Sad Face is Sad (Part 2/?)

December 1, 2010

Once Upon a Time,
There was a mask.  It was a very sad mask, but every being who saw it could not help but smile, or even laugh.  The mask’s appearance was so chipper and droll that no one guessed how sad and unhappy it was, so the mask became angry.
No one noticed, for the mask looked exactly as it always had, and spoke to match–spritely and urbanely.

Eventually the Mask gave in to Despair, and cracked.


The Sap runs slow and sad

November 30, 2010

When the leaves start to change, so do I.  The wild, bright-blooming energy fades away, the fiery spark kindled in summer becoming a smoldering coal coated in ash.

Autumn is the time of plenty, of Harvest,  of fleeing the Changing Times.  It is the Equinox and the loss of my Balance.  In the fall my senses are overcome with scents, my heart with conflicting emotions as parts of my brain declare revolution against themselves and nothing in particular.

Autumn is joyful and bright, temperatures perfect for pageantry and play.  Autumn is gray and dull, mist and rain blurring the landscape, muting the singing of the wind in the last leaves.  Autumn is pain crackling in my joints and a steady dull throb in my head.  Autumn is delight, warm blankets, cozy snuggles and a good book.

It is the beginning of the Mad Times, where I can neither sleep enough nor at all.   It is the time of feelings so intense my eyes tear up with them, and a sense of space and vacancy about and within myself I cannot overcome.  It is the time of sparkling, incandescent inspiration jumping out fierce and swift as squirrels quarrelling over caches of food.

Autumn is my favorite season in the world about me, and my least favorite within.  I am in a tumult, mind spinning madly when it is not bogged down in interminably winding trails leading nowhere at all.

I write poetry and songs that leap onto the page, prose following suit as if fleeing the chaos of my mind.  All the arts and crafts seems easier, when my fingers can keep up with the stampede of thought and feeling, a flash flood of color and sound.  I cannot plan the pieces of Autumn, I only seem able to let them flow freely or not at all, a binary setting for creative output.

I am tired but cannot sleep, muscles tingling with renewed energy long after my conscious mind has nodded off, leaving me lying in the dark unthinking.  I hear chimes in the distance, smell woodsmoke, leaf mold, mums, feel a gentle breeze on my face.  All I want to do is move, dance, run, bask in it all.
And yet, I am spent.  The year is waning, and I grow more tired with it, as ready to dream as the trees.


June 28, 2010

How can you love me
When I can not love me?
How can you love this self?
Wrapped in your arms–I don’t deserve it!
How dare you love this self?

Deep down and hidden,
Denying affection,
Somewhere just waiting to play
There’s a self there just waiting, hiding in masks still
Why will you wait for that day?

I’m so controlled I can’t feel my feelings
Still I keep trying to say
I truly love you, I just want to touch you
I don’t deserve things this way

You think you’re unworthy
Below my tall tower
Where Secrets are kept hidden away
It’s me who’s unworthy
Of your open meadows,
Your sunny smile brighter than day.

I’m dark and I’m creeping
There are voices kept sleeping
I don’t dare speak what they say
I’m lying, I’m crying,
I’m lost in confusion
When my love is just locked away

Sometimes I can’t feel things,
Dark clouds wrap around them
A cage I can’t blow away.
Trapped so, their bent wings
Can’t carry me to you
Your smile shining brighter each day

How can you love me?
Wrapped in such dark clouds?
Can love burn the numbness away?
Why do you love me, the liar, the secret
The bitter things all hid away?

How can you share them, your
Brightness, your feelings,
I don’t deserve you,
Why feel unworthy?
How can you love me this way?

I’m lost but still seeking
Someday I will tell you
How your brightness pointed the way.
Like the moon through clouds peeking
Your smile soothed and healed me
Made hidden night bright as the day

How can you love me,
When I still can’t love me?
You draw truth from me this way
Warm in your love, I feel wrapped in your smile
Sharing your joy in each day.

I don’t deserve you.
You are so wonderful,
How can you think otherwise?
When I gaze upon you, I feel
You’re bright and you’re open
Sprinkled with flowers
A meadow sometimes clouded by day

How can you love me at times
I can’t love me
How can you love me this way?

Lost in the Flow, or, Perhaps the Wind

June 18, 2010

Days spin by,
Nights drag on,
forgotten though
Dreams can lie
of days spun on
and on the fly
they too are Gone.

Lost where your path
drifted away
the rocks moved
by floods they say
And yet the swath
cut through that day
grows clearer still
the things we Say
draw them this way–
Lost and Alone
parted in twain
the nestlings flown
a tree in pain
Yet much to gain
in the branches sway
from sorrows known
grows Hope again

Lost in the Flow
of time
of  you and I
Who knows what may grow
in the muck and grime
where Truth may Lie
and Hope Despair
if one may dare
to try and spy
beyond Reason or rhyme
beyond all Time
the lands ebb and flow

Carried on Dreams and breath
the seeds under foot
we find
blooming behind
the layers of sorrow, and soot
and death.
Brought forth by the light
nourished in blight
perhaps the flowers
show beneath
the dreadful fight
even life has its Powers
Against what have the flowers bid
made War and failed
a broken wreath
shattered hearts hid
lying beneath

Yet those who sinned
new paths might make
and hearts might heal
washed clean by the Lady’s Lake
Or Perhaps the Wind

Lapins Leap for the Moon

May 3, 2010

How do you live when you believe you have died?
broken apart?
been picked clean by the wind?

How can the rabbit like having known the hawk’s talons?
When a soul is stripped bare, how can it fare?

Is there an answer?
Can there be?
And how can one who has lived without hate, forgive the introducer of it.  When a being built for love and caring knows this sensation, how can they continue to exist?

They cannot.  Not as they are.
So when the dark talons grip them, they melt away, and die.
They cease to be, and can only flee
to the ends of the world and beyond
The place where the sidewalk ends and th Great Lion’s  land unfurls

Green, new. So very bright and healing.
And yet, how can one who feels tainted live in purity?

They must learn to forgive, if they cannot forget.
Love must be found where the wind calls and the woods shelter
In the longing song of the wolf  the lapin finds the answer

To forgive yourself, you must find something in you which may forgive your betrayer, the ender of the meadow-times when all bloomed brightly.

One cannot remain an innocent hare for ever, if they wish to swim to the rescue of those lost at sea.
To swim, one must understand more than oneself, one must listen deeply.
And perhaps, in the search for a way to reach those stranded upon the tides, the wounded rabbit might find echoes of healing within its frail frame.

Clockwork VS Flesh, a Battle of Golems

March 22, 2010

Cling clang crash! Whirrr tick tick tick!
Technology marches on! Science marches on!
Look how shiny! How big and loud!
Hear the engines roar!

Th-thump th-thump, THUD!
HEY,  what’s this in the way of my science?
This is not MY science! Mine is full of whirring,
stirring, swirling clouds of smoke and steam!

This fleshy thing can not be science!
It is full of non-logic! It FEELS and does not think!
Who would listen to this?
After all, clanking, swerving, clicking SCIENCE does not need hugs.

No, no hugs for me.
I will hide in the gray thing, and not heed the dull fleshy thumping.
Yes, yes, this must be wisdom.
What is that you say?
BE LOUDER, I can’t hear you over the whirring clanking science. . .

How odd, I can’t seem to hear anything, or see either.
I must have forgotten some important part. . .
Perhaps the thudding thing was needed?

But why would I need such a wishy washy
squishy squashy thing when I have Logic?
Maybe there is something useful there?


Sunlight feels nice, but not too much.
Grass under toes is soft and tender.
Whyever would anyone go inside the smoking lands?

I like the warm sun and soft breeze.
Clanking hurts my ears! Who cares if the river floods, just stop that infernal crashing chirruping whirring!

I don’t like that because I don’t!
Your logic is silly and full of holes!
I don’t need to tell you why, I just know it.
Of course I am right.

What do I care if I can’t move,
the sun feels nice.
It does.
Really.  I am not just saying it.


Silly Golems.
Don’t you know you are supposed to work together?
Hand in hand,
heart and brain,
energy and direction.

Why do people in stories always act so silly?

Out of sight, still in my mind

March 20, 2010

Spaces have a tendency to become Full;
Dirt, bugs, sorrow, all find their way in.

Places in a World;
And out of it.
Places in a Mind;
and out of it.

If you ignore a place for too long
you may find it has faded and lessened
Or worse–
You may never find it again.

Hold the bright places close in your mind, even if you cannot reach them with your hands.  Polish them gently, wipe away the fog of time and neglect.  Shoo out the spiders that nibble away at the stray threads, stealing them for other uses.
Find the unknown path to the place you began, and walk upon it as far as you may, until you know it again and for the first time.

Check the hidden places of the world, it is there your lost Treasures hide.  It is there dragons reside, and it is there.
There you will find. . .

Calligraphic Theater

March 17, 2010

Once there was a pen.  It was the best pen, the just-right pen.
This pen told stories, drew out marvelous scenes with word after word.

It seems a great pity, but this pen, this mightiest of tools, well. . .

It was lost.
Perhaps some day I or another will find it.  Perhaps not.
Until then we must simply seek out our own substitutes, poor though they may be, and pray they fulfill our dreams.

Dreaming to awaken, Fleeing to find

February 13, 2010

There is a world hanging in the universe, dangling in the breezes of a million thousand stars and the breath of dreams.  All the beings in this world, and the world itself, came from an egg.  Long, long ago they hatched.

Until the egg hatched, all the world was one.  A single lonely being, flying along.  Or perhaps fleeing.  The egg had no nest, and no parent coddled it till the shell became riddled with cracks, anxiously listening for the first peep from inside.
Lonely and singular.  Flying or fleeing.  Searching for adventure, or at least an end to the journey.  The egg began to crack.

Slowly thin lines of fracture ran along the shell, catching the starwinds, the dreams of the universe.  The creeping drafts of world dreams seeped inside, and the Being in the egg began to dream.
It dreamed a million million dreams, of a billion different shades and colors. And as the Dreamer journeyed through the visions, the egg began to slow its pace, its headlong rush.  As the egg slowed, the rifts in the shell spread, the dreamwinds rushed in, and then the egg slowed yet more.
The Egg grew heavy with the weight of dreams, and the being who dreamed began to fracture like the egg which held it.

Dreamer became dreams, became dreamers.  Energy suffused the shell as the great weight of dreams gathered within ignited and flared.  The shell peeled back, curling up into itself upon the fractures, pulling tighter and tighter together as it curled off the radiant forms it once contained.
The forms stretched, shifted, pulled each other back and forth, merged together once more in liquescent madness before bursting apart one final time, a great splash of dream-suffused, instable being enveloping what once had carried all together, coating the brittle discarded shell in shining dreams; the hard reality of a protector weakened hidden away forever in a brilliant glowing radiance.
The remaining mass of wild, numinous dream-stuff wrenched and writhed about, growing first closer and then farther to the brilliant former shell, darkening and lightening in turn.  The wild dance continued some untold time, and then Dreamers began to awake.

The wild mass of Being made Dreamers, the former egg suffused with world-magics and dream-winds settled and changed more with each awakened Dreamer.  Some sought to leave, to forge their own Shell and begin the interrupted journey anew.  Others continued the flight from the stars deep into the center of the Dreaming mass, to hide there, glowing, still fluid, refusing to give up their dream-stuff to make them true.

Many simpled wandered the outer surface of discarded dreams, left behind by previous Awakenings in vain attempts at one thing or another.

Every Dreamer thought the Dreaming their own, a unique truth.  All of them forgot the Egg, and the journey.  The forgot the song of the stars and the winds full of dreams.

Slowly what had been the Egg began to turn and dance with its former shell.  The shell glowed more warmly, feeding back some of the lost star winds that had wrapped around it as Dreamers awoke. Slowly a balance built up, a flow of winds between glowing shell-star and misty world-dream.  Dreamers found they could use these winds to begin the journey written in their dreams–leaping from the great Dreaming, into the winds that sang of loss and joy.  Leaping into the unknown, swept about the shell-star, wrapt about with a sprinkling of dust, the Awake left the world one by one.

As they flew onward, propelled by dream-winds, that first spotted layer of dust began to collect other detritus on their flights. Awake to the universe the dreamers cared nothing for their vision, could not feel the accretion forming around them as they hurtled, spinning, through space.  The winds that sped them onward gradually could do no more than wrap ’round them, cradling them gently as they slipped out of them selves.  Perhaps they slipped into madness.  Perhaps into dreams.  Perhaps they simply left, leaving behind them a soft living blankness, cradled by a sturdy shell that hurtled through space.

Seeing is Believing

January 28, 2010

The world is what we see, or choose to.
There’s no guarantee we see the same things.

What I call ‘blue’–the color of the sky–could to you appear the color I call green.  But because we agree the color of the sky is to be called blue we can converse as though we do in fact see it the same.

The same sort of agreement pertains to every object and facet of life. Yet still there are misunderstandings.  It is hard, even impossible, to have complete understanding based on countless assumptions.

Yet still we walk together on this world, or at least we seem to.
Perhaps for each of your steps there are two or three of mine, yet all the same we are walking.
Or are we dancing?