‘Written’

Image

“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

sometimes,
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

umbrella

‘He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven’

skygoldsilverlight

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…

http://serenadeofaneclecticloversmirage.tumblr.com/post/75747558636

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
0810.3L-2-1

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  
http://www.phosphorimental.blogspot.com/
anthologized & edited by ~ skyblueandblack

 

Wanderers In A Field of Flowers

“Behind the blood-stained curtains of Love, 
there are fields of flowers where lovers wander.

To wander in the fields of flowers, pull the thorns from your heart.”
~ Rumi
Image

A girl once wandered along a field of flowers, feet bare
Carefree and unafraid of what she might encounter there

She knew the thorns she removed from her staunch heart
were the launching point, from the point of depart

With the promises that come with the freedom of wings
that portend magical Hope and other beautiful things.

She stopped in the midst of flowers abounding
held out her arms to soak in the sun’s rays astounding

Her head raised high, her eyes serenely closed
no more tranquil an image could have been posed.

Soon thereafter, a feather from the heavens fell
suddenly appearing, as if cast from a spell

It gently danced and glided, sought out her hand
as if searching for a warm place to land

A feather of the most vibrant hues
like the flowers; reds, yellows, greens and blues.

No sooner had the feather ended its flight
there followed a most ethereal sight .

It was the most exquisite bird,
and suddenly,
something within the girl’s staunch heart stirred.

On her outstretched hand, the bird gracefully landed,
peered into her soul, her attention it commanded.

Resplendent and fine, its feathers in all those dazzling hues
like the flowers; reds, yellows, greens and blues.

She could not help but caress those fine feathers,
as she stood amidst the irises and the heathers.

The bird sang a melody so sanguine and so sweet
only briefly it lingered in sorrow,
a song reminiscent of times long past,
and a subtle promise of tomorrow.

As the bird then moved to the palm of her hand
its beauty, a stunning mesmerization;
the awareness that it may soon fly away
was a sudden and terrifying realization.

She held it with care, grateful for each moment
treasuring each offering like a gift from a lover
Is your heart here to stay, she wanted to ask,
or does it belong to another?

You are not from this place, she thought to herself
You belong in paradise, your heavenly abode
Are you visiting, dear wanderer? Or lost, searching for home?
Still pursuing a path along your designated road?

How easy it would be to close that hand
hold the exquisite bird there forever..
It would sing to her every day,
A bond that would not sever.

But love is not of a forced possession
In her being, this she knew.
That vibrant light would surely dim
There would be no more vibrant hue

And so she wandered on in the field of flowers,
towards the blazing horizon of the dusking sky.
The majestic bird perched upon her open hand
as it sang the songs of days gone by.

Fear remains, along with many thoughts awoken
they set behind the fiery orange-crimson sun,
they hide behind fragile promises spoken,
and gold-gilded intentions begun.

Twilight descends, infused with the disquiet dark brings
accentuated by the stillness of night..
‘but the morning brings strength to her restless wings*’
and Hope, emerges with the Light.

 

*Jackson Browne

A writer writes..

unnamed

a writer writes,
to ameliorate the pain
be it holy or profane
be it balanced or insane
with affection or disdain

Every word written wipes away a tear
every line, refuge from fear

a sort of self medication
a self reparation
a hopeful initiation
from a hopeless situation

every couplet,
a bleeding wound healed
every stanza,
a memory sealed

a writer writes,
to begin again
to leave behind the pain
a release from a binding chain
and that familiar refrain

in vain..

and so the writer writes..
Again..
    and Again..

 

 

Before you let it go..

Know the value of what your hands hold
      Realize the significance of what your hearts unfold
            Before you let it go
                  Like rain slipping through your fingers..

 

 

hands