Saddle bags
A horse named Shadow
Somewhere outside of nirvana
They prance in the morning light
Off the grid
Man and beast
Confidence in the unknown
No reflection just spring water that’s real
I’ll wait for you
Forever isn’t that long
Coffee is brewing
Tired but beautiful with the promise of the day
Love is a beautiful piece of art
It is abstract yet has purpose and meaning
We all make up different colors
On the smooth surface of this canvas
Many colors will mix and make a magnificent color
Where others will never get a chance to mix
As gentle brush strokes move colors
Across the delicate material
Different colors mix and make an even better combination
Water can disrupt the natural flow
Of colors as changes in life often do
And make colors less vibrant or even break them down
Eventually the water will dissipate
And leave behind a random set of colors
Which hopefully make a breathtaking display
It is often said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Which is true when looking at the colors of love
The final display is only beautiful to those
Who can see past the colors
And feel the passion that was behind the masterpiece
Whose are the choices
about sitting together on the beach
counting pebbles and the advancing waves
before they very quickly recede and fade
into simple plain surfaces, that very soon again
throw up mighty and menacing poses, asking them
to run fast back to safe and pleasant shades of rest
and before they, at times, take long and unpredicted
lengths of time to reappear in dancing rhythmic
curled balls of surf to break against the sandy shore?
Certainly, without them having to make
conscious and concrete choices in any complex ways,
these waves, this sea, its shore, the pleasant blue sky,
the soft soothing breeze conspired in definite
untracked ways to call them to make
these awkward and efficient choices to
join voices and views together.
Conjugation of Life: to live
Birth
Stuff
Death
They are born
They do stuff
They die
She is born
She does stuff
She dies
He is born
He does stuff
He dies
You are born
You do stuff
You die
We are born
We do stuff
We die
I am born
I do stuff
And when we gather up the dead wood,
before its dust is damped down
or swept away,
before our log pile is stacked under eaves,
before fires spark in wintry grates,
flame, falter
in the night,
before all this I notice
the many shapes the blades
have scored on each cut branch
alongside those coiled rings
curling round that central cipher
from which all immensities
are measured.
Seventy degrees
in the middle of December –
Sitting on the porch
in short sleeves –
Thinking about solar cycles
and polar icecaps –
Wondering how the globalists
will get rich on carbon taxes –
How soon will it be
until air is no longer free?
More at https://17numa.wordpress.com/.
winter moon
saying goodbye
to our sleeping child
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
One certain facet
of this island hopping
is the slipstreamy tail
of each ferry
while we lick salt
from our lips,
alter our speech
to receive brine
on our tongues,
note that when a boat
fractures water
there’s a place
where sea is not blue.
Only if we hold ourselves
still in the swell
and spray
of each journey
can we know
if language lies to us,
if candour is buried
on the ocean floor,
if the bony skulls
of whales and dolphins
conceal certainties,
if truth is written
and rewritten
on each tide.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.
My moments of solitude are anything but quiet,
there are far too many distractions,
noisily and colourfully waiting
just around the corner from the normal, grey world.
Nowadays I’m as selective as I can be about
which image footprints I let wander through my mind
…it all becomes part (Like it or not!) of the overall collage.
I can bend an hour into three
like a silversmith with soft moonlight.
Boredom when not impatience
is mostly reserved for teenagers and unhappy people.
The train of thought is an experience as well as a journey
and as wonderful as books and movies are,
they are still only beautiful snapshots
of the unchartered magic forever waiting to be explored
…I’ll see you in there, catch me if you can?
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
I step outside at midnight,
air drenched with woodsmoke,
dash of peat, a single cow
complaining, her troubled breath
weaving over the low hedges,
all birds tucked away
but there is movement still,
some shy creature wrapping itself
away in unassailable darkness,
and in the sky above
galaxies have gathered,
stars turns on star,
silver glitter and tinsel streamers
tumble down to the waiting earth,
the entire universe
assembles around my questions,
and I am drunk on raw ice.