You don’t need to run away
You don’t need to cry
Clouds will do that for you
Their tears trickle down in
a fine mist or
full fat drops
Wind blows them away
Pushes them onto the next
prairie or woodland
mountains or out to sea
the sun is allowed to shine
in skies clear and blue
or velvet black with
star shine and crescent moon
You don’t need to run away.
You don’t need to cry.
“My courage does not depend on the weather.”
~ Mary Anne Radmacher, author
A crescent moon
A single star
a darkening sky
no cloud shadows
fore or aft
in the quiet
of early evening.
“In the morning there is meaning, in the evening there is feeling.”
~ Gertrude Stein, writer
(1874 - 1946)
Comfort and space,
both needed
for breath to be easy.
In the space
of stars and moon
we know only breath.
The breath of the universe.
We have yet to discover
all the comforts of space.
“focus on the journey, not on arriving at a certain destination.”
~ Chris Hadfield, An Astronaut’s Guide to Life on Earth
*For Artemis 2
clear azure sky
fades into black velvet
sifted with stars and moon drift.
“No sight is more provocative of awe than is the night sky.”
~ Llewelyn Powys, British essayist
(1884 - 1939)
Thoughts tonight
are of strawberry jam and cornmeal muffins.
Simple pleasures that complete my evening.
The only disturbance ~ winking lights of air craft
barely the size of a star,
crossing the ancient lines of the Big Dipper.
It seemed offensive to mar the perfection of
the night sky. They flew on and I could feel
the awe that I felt when I was ten, or 20 or
some other age on any other cool, crisp night.
“Simple pleasures are the last healthy refuge in a complex world.”
~ Oscar Wilde
Standing as tall as possible
reaching as far as I could
I caught a star in the sky,
tucked it into my soul
I grew warm in it’s light
until it burst my crusted heart,
and I grew taller than I knew.
“Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder,
spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”
~ E.E. Cummings
Tall, slender green grasses
grow and bend to the light
seed heads awaiting maturity
“I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.”
~ Walt Whitman
Gathered on furniture, ledges, in carpets, a child’s name written on an end table.
Layered dust of
a day, a few years, generations
sprinkled with dreams, laughter and tears
Fragments of dusty memories
settle within heart, soul and mind
revived by a flower, an aroma or a brilliant sky.
Ghostly dust of generations ~
invisible layers from families passing through time
traced by fading foot prints and frayed lessons
Star Dust ~
when it is our turn, we each join the dust of ages
sprinkled with dreams, laughter and tears.
“We’re all immortal, as long as our stories are told.”
~ Elizabeth Hunter, The Scribe
Exposed to the bright lights of the city ~
a sailing moon,
all the shooting stars and
wisps of shadowy clouds
flatten, fade and disappear
in a once velvet sky
unless I look past
those sharp streetlights with
my child’s heart to let
the wisdom and magic of the night sky shimmer into my soul.
“I wonder about silence. Also about darkness. I love the idea
that city lights are a “conspiracy” against higher thoughts.”
~ Terry Tempest Williams
From dusty roads and grasshoppers
From sunshine and thunderstorms
From stardust and a velvet sky
For this tonight under a velvet sky, the day has passed quietly, gently wrapping me in clear space, stardust and calmness.
“Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always.”
~ Dante Alighieri
My muse in heart or mind
is without personality,
unless, unbeknownst to me,
a ghostly persona hovers over me.
It is words ~
Words that roll out like
multi-coloured berries or beads
dark and shadowy or
full of glitter and joy
some discarded as too pedantic and soulless
Words that practically beg
to be laid down
like tracks guiding trains
through tall trees and around snowy mountains,
up into desert high, arid mesas,
or to stretch and roll across vast prairie landscapes
My muse may be story.
Stories that spill out
over coffee and conversation
at kitchen tables or coffee shops,
over the airwaves in sound or pictures,
crackling from newsprint or the pages of a novel,
photographs old or new
intrigue and feed my muse.
I could also say ~
my muse is the architecture of story
that fascinates and maybe it is ~
the beautiful and elegant manner that
tellers and writers of story craft and weave words
to lift me up, or to reveal the soul of reality.
Oh, and the sky.
My muse takes flight into
the streaming clouds with geese,
black birds and meadow larks
while the sun's rays spread
brilliance throughout the day,
colours as evening wanes
letting the moon and stars
shine silver light across the velvet sky.
“To be a muse is to be a wonder in someone else’s eyes, flaws and all.”
~ L.H.Cosway, Still Life with Strings
 |
| Rescued |
A train whistles in the night,
rumbles and clacks over
the rustling of cornstalks
drying and dried of life;
tomato plants sprawl silently
beneath scrappy blankets,
protected against early frost,
in a small garden lying
below the stars of autumn
“…there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lure in the sky....”
~ Percey Bysshe Shelley
Author's note: Inspired by an evening at home in Milestone, Sk
