it is always there
though not always within vision
of course
for only sparkling minds
see the sparkles in their skies
but sparkling once alight
and tools within our grasp
and all other elements
being right
without brokenness
or shadows
without question-marks
or slow-downs
and in shameless consort
we say: glow
and glow it does at our command
and from our fingers rise
roaming scents of pure fragrance
made tangible
and true.
picked up
an old coat
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
a used ticket
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
unstamped letters
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
useless habits
dipped
hands in pockets
picked up
restless dreams
dipped
hands in pockets
(it’s just another day)
No stars
no sun
no blue
just sky.
And far above me
falling fast away
the ground.
Where we find meaning, it’s deep within ourselves. Not out there—not on the internet. Not in the images of others, other lives, not in the lies—we eat them up, rapacious, with our eyes, until they eat our hearts. We swallow bites of presentation, of fabrication, and digest. We perceive, to occupy our minds. But beneath perception lies the truth inside—unoccupied, we find it in our dreams. The truth is there in music, played on heart-strings, composed upon our skins. The truth is there in tears brought forth by melodies divine, by poetry, by the pangs of night’s desire. These are the essences of meaning that lie beneath our love. Truth is not in shallowness and shortness, short attention spans, short thought. Not in the photos flashing on our phones, swiped and swept aside. The truth is there in notes and notions that run up and down our spines, shiver there, linger there, and infiltrate our souls. I cannot tell you what is truth—but I tell you, it is there.
and in the darkness
in the most-slept moments
the deepest rumbles pass
The carrier-pigeon waited at the window, peering into the gloom beyond the glass. Somewhere in the shadows of the room, nothing stirred; all was quiet. The breezeless summer air sat heavily on his feathers, so he ducked his head into the shade and left the sun to warm his back as he waited on the ledge. He remained only lazily aware of the movements of the few other pigeons and some scavenging sparrows that flew listlessly through the square. Still fewer came and went through open windows on errands—today, even the humans, usually so busy, with so much to say, seemed languid and idle. Yet there was an energy somewhere. Even as he dozed, the carrier-pigeon felt a buzz about his head and thought, dreamily, this day there is a tension in the sky. What significance this tension might hold was, he knew, a thing beyond his reckoning, so, with no questions left unanswered and his sense of familiar peace undisturbed, he slept, quietly waiting.
Click here to read Part 2.
Magical: Day One 