Tag: writers

Muse

We write; and it is not with a blind eye that we see ourselves, nor with deaf ears that we hear the cries of our hearts and souls – and those of others whom we love: mother, father, sister, brother, cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and strangers. We write; and we catch a glimpse into the emotions we already know, the pains and sorrows, the joys and fathomless depths of those around us whose lives swirl like dervishes that only barely brush our cheeks, that only briefly caress and embrace us. We write; and a moment lasts forever, every microsecond of emotion held within our bellies to nourish our lives forever, to nourish others who might read – or to upset the stomachs of the guilty who might recognize, in this, their wrongdoing.

We write; and the world exists.

For, there may be billions, trillions of truths – one for every moment that exists with prismatic possibilities; but all are lost to the depths of darkness unless we capture, for a moment, this.

And so, I write, am spurred to write; and understand, in this fuzzy state of emotion brought on by salty beer and sadness at the loss of one so great as The Great Gatsby’s Fitzgerald, why it is that he drank and felt this to be the only state in which greatness might be achieved:  For, it is hard, so often, to swallow the same truths that linger in our minds and memories as we recount for the world what it is we see.  They are painful truths, even the most beautiful.

For, if we were living, now, we would not write; and if we did not write, we would, somehow, cease to be.

Tender

Tender is his heart,
Tender is his love,
The one who reaches me,
Plucked me from skies above;

Tender is his touch,
Tender is his kiss,
And tender is my heart for him;
And all I am is his.

Photo ©2016 MLM

Bending Time

What's left when a kiss is o'er and through,
When limbs once-woven unfurled?
I can still see the kinks left from me-and-you,
Can still feel the gravity of our world —

And yet, you dare take a simple love,
Compare it to an ill-fated time,
Withdraw from this curious treasure trove,
Would treat you-and-me as a mere past-time?

Words fail
Emotions fail
Love fails
Time fails

There is The World,
And then, there is the world:

Control versus freedom
Love... and nonsensical rhyme

The sense that makes sense makes no sense to you;
Though I follow your thinking, the logic's askew —

And I'll suffer while you do as you do,
And I'll love even while your love you will eschew,
And I'll love, remain in love when you bid 'adieu'...
And I'll help you acquire yourself a wife, anew...

While I hold the days close
When you held me so close

When words won
And hearts won
And love won
And time won

And I won time with one
Whom I always loved

Photo credit: Pexels Free Photos

Running In Circles

So, the obvious 'comes apparent;
Does this change 'nything in truth?
For our friendship leaves the aberrant
‘Fore I come home to Duluth

And I found another lover
And your soul and mine depart
And my freedom, I recover
And I find again my heart

There was never any answer in the minds rejecting love
There was never any truth in those blue skies, so far above
There was only I and you, two lonely souls stood, side-by-side
There were only two hearts calling, though but one love could abide

And I found this other lover
And your soul and mind depart
And my freedom, I recover
And I offer him my heart

So, the obvious 'comes apparent,
And all life is changed, in truth
And a friendship dies, inherent,
For each choice made in Duluth

But, I found my only lover
Ne’er his soul and mine depart
And our freedom, we’ll recover
As I share with him my heart

There was never any answer in the minds rejecting love
There was never any truth in those blue skies, so far above
There are only I and you, together: souls here, hand-in-hand
There are only two hearts ‘twining, exploring love and life, unplanned

Prisms of Love

Don’t you know?

I long to feel the skin upon your face,
The brush of whiskers nettled on your chin
And when I reach to touch, you to embrace
I find that I am forced to reach within

For - don’t you know?

I tremble all the day and all night long
My body eager, vibrating as you strum
The heartstrings of such a familiar song
Your fingers not yet on flesh; still, for you I thrum

And I cannot foresee another way
Than dancing deeply in a world unknown
So I will live and love another day
That one day, maybe soon, this depth be shown

That, maybe one day soon, I will be yours
And you’ll be mine, in body too;
That one day soon, we’ll dance through doors
In ethereal worlds we’ll live, both I and you

So, don’t you know?

My heart is bound to yours and lost to me
It’s yet my mind you kiss, that you must woo
And I, lost forever in this fantasy
Somehow made real, this life, by your love true

And - you must know!

Forever, in this time
That you are yours, and also I am thine;
That I belong to me, and you are mine!
That we are ours, forever-love sublime

Photo ©2016 MLM

Seeds of Truth and Love

I once loved a man more than all the stars in the universe, more than nearly every cell in my own body, save for a few.

I once trusted that man’s reason more than all the reason of all the wisest philosophers in all of history, more than nearly every scrap of reason in my own mind, save for perhaps two.

I loved that man more than my own children, which drove them both a little mad – and which has certainly driven me more than a little mad.

I still love him; and that may be absolutely mad… but, once one has gone mad, can one ever truly be cured of madness?  The psychologists deny the possibility; my friends insist upon the necessity; and who am I to say?  I have gone mad and I love him still, love myself enough to love my madness and the journey into and out of it, thus far.

And I love our children more than him, I think (unless, in my madness, I am lying; though I think not); and I love myself more than him, certainly (for I have become transformed).

Once, in my consternation over a beautiful film and its profound message, he told me that most writers do not know the messages they deliver; that most writers are asleep; and I imagined it to be as if their minds simply catch onto meanings like seeds improbably planted in the ground, having been carried on the wind or upon some creature’s coat or in their stool.

Once, I believed him entirely.

I may still believe it, to a point; but, coming to write with increasing frequency, coming to know of more conscious writers, I am certain that, though we may not know the full implications of our words — just as we cannot know the full implications of our actions when we take them — there are more writers, more artists, more people who know at least something of their depths.

Perhaps I will find, one day, that my own belief is just as faulty, just as ill-based and fantastical as his own (which is not to say his is any less beautiful in its meaning, as I have always found it so).

Perhaps I will find that it does not even matter whether we are speaking in subconscious intelligence or that we know, at least in part, the depths we evoke.  For now, all I can know or do is to write with simplicity the truths I hold and bear, the knowledge I have found and created, the worlds I have seen and imagined… and watch as those seeds grow.

Photo ©2017 MLM

 

My darling, you can’t see it, can you? How like the moon you are. Both of you so timid in yourselves; hiding pieces from the world. Then, there are those rare moments when you both are full, and it becomes hard to look away. You are beautiful.

Alexandria Drzewiecki 
(via wordsnquotes)

 

To tell someone not to be emotional is to tell them to be dead.

Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?
(via wordsnquotes)
~Except:  don’t forget that happy is normal, too~