Memories

The Giver

Memories
Of a past
Forgotten, buried
Or perhaps a future
Yet to be…

Memories
Swirl and dance
Drift below
Muffle the ground
Like piled snow

Grab your sled
Hurry up, come on
There’s something there
Something not yet begun
Can you taste the colors and the sounds
Everywhere… they cover the ground

Too many for just one
Bent and broken soul
Too many for two as well

S o   r e l e a s e . . .

Let them drift
Let them fly
Let them billow
Fill the sky

Memories bring joy
Memories bring pain
But in the end
There is wisdom to gain
So catch the snowflakes
Before they turn to rain

“TAXIDERMY” It Read

Have I mentioned lately how much I love descriptions? Probably because of the Tolkien-ish part of my soul. But this building exists. And was entirely too creepy and odd to not record. It’s tucked away on the side of a highway in North Texas…

Cracked and peeling yellow paint clung still to the battered and timeworn shack. The walls were serviceable, but would no doubt offer little aesthetic pleasure to an interior designer–unless of course, the designer was one of more quirky and extraordinary artistic tastes. To such, even corrugated metal sheets can hold a taste of beauty. A shaggy and ill-groomed tree leaned close to the building, its boughs brushing and scraping the weary paint. Drooping, leaved fingers stretched out, half concealing the dingy lettering, now faded and brown, that bore the central position above the main entrance. It was as if even the tree was dubious and wished to shield the eyes of the roadway’s occupants. Though shadowed, the lettering was legible and merited many second glances from passing motorists: TAXIDERMY. A muddied white pickup truck was drawn up at a crooked angle on one side of the building, fresh tracks stamped in the damp earth behind it.

Colored Raindrops

Rain Drops

I love the colors of the rain—

(you might think that odd

but I’ll try to explain…)

 

The glossy shine of broad black boles

The velvet emeralds of dark damp leaves

The murky depths of over spilling streams

And the rainbow wisps of fairy dreams.

 

The blues and grays of distant peaks

Forming ranks against the sky

Mist blurred, shrouded, silvery

Aloof, mysterious to the eye.

 

There’s violet too, amidst it all

In the heart of the shadows

In the deepness of the gray

Navy shimm’ring when the wind blows.

 

The spongy clay beneath my boots

Though mostly dark and dull

Has bolder streaks like maple leaves

With amber swirled and rolled.

 

Sometimes there is gold as well

Amid the colors of the rain

Through rifted clouds, when I glimpse…

the gleaming sun again.

Golden Field

I am standing in a field, golden in the sun, but the sky begins to cloud; the rain has begun.

I am standing in the midst of a field. The tall grass is yellowed and golden; every faint gust of wind sends the stalks rippling and swaying like an ocean. The air is empty; there is no sound save the murmuring of the golden waves. There is nothing beyond my field but a wide dome of soft blue. It is close, so very close, as though I can almost touch the sky. There is nothing here, except the field, the sky, and I.

I am standing on the brink. This is a no man’s land. I did not always stand amid these bowing stalks and I will not remain here forever, but today I am caught between. I am trapped in this field; this place that is somehow between yesterday and tomorrow. I hold my breath. I can feel my heart beat. My mind is restless; there is something waiting for me beyond the edge of this field, but I cannot move. Why will I not move? I am waiting, though I know not what for. There is something coming, coming to me as I wait in the field. Do I go to meet it? Can I move? Will I? There is a strong wind now and it blows with the scent of rain—the scent of rain and the scent of change. My hair is whipping around my face, the grass is dancing, and my heart and breath are in a race. I am standing in a field, golden in the sun, but the sky begins to cloud… the rain has begun.