Disillusion.

the thunderstorms cloud my mind,
the rain washing away my thoughts,
lightning blinding me from what I can see,
thunder deafening my understanding.
beige and vanilla swirl around the skies,
no flavor for those who hunger.
a drab garment hangs in the corner of the room,
threads swinging from the hem,
the color faded, desiring sequins.
a pair of awkward loafers are tucked beneath the chair
dreaming of a different life;
perhaps longing to adorn the dainty feet of an elegant lady,
finishing off the couture design of an evening gown.
the pane is fogged with the harsh breath of the world,
my hands can't even wipe away a porthole.
my feet are soaked and my trousers heavy.
I can't move.
nothing is as it should be.
everything has turned to glass.
a frozen life on the brink of destruction.

In and Around the Mulberry Bush

Why is it that we spend so much of our life thinking we understand happiness,
only to find out that happiness can be shattered during impulsive and rash moments?
Why is it that a sharp tongue and repressed feelings can weave a pattern of torn hearts and seething hatred?
Why is it that most of the time, we can't see the misshapen clock of misfortune,
for the wheels seem perfectly round and no matter what,
they keep spinning in pretty colors,
distractng us from the time wasted and lost on a life that we can't undo?
Why does the second hand keep the time moving foward
when sometimes we wish all would stop?
Why can't things work out in perfect synchronicity?
I am the eternal optimist, living in a pessimist's world,
and I feel my colors fading into the darkness that shrouds life's existence.
Paint my canvas with new colors
and show me a green sunrise and a sea of red and orange;
take me to a world of flying zebras and talking animals;
blindfold me and pull me into a world of dancing statues and still life.
Spin me around and let me go.
I want to wander aimlessly until I can dance no more.
I want to fall into the rabbit hole and come out the other side --
into a life undiscovered.

Within My Labyrinth Walls

when I am alone, I know you are here.
you make everything alright without a word, and with many words.
even when you haven't spoken, your breath still softens my fall.
the days are so long, and the nights even longer, and all of them I endure amidst a sea of open arms, people holding me tightly, yet feeling so alone in my quiet desolation.
life continues, my dreams prevail, yet I tiptoe through life avoiding the cracks and mud puddles.
why is it that I am filled with such rejuvenation on a day of grey clouds and sleeping sunshine?
why is it that I am told that I erase the clouds and fill the room with sunshine?
why do I want to cry when all I can do is smile?
why is life so cruel to play my heart against my mind and bring tucked away tears into cheeks filled with roses?
I want to curl up in a basket of flowers and float into the ocean of forgiveness and undeniable questions, laughing at the seals who tickle my toes.
calm the waves and let me ride them out and wait for me on the other side.
if you look across the horizon, you'll see me laughing with the stars and singing with the fish.
how happy I can be when life's treasures surround me.
I'm coming home.
promise me you'll always wait for me.

Promenade.

Shall I map out the way I once ventured?
Or shall I take in stride the company of my dwellings?
In this course my steps shall find the road
and wander through the brambles,
taking care to miss the thorns
and dawdle about the daffodils.

A sweet fragrance of afternoon bliss,
a warm caress of the afternoon breezes-
and yet my heart knows not the scent of that which it can not taste.
I need all my senses to create true existence in this mindless adventure.

Tender child,
Look not upon the weeds-
But look between them;
there you shall find your treasures.

The enchanted laughter awakens me.
Take my hand I want to know this place
which is so far beyond my earthly comprehension.
Can I dance? Can I sing? Can I stay?
This place, so rich with color and bejeweled with the dew of the morn,
has captured my soul.

Here my heart finds soothing solicitude,
seemingly perfect and enlivening.
A place closing off the world
which so many times rejects the beauty that lies within.
Here, beauty emerges from even the most somber of shadows.
I no longer fear the darkness.

The brilliance of tiny burning lights
brighten up it's every corner with the music of joy,
the harmony of this magic from within.
My home.
My sanity.
My journey.
My heart.
I am finally here.

This moment,
this life,
this bit of memory is forever lasting.
Bathing in the drops of starshine, I feel renewed.
A vivification of my soul emerges from within this tired soul.
It is here that I will remain young and learn to live anew.

Red.

Scarlett words drift through her breath
tainting the air with a passionate blow.
Lips, garnet jewels inlaid between the dowry,
every man longing to take them as his own.
A look, a gesture, she moves,
they follow.
Fabric descending to a pool of russet waves
she swims away.
Rubies glisten from her brow,
eyes seeking the cardinals in flight;
they with their directions of night,
she follows.
Rouged cheeks of copper and roses
glow through the transparent window,
her laughter resting in a blanket of cherries.
She lives to love the ones who know naught of her love,
she longs to bring the crimson rose to rest;
it's bittersweet fragrance the ardor of her seity.

Depravity.

Why do thoughts engorge my mind and time lays still at the breath of my words?
I want to sleep but I am haunted by the beckoning of the yawning daylight.
One more moment, one more blink, one last gaze into the loneliness of a room void of life,
but full of memories before I can lay this dizzied maze in the tomb of my deadened society.
Can I shed my photographs, motion pictures, and commentaries for an hour of silence and slumber?
I plead with you to cover my eyes and shield the light
that I may rest and be revived with the awakening of tomorrow's light.

Alabaster Morning

The mischievous pixies of winter danced cleverly in and about the trees,
stopping to rest lightly atop the leaves,
landing upon the soil,
daring to cast their spell of this alabaster magic onto everything they
touched...
their laughter captured, by the winds,
drifted teasingly through the chimes outside my window...
I knew they had been dancing,
for I heard the music in my dreams.
Waking to the draft
flowing silently through my room,
I tucked myself beneath the covers, listening for the morning tune...
it didn't come...
Throwing back the covers I crawled through the maze of pillows atop my bed,
toward the window I wandered, hair falling loosely about my head;
curiosity killed the cat they say, but without the pursuit of inquisition,
wherein lies new discovered disposition!
Taking up the window coverings, a vision of ivory iridescence settles
before my eyes.
The magic still encircling the window, still dashing about the skies
and resting confidently on everything below.
I place my hand against the glass.
Cold and frosted...
smiling, I hurry to dress and to know the taste of winter,
this day so long desired...
The coffee brews...
Layers piling on to keep me from the cold, hair pulled back,
fastened at the nape of my neck...
mustn't forget the boots!
...and a scarf...and gloves...and a coat...and the coffee!
The door handle is frightfully cold.
The frostbitten soil, shivering helplessly beneath my feet,
chattering each time I take a step,
crying for the sun to melt away this spell;
I can't help but smile.
I dote upon this frozen world, I revel in it's bleakness,
this canvas knows no color and it is mine to paint with the strokes I see
fit.
My breath, like a cloud of whimsy, swirls about the air in fluid motion,
entangling circles of quiet comfort with the efforts rising from my
demitasse, as I sip carefully my heated potion.
The day is mine.
Winter has enveloped the earth;
the season is alive at last.
A kiss!
Another!
Falling like tears they stumble upon my cheek,
tiny jewels of snow, grazing my lashes, and taunting my lips,
sending me into the afternoon with the kisses of winter.

12 Love Letters

I found these love letters in a wooden box behind the used bookstore on Walsingham Avenue.
They speak of elegance, love, a time of romance, a history of decadent feasting.
As I pored over the aged parchments, carefully opening the waxen seals that kept the content locked away for so many centuries, I could almost hear the music from within the castle walls, and taste the mulled wine being poured from their casks.

I devoured his proclamations of amour to his inamorata.
His gifts of true love unfolded through the written profession of his heart.

I had a bit of trouble with the first letter as the ink had faded and the words were muddled.
Some words were in French and some in English, and sometimes difficult to decipher - especially the one dated December 26th. I could make out that he was writing of a gift. Was it a bird? Or was it a basket of the sweetest fruits? Perhaps a...tree? That's silly, who would want a tree for a gift of love.
I could make out the word"Perdix" - I shall have to look it up. It's not a word I recognize at all.

Scouring the scripted notes of his sonnets and sentiments, I searched for more.

A poem. Dated the very next day. I should like love letters two days in a row!

"Doves for my love, pure and white as morning snow,
as oft my thoughts wander the valleys of love 'ere I go.
My heart, forever yours will be
if I can always love thee. ~ yours always, Leander"

Oh how he must have loved her!
Oh to be his captor of love!

"My dearest Aurelia,
'Tis not much, but I am sending something prepared by one of the finest cooks I have met on this venture. These three hens have not been spared their lives, for you seem to be wasting away, my love, and a hearty meal you must eat before anymore days pass. I must have you healthy on my return! I shall be home in nine days time. - L."

Nine days time?
Was he returning from a crusade? A battle perhaps? Some journey to a far away land?

The next three letters were filled with mention of colley birds baked in a delicious meat pies (for her, no less), five pheasants and six delicious goose eggs. (I dare say it would be impossible to waste away with all of this food fit for a king!)

So many letters!

"1. January. 1619
I hope to arrive home and find my dearest, truest love, rosy cheeked and sweetened with the succulence of the season. Another gift have I sent ahead of me. I regret to say that one of the noblemen of the house of Essex has passed on, leaving behind his property and everything belonging to it. Though the king is entitled to its entirety, I sent a messenger ahead to request that you partake in the special occasion of the feasting upon this prized poultry. It is not every day that we are expectant of such a luxury, and you, my dear, as a beautiful lady-in-waiting, have been invited to his majesty's feast.
Have you guessed it yet? What I have sent ahead to the banquet hall for preparation?
I shall bear you a hint.

They swim with grace; color of lace
to see the smile upon your face
when you see this feast upon your plate
the tasty treat will have been worth the wait!

I am counting down the hours till I once again will hold you in my arms.
Only five more days and I shall return.

Truly yours, forever ~ L.

So many gifts has he given her! So much love!

I close my eyes and dream of such romance, but to see it written before me is a tangible hope for my own paramour.

The next letter made me laugh.

Apparently, Lord Fairmount of Wales, could produce no male heirs, but ably brought forth not one, but eight very beautiful, but very supple daughters. Gathering from the letter, Leander paid a handsome sum to have these maids brought to court for the festivities and for one reason only: to entertain the wandering eyes of the nobles and distract them from his own true love's beauty. (it seems as though some things never change with time!)

"My dearest,
The days are growing a shorter distance between us, but there is no shortage of my love for you. Our caravan is growing in size rather quickly and we shall be there in four days, just in time for the feast. Last night was our final stop, and I had the pleasure of dining with the Duke of Yorkshire and finally enjoying a night of revelry instead of duties. The players played extraordinarily well and the revels were masters in their crafts of dancing and merriment. I wanted so much to surprise you, but alas, I shall need your help by the grace of your hospitality. I hope this is not too much to ask of you, for I know your days are long and the castle is buzzing with the excitement of the upcoming festivities, but I need help in readying the guests quarters. I am bringing to the court, thirty-three of England's finest players! I know how engaged you are when watching the Morris dancers, and there shall be ten from their troupe performing in the celebration, no doubt leaping through the banquet hall.
Sweetheart, I know you will be dining with me at our reserved place at the king's table, but these men of Scotland haven't seen the likes of the beauteous women of England. I was hoping to provide them with nine of the loveliest of the ladies in waiting, for they should love a good romp with them and take them for a turn about the dance floor. I would ask for one more, but it seems as though one of the dancers fancies the likes of one of the musicians and is in no need of lady friend. I don't think he would be devastated if we didn't have a lady companion for him, but perhaps we might introduce him to your brother...(you know I jest, but it would be a more suited match!)
There are a dozen drummers who will be in the grand hall by request of the king for his entrance, and for the musical announcement of the courses as the feast progresses and new dishes are served. Though they are to be present by order of the king, know that each beat of my heart is louder than the beats of the drums. Had I twelve hearts, they would beat stronger for you than any troupe of musicians could ever hope to match with their tunes.
I believe there are not quite a dozen musicians - perhaps eleven - all with the most wonderfully sounding bagpipes I have yet to hear in all my travels. I threw in an extra forty ducats with the promise that they would play your favorite carol after the dessert is served. Perhaps you can bring your music as well and sing for the king. I know your modesty keeps you from it, but darling, your voice is that of a nightingale and should be heard. I'll bet the pipers would play your tune as an accompaniment to your lovely song.
My love, I know it seems as though I travel only for the king's requests and out of gracious servitude for this kingdom, but you must know this. In all my travels, I can think of nothing but returning home to you. I know in all this preparation for Twelfth Night, and all that I have been summoned to gather, it seems as though I am doing it all for the king and his court, but what he does not know, is that even if you and I were to be feasting alone, I would have ventured to the farthest of lands to make your Twelfth Night as stately as is fit for a king. All of this that I do for him, I would do a thousand times over for you.
My heart is yours as you indeed are my true love. ~ Leander"

Twelve letters in all.
Every one filled with love and promise of a happy ending.
They say you can't write love as it is, that words turn love to an unattainable fantasy of the heart.
Aurelia and Leander had this unattainable love.
A timeless romance that will forever remain theirs and forever be remembered through his written words.

As I closed up the box, I found a piece of paper, folded into a tiny square and tied with a velvet ribbon. As I unfolded the paper, music notes drifted through the yellowed page with words so familiar written in script beneath them. It was then that I grasped that the gift she gave to him that Twelfth Night is one that is for all to enjoy through the end of time. Twelve days of selfless love, returned by an immortality through song.

That is what his true love gave to him on that twelfth day of Christmas.

Expectations

What are expectations?
Too much, or too little?
Why is it that the world embraces them, but individuals are supposed to ignore them?

World says to Him: Have you completed your work for the day? Finished your tasks?
He says to World: I would do nothing less, sir. I take pride in my work.

He so carefully listens and takes heed of instruction and attention to detail, for He could not bear to disappoint World and risk tarnishing his reputation.

When World is out of the frame and the only looking glass is self reflection, how does one react?

World sleeps.

All They have is each other.

She says to Him: I have waited all day for my turn with you.
He says to Her: We always have tomorrow.

The light in Her eyes darken with numbness.

She says to Him: Tomorrow never comes. When I mention today, you speak of tomorrow.

She wakes every day and embraces tomorrow, yet today has already begun.

World says to both Him and Her: Can you keep up with my allure of a present future?
He says to World: I see nothing more, or nothing less.
She says to World: I have no need to do so. I am living the present and awaiting the future; nothing in between do I take for granted.

World nods neither favorably nor disapprovingly, and just keeps spinning.

He closes His eyes unaware and She looks forward to what She knows will be a brighter today.

From Within

Laughing with the morning, her melodies ring out,
each song moving on the breath of another.
Sunshine and frost mold armor around her,
guarding her soul within it's hardened mask.
Blue eyes become glass;
she disappears.

Crying in the night her soliliquy patterns on-
each verse tapering off with the stillness of her muffled sobs.
Shadows and light form a brightened darkness around her,
caressing her soul within its tightened grasp.
Blue eyes fade to black;
she disappears.

Anam Cara

I could ask for the moon and be disappointed with her brilliance.
I could reach for the sun, and find it too inconstant upon which I could rely.
I might dabble amongst the stars and come away feeling lonely at their insincerity;
but never in my life have I ever found anyone like you, with whom I hope to always share everything.
I love you more than the moon loves her blanketed evening sky.
I love you more than the sun loves his summer days.
I love you more than the stars love the children who wish upon them,
for never have I found anyone who fills my soul as you.

Words

There's nothing that I can use more to express myself,
than words...
even dancing is the dialogue of my soul.
Each step, each sweep of the arms
is a phrase of my heart.

Treacle Well

Peter Pan ain't got nothin' on me;
From the land of sandcastles and ponytails,
Ribbons and dragons' scales-
We ride the dreams of fairies' wings and tapered strings,
Night lights and fireflies, the constellations in our eyes,
And scattered remnants of berry pie as nightmares crease the folds of time.
Follow the Rabbit, tumble down,
Tumble down the Treacle Well
Let imagination fill your sails,
As you tumble through the Treacle Well.

Sipping lemonade in the tire swing,
Pink petticoats and flights on a unicorn
It's a time of laughs, not knowing scorn.
Imaginary elves and a Yellow Brick Road, can your Ruby Slippers take you home?
Hold tight your Rabbit, tumble down,
Through the Treacle Well, tumble down,
Tumble down the Treacle Well,
Uncover treasure wher'er you fell.

Sir Lancelot came to rescue me,
He thought my fancies lay elsewhere.
(Not swimming with the Mermaids faire, or drinking tea in Tumnus' Lair.)
Could it be a vision gone, with castles disappearing on?
Can you see your Rabbit here, go round?
Through the Treacle Well, tumbling down,
Tumble down the Treacle Well,
Don't let loose the magic from the spell.

I listen still to the mirrors thoughts,
And travel by way of Pirates ships,
And down beanstalk ropes, by moonlight's tricks.
Though a hundred years, in a tower I slept,
and my glass slippers on my feet I've kept,
I'll fall through the looking glass.
Into the wardrobe I'll stray,
I've kept time with the Rabbit, and here I'll stay.

So take my hand and tumble down,
Through the Treacle Well, we'll tumble down,
To those who stay behind "farewell",
I still love tumbling through the Treacle Well.

Secrets of Olde

With dalliance in the night
the mummers whirl about in sashes of color
weaving the web once spun in ancient rime
watching as the gypsies take flight.

Lanterns swinging in the willows faire,
drums christening the initiation of gaiety
laurels twined in and out of plaits of gold and bronze, crown blushing maidens;
plucking them from this chaste and holy lair.

Patterns of lovers and players bound with ribbons and magic;
festivities of the eventide gambol on through the morrow
compositions of life unwind,
leaving behind the unhallowed layers.

In the Park

Swings of merriment,
See-saw of tribulation,
Sandbox of laughter,
Fort of hidden secrets,
Monkey bars of questions,
Slides of answers...
Where do we venture when we play?