomfort, the ‘shock’
the blow to the senses
the constriction in the heart
the hollowness in the stomach
to fill the ache..

Trying to accept,
to come to terms with something that I had nothing to do with,
and that had nothing to do with me.

I do not begrudge you your happy moments
your deep connections
your heart to hearts
your joys and your inspirations
and your lessons learned..

So why should it matter? Why does it matter?

 it does.

and I wait for you to walk outside

and bring an umbrella


‘He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven’


Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night
and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet.

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

~ William Butler Yeats



when you break the heart of one who loves you…


when you break the heart of one who loves you
you destroy the home in which you were living

amidst the rubble and the dirt,
the eyes water and sting

from the dust

Rebuilding takes time, and a resilient will, 
because the foundation has to be made stronger,
more authentic..
marble and ceramic and crystal chandeliers
to catch the light

and you are no longer a welcomed guest


“When open people open, they *open*.
But the flip side is that when they close, they really close.”
~Yasmin Mogahed

Reluctant Traveler

If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life. ~ Oscar Wilde

Reluctant traveler on a dusty road
on a path not of his choosing..
As he struggles with his load,
he wonders what he is losing.

Feet blistered from the harrowing walk
face weathered from the sun
his hands, they bleed
his throat is parched,
yet water does little for the need.

He convinces himself it is for the best
And accepts it in his mind.
But his heart is hesitant to catch up to his head
afraid there, of what it might find.

Reluctant traveler on the choppy seas
distance has not been smooth sailing..
His conflicted soul he tries to appease,
and he wonders if he is failing.

Steadily he moves, still looking back to the shore
of the ocean inside his mind.
Meanwhile, waiting at his horizon’s door,
is what he had prayed to find.

She waits for him inside his eyes
so deep he cannot see her
behind the lens where truth resides,
she waits for him to free her.

But on his boat he drifts along
carried by the current’s roll,
still looking back, he misses the beacon song
from the lighthouse of her soul.

And so she waits
resting deep,
deep within the ocean of his eyes.
As off he drifts,
drifts to sleep
while the emerald currents reflect the skies.

Their paths, though seemingly guided
may never come parallel;
And kismet conspired with the stars and collided
but only time can tell…

The Inkwell (a collaboration)

[Expression] “is a diluted paint brush – the true color is hidden in the bottom of the bucket.
Like humans, their authentic ‘hue’ is in the undiluted wells of the heart.”  ~ Skip Maselli

We paint with a diluted paintbrush
the true color remains at the bottom of the watercolor palette.
Like humans, their authentic hue is in the undiluted wells of the heart.

We write with an emotion
imbued by the nourishment we receive from each another
moved to write, compelled to express

I feel you when you dip your quill into my heart,
my blood, the ink
with which you write your stories.

The ink becomes the symbol of what you mean to me,
your parchment as pure as our intent,
and I delve deeper into you..

Deeper still, I find the ink enabling
Allowing me to reach further into myself
Trusting in the inward and outward appearances..

.. of ‘this‘..

Delving deeper into each other,
treating tenderly all that we discover,
patiently, attentively, openly..


conveyed by ~Skip Maselli  
anthologized & edited by ~ skyblueandblack