Journey Through the Years: Rabbit

So here we are again, welcome back to the page. Yet another interpretation for your viewing pleasure.

Here is what we have to deal with today.

The task that waited for me when I decided to take on this concept of the “Chinese Zodiac”, was faceless, nameless and indescribably inciting. The animals I needed to get started were right there waiting for me, a simple google search away. As I penned a promise of content I had no idea what would be coming out of each animal. My curiosity was the driving force behind the project and it continues to feverishly examine the raw materials.

With each of the zodiac animals I dance with, so many unknowns cloud the way, a cause for both celebration and panic, I love the prospect of new information, but the lack of familiar territory doesn’t make for a smooth ride. The previously shared excerpts were of reasonable success, I steooed into the animals and played a role in my head thay i coukd share on the page, but this rabbit, this …. cunning fur ball was an enigma that tested my patience. It worked deeper into its burrow each times I inched close enough to tease a tale out of its hide.

An excavation of this experiment in the future grows more and more likely as I play with each candidate, with so much potential it would be a shame to leave it all with this one attempt. For now I would like to share the results of my recent dig to harness the rabbit energy.

Enjoy

 

 

Tomorrow seems to be a short breath away, the future Is a moment in the making, waiting for me on the furthest side of each passing second. I work for the finish, laying hour upon hour with a diligence reserved for kings, only time will crown these effort. No fanfare or flare needed when I finally win my lot.

Forever is soon to find the students of longevity, luck had no say in the sheen of this coat, forever is no fickle feat handed to well wishers and common folk, its a prize reserved for only the few who are privy to that south easterly wind carrying the guile of the rabbitkin. 

I am a companion to the evening light, I leisurely dress my years with an eye of keen composition, I am more than happy to dance with the devil in the details to win my admittance into heaven. We are wise to remain enamored with perfection, with a formula as old as time I see no need to defect.

I am waiting to watch the last light slip silently from sight before I can offer you my final farewell. As the course of nature goes, I follow suit, I have learned never to argue with the flakes of winter as autumn leaves, we are best to avoid all friction. The warren warrants safe stay from that inevitable chill, what better way to savour peace than a slumber away from the cold. Fire may fold away the frost, but I am unable to justify the risk of feeding my home to this insatiable beast, we are best to avoid the friction. I built a table inside my house in order to feed friends, never to fuel the end, the tombs of texts guarding my walls would be nothing but kindling for a fire conjured in vain. Look at how well I have worked the worlds mysteries into these shelves. I would quench any fire at lest it consumes my haven, I am play for the finish.

B.N.

 

 

 

 

Journey Through The Years: Tiger

Building on with another week of these interpretations. I bring to you….. the tiger.

Very little has yet to happen without a touch of encouragement on my part. Allow me to show you how. We have laughed together for too long, you  may have forgotten the gold in these stripes.

In spite of these walls we are likely to obtain heaven. I have heaped my paws with treasure, I can assure you that no measure of salt can dull the taste of victory. Fortune favours me, might and speed are but seeds to what my frame can make true, I can promise a piece of my luck if you are willing to take my side on this hunt. Follow my lead and lean your flanks into this venture.

I have seen enough of the bitter otherness that betrays so many in the heat of war. I believe an understanding has made itself known to me, by name and now by taste. I let no morsel of a moment avoid my tongue, what the hunt provides I shall always relish. The hunt was everything we needed it to be, it sharpened the fire that flickers in our coats to consume defeat. It offered a serving of fear so that we can steer clear of its effects. Locked in a race against tomorrow, how could a shy claw possibly pierce that curtain that dances between mediocrity and greatness. With too many names for the varying shades of cowardice, I pray by my yellow Lilly that they may never stain this hide of mine.

B.N.

 

 

 

Journey Through The Years: Ox

The mighty ox is a picture of resilience, certainty and admitted stubbornness. I had a lot of fun with this interpretation of the zodiac.

Enjoy.

Having imagined the summit, we have promised ourselves to the climb. Limb and life married to the steep steps of our greatest adventures. I hold the colour of my mothers flag between my teeth and meet this faceless giant with hue of whose who from our family tree. I bless these fruits to this giant so clearly raised in a relm void of all of us, uneducated in the ways hoof and horn, hurling its thornless  words in hopes of discouraging our nature. The toil of the migration finds us more fit for triumph than the sight of a days breaking, more trying to the cause than the pulse of the river run, more stubborn against the odds than than the timing of seasons cutting their course.

The pitch of the mountains song has no relevance to the heart of the driven herd. Darting north and south to the rhythm of legacy and tradition, no soured stream of doubt can dilute our verve. The fire feeds our bones with the letter of its law. Till the last morsel of fuel, we will feed this furnace, a fierce blaze to raze the hurdles that dare a chance and living. All apologies reserved for the timbre of conflicting dissonance. We hear you graze the flanks of our bulls, grazing on deep seeded dues, we need more we than you to be done with these deeds, so accept the rhetoric reserved for the “other” and hold your tongue.

However long this winding whisper runs, the sound of the finish is power. How can the marrow of the me soften at the sound of sleep when the pastures are promised ten fold at the top. Paved with the nectar of peach blossom, our fetish for the sweeter side of effort drives the herd. Together we claim the finish, nature has offered us strength and the endurance to conquer the miles, to conquer this journey through the years.

B.N.

 

 

Journey Through the Years: Rat

A series of interpretations based on The Chinese Zodiac.

Two months ago I pressed a promise into words. While sitting besides myself I was struck with an idea cradling a wealth of creative pasture. My “Journey through the years” collection would be my opening into an interesting perspective. My enthusiasm was tested quickly, my tongue recoiled at the richness of this morsel of a muse, my keys stuttered into an inertia that has offered nothing but silence onto these pages. While the year has still so much to offer, I will shy away no longer. Lets list together the years.

There will be poetry, prose and open ended letters, however the year speaks best. I wont know what vessel each piece of this zodiac will fall in, but I will find a way to offer it forward.

For our first of the years, here is our first.

 

 

The Rat

Under the banner of allegiance, I can lead you where you need. With my back to the west I will welcome the new beginnings, we shall  forget the taste of hunger. In all the ways I championed to be the first I can offer sweetness into your season.

This will be ours to claim, the year that opens hope. I have sampled the soured pearls of the vine, believe me when I steer you safe from sour fruit. We can head fully into the onlookers and mingle as one of them, as though cut from common stock we can stoke our value from wherever there is voice. Steadily and stern, wary of the wayward few.

Point easterly, north and south and welcome the coming sun. Light needs very little to argue for its life. There is no head way to be made for rootless quadrilles, no slight of speak to bite into if we believe our motive just.  The sun speaks a language without refute. Light is light.

Our year yields a bouquet of the most flavour, I list my luck on the life of the Lilly. She warns me with her pail gaze when winter rounds the bend, then we are free find for ourselves shelter. If the world lives as colourful as this beautiful sentiment of golds, greens, and blues. Then dawn your suns, pastures and skies, to rally our lucky stars.

These will be the banners of our years. Coursing through the rivers of time.

B.N.

Poems for Planets: Uranus

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It’s lives!!

This series was meant to have been a weekly affair. I wanted to engage with you, the reader while sharpening my sword, so weather the quiet months while I find the words to share. I have had a few hard lessons to learn in these passing months, I’m hoping my future serial posts live up to the my original intentions. There are only 3 planters left to play with in this series. Let us end in this in style.

Let us allow Uranus to revive the project, this is an interesting character to resume the flow. It’s the only planet that is leant over on its side. It’s axis is tipped at a peculiar 98 degrees. Its earned its name as the “Ice Giant” for a very obvious reason. It doesnt have a surface per say, its a has giant of hydrogen and ice. This is a cold cold cold place.

Like many of the planets it has moons that orbit it, the names of this planet deserves a whole post for themselves, they are named after characters by Williams Shakespeare and Alexander Pope.

The mythology behind the planets is a wild and crazy winding road, Uranus is no exception to this. The god of the sky/heaven courted his mother (Gaia) to sire the titans who in turn birthed more familiar deities like Zeus and Poseidon. The Mythological aspect of our solar system is colored with oddities that are guaranteed to fascinate.

Late me waste no more of our time together and share this Ice Giants tribute in this, My Poems for Planets.

 

Uranus: Limerick

 
You sleep as you sweep through the motions,

Jaundiced from frozen emotions.

Your orbit is plagued

By a hoard from the stage.

You play the Oedipus who sired commotion.

 

B.N.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letters From The Wild Man: Dear Prince 

 
Let’s forget reason and charge into the mist. The night will pay us no consideration when it blots our guide from its zenith. Reservations are reserved for the few who will sleep in nights reach. Tomorrow we would have reached to the promised place. 

Bring with you courage and a tonic of twisted sanity. No linear thought can traverse the jagged edges of nights winding road. Your feet might not hold familiar shape, but they will be strong. Your heart might wither at times, in time it will drink fortitude. 
I aligned myself with your vision because it is devorsed of myopia. It failed to believe the vail of the tidy walls that sheltered our flock from the beasts. Such separation from danger had maimed my skill, I had forgotten to hunt, in being hunted I became prey to the consumption of certainty, avoid this outcome at all costs.

My nomad brother, home was where mothered kept you stay and surrendered your adventure to care for ears of maize, amazed when you showed power to till more than your share, your might is more than credited for. Home is where my father went away to a wooded place, a venture which was presented as a mere nightmare to me, stories of wonten peril. He wasn’t always willing to show us the bow that strained his grasp of fragile things, the trophies that nurtured his pride, never was a tale told of the cunning cultivated by stalking the boar. I will carry you into the wood. 

Together we will slay the mystery. 
There are stories that portray courage as a commonplace, amongst uncommon men this legend is known. Amongst uncommon women, whose gathered bounties sport rarities that lift us out of common lethargy, the strories that crackle in moonlit fires were the common cadence of there clapping undulation. 
We’d brave the watery slopes of reason for a magic that is tucked into the pockets of the old mystics. Only in coming close to these forbidden friends are we able to reach into those pockets and draw out the dried bones that she reads our fortunes from. Evidence of a tale as old as time and pacified by the city walls. The village will mourn the passing of your innocence into the wilderness, save the mystic, she will applaude our zeal, sending well wishing thought into the mountain pass. 
The chieftens conglomerates will sire the next heir to the cities. The mountain pass through wooded mystery will braze the iron few into swords of hope to severe ties with the world that sysiphus shamelessly carried. 
B.N

The Hands That Feed You.

 

“Hard hands knead dough, everybody needs bread.”

Unknown

She has shouldered this burden for years. Life had taken liberty with the course she dreamt out, veering her along a path molded by necessity. Her mornings lead her deeper into a world where the hammer and anvil speak louder than prayer.

Once upon a time she had silken palms, soft hands that busied themselves in acts of freedom. She would spend time lending life to canvas. Her fingers, tipped with magic, painted heaven into blanks sheets. Those very hands have changed, becoming shadows of their former selves, hardened souls dedicating themselves to prying sustenance from the toils of labor. They have become strangers to the paint and brush, her pallet of inks seem weightless in this new world. Having carried more than their fair share her fingertips barley recognize the easel. These strangers are lost to the rhythm of cold work, mimicking the coarseness of a granite wheels that marks time at the old mill. Lost in a colorless world, her palms remain numb to a tenderness she once knew.

Her eyes have been hostage to the low lights for too long. Its been 6 years since she began working at the mill, 6 years since seeing her spirit fade as the earth opened up to swallow her light. It seems as though she has lost touch with the world around her, I have found it harder to pieces together a semblance of my mother in those vacant stares. She is often vanishing beyond the window pane ,prospecting for hope. Though I wonder where she goes, I know the familiar song her memory play, she revisits a time when love was still in reach, Father was gone too soon.

My fathers passing saddled my mother with darkness, to carry on mother had took to working at the mill. To see a whisper of her shine through the shadows of that  building speaks volumes of her heart, a love forever lit, regardless of the odds she carries one.

Ill never know what a life without that pain would have offered her, I only know this version of things. I’m ashamed to admit that I allowed years to creep by before I took notice of the hands that fed me, the way they bartered their tenderness for my sustenance, the way they pieced together strength, the way the carried me away from ever wilting on my feet. Despite the falling of her kingdom she found the grace to raise a King. Those hands knead the hope that feeds my spirit. She is deserving of the world in return.