If you'll indulge me

[Midnight Palace]

Just a few of my random thoughts...

The Wind

Interpretation. Relying on eyesight alone, wind doesn't exist. Its strength is felt, its presence is acknowledged, but it is the bashful phantom...never manifesting as an apparition. A flag can sway and curtains can inflate like lungs in deep breath...but the cause is unseen. On a windy day, a still photograph does little to prove the element. It has no taste, smell or visual characteristics. However, it is widely accepted as truth, wind does exist. This is a world built on skepticism...a "show me proof" metropolis populated by those who can hardly prove what they ate for breakfast. Yet, the greatest and most fascinating pieces of the cosmic puzzle are thought impossible. Men like Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles....visually unable to behold, yet need not look further than "feeling" to validate that something is real. Eyesight is human, flawed...but feeling is of the soul, and therefore a much more reliable source. Wind is not seen but felt, the soul of the earth because it is smart enough to move without boundaries...

Straight To The Point

If you're willing to tell someone you love them once in a blue moon, you can tell them a million times in a sunset.

Seasons

The trees play dead in winter, camouflaging themselves in the chill of nature's mood swings. While the armies of humanity dance in the glare of the sun, challenging the power of its electricity, the trees know better and gracefully submit. They stretch their brittle arms towards the sky in a peaceful surrender. It's in this moment of compromise that it is given the ability to survive. When the seasons change, the wardrobe of leaves are born again. They provide us with living kaleidoscopes, their pedestal a forum where a difference in color does not matter. It's amazing that we are constantly surrounded by the ambiance of colorful trees, and still have learned nothing about the advantages of acceptance.

The Colors of Heaven

Under such gaze these hands act out

mood transcending thought

delving into a physical world

breaking the liquid wall

a display of heart and soul

for the world's benefit

I paint reality with the colors of heaven

my imagination knows no spectrum...

...more beautiful.

Right Here

I must have felt the strength of midnight on countless occasions. This paper fold of reality, the rope in an endless tug of war between opposite suns, the fall and rise of shimmering gold. Who is fully aware of its purpose? In a moment of embarrassment, the streets are naked, devoid of walking life, though I know it to be the most lively of moments. It is here that time itself has found a storage unit. I hear the bouncing of conversation from the surrounding walls...whispers from eras forgotten only by calendar standards. We need a moment of silence for memory's perpetual announcements. I close my eyes to see clear, those things we are not allowed to think. There is another city here, with a varying population that relies on acknowledgment. I wish I could live in this place - each turning corner splits the roads ahead into avenues of purpose. For now, I visit at will, understanding that next midnight is only a continuation of this feeling I refuse to give away.

 

[nubsnubs]

Very nice words. I quite enjoy Seasons. Ever been published in anything?

 

[Rob]

Pretty words; they get one's mind working.

 

[Midnight Palace]

Very nice words. I quite enjoy Seasons. Ever been published in anything?

Thanks

I have been published here and there. Nothing major, though.

 

[Midnight Palace]

one more.....

I Wish You Were Here (Postcards from Yesterday)

If the universe has ever wished upon its internal stars, the evidence lies in the trees ‚Äì the dandelions to the earth's child-like breath of wind. When sunlight takes a nap on the leaves, the leaves become a pedestal for simplistic purity. The branches explode in diamonds, fireworks on a lazy afternoon, and I'm reminded that places are dedicated to their holdings, just as everything has its place. What is it about here and now that has found here and now? The evening will let its sun play hide and seek alone, while it prepares the moon to light the stage for Act 2 of our perpetual theatre production. In my own Shakespearian interpretation, "How do I understand thee? Let me count the ways." Each of us has top billing in our life story. If I'm here to act out a script, I must have memorized my dialogue and reactions in some twist of yesterday's foresight. When a situation arises that renders me powerless, have my co-stars forgotten their lines, or have they paused for a re-write that I'm unaware of? I cannot answer with confidence. However, what remains is this pull-down screen behind me, my grand theatre with pre-set moods. The old clich?© of grey clouds and silver lining echoes outside, and the lining's color lives side by side with the very color of the clouds it tries to improve. While they battle it out, I can choose a mannerism for the day that contradicts both. There have been breath-taking skies of blue overlooking battlefields ridden with death. It seems as though we are naturally one with the universe; yet, we've distanced ourselves enough to proclaim our importance and engage in a never-ending struggle for attention‚Ķthat being our total control of what we were never responsible for.

 

[carter]

Perhaps a Companion Piece

And tomorrow's memories trickle down moonbeams that gild the branches casting shadows of half-remembered dreams across my walls. You are not here, perhaps you never were. Yet your voice remembers it's place and tugs at me beyond this scrim of sleep. It slips within and whispers, "remember me, always remember me, my love." All the colours of you ride my nights, soaking my sheets into a tangled mass of longing. Ropes of cotton ripple and entwine about my feverish limbs. I am bound, trapped by the aroma of your touch. Ehausted, I fall beneath your glamour as icy sweat encases my limbs. Yesterday, I'll rise into this waking dream. There is no control, no beginning, no end. Only this memory of you.

 

[Midnight Palace]

Perhaps a Companion Piece

And tomorrow's memories trickle down moonbeams that gild the branches casting shadows of half-remembered dreams across my walls. You are not here, perhaps you never were. Yet your voice remembers it's place and tugs at me beyond this scrim of sleep. It slips within and whispers, "remember me, always remember me, my love." All the colours of you ride my nights, soaking my sheets into a tangled mass of longing. Ropes of cotton ripple and entwine about my feverish limbs. I am bound, trapped by the aroma of your touch. Ehausted, I fall beneath your glamour as icy sweat encases my limbs. Yesterday, I'll rise into this waking dream. There is no control, no beginning, no end. Only this memory of you.

Awesome piece man!

 

[carter]

Likewise, Sir.

Tonight she'll come again.
Upon the currents of my tangled dreams
She'll drift. And tread lithely upon
Skiens of amberglass.Transparent though they be
She'll kneel and peruse each
Glistening strand
Slecting just the one to pluck.
And smile as she rises
To stride across a windswept plain
Swirling leaves scattering round her feet.
And brave the shattered torrent
In search of memories to gather and
Save for yesterday.