Jump 

There is no one there to catch me, but I would love to learn to fly. My eyes, playing along the loose edges of certainty, cliff faces and curbs, I’m courting a potent notion with intentions of taking flight. A featherless free fall that could grant a taste of freedom.

Leap!

How fine I’d feel, untethered from any holding onto earth. I have no desire to be held captive by these footprints beneath my feet. I’ll make my mark then leap, liberated in glorious flight until gravity decides otherwise. She is the stubborn voice intent on foiling any escape.

I Leap anyway!

I can’t begin to count the takes offs that didn’t make, the break ups she couldn’t take, you see gravity is a crude lover who just won’t take “No” for an answer. She pulls at me with every leap, I feel her begging for my decent. I’ve  learned to time my leave from her, I heave myself from ever knowing her and count the feet until we meet again. It’s a tiresome dance that I endure until my legs have spent there strength, there is no excuse to settle for the prisons of stale foot prints.

Leap!

Inside these lofty bounds I see the power of possibility. My heart flutters around my chest, intoxicated with pure adrenaline. The never knowing has grown addictive, it has nurtured a readiness to fail. Now  I always look and leap, this way I can see her embraces coming. I never know the tangibility of a dream until the leap confirms it’s fullness. I could speculate and spectate but that’s is how mysterys stand untested.

So I Leap!

At my footings edge there lies a world of questions only bravery can answer. There are no new answers to these in the well worn tracks of comfort. I constantly test my courtship with certainty at the edges of reason, leaping into the haze to confirm the mystery of my possibilities.

Life is too short to settle for the prisons of stale foot prints.

Leap

Gone Fishing 

The waters edge was more lenient. He remembered watching on from the banks as long shadows cast nets against the early sun. Barely was the light free from its hiding had the men liberated their vessels from the shores and taken to the open water. He remembers hearing the merriment dancing up to the shore, carried so easily by a dawn yet to be sullied by the scurry of life. He witnessed from sturdy ground how these men worked through the days, only to row home well after the suns song was sang. He never would have imagined stepping into that painting, he was learning the fine details of each brush stroke that gave the pantomime of the morning maritime men an unknown appeal.

The old men teased his footing. A new comer to the fleet his feet stumbled atop the deck. Aged timber, coated with traces of the sea fighting its way on board. Buoyed over the thrashing waves, the torrents imposed their will. Holding on to mast, to stern, to hope, he had prayed for peace. He had pierced that film of fading color that kept him safe from the vivid shades of effort on board those sailed islands.

As another mess of tangled mesh was hoisted on board, the smiles around his frown confused his patience. How can their songs remain strong despite the empty crates? They had no quarry to proudly claim as the fruits of their labor. The deities in their music were the subject of ridicule on the shores where learned men took stock of reason, where was the reason and rationale to cheer and sing void of victory. Each barren haul was a dagger to his zeal. Taking stock of wasted efforts, he failed to match the tempo of seedless gusto, surrounded by madmen, he questioned his own sanity. The ships berth was the  death of a ruse well laid by a rose glow of his once pleasant mornings view.

The water danced them through the after noon as reel after reel of line was sent to the depth and summed back on board for inspection. The songs were unseen silk that bound the fleet into one. A brotherhood of men who wore smiles to taunt the mighty sea, the music sustained the length of the voyage and each bout of “Children of the Sea” was a subtle nod to each man braving the courtship of the currents. It could have been the sun, or the rhythm of the tide, but he felt an urge to sink into the cadence of lunacy. He found himself thinking less and feeling more, he forgot the cold gaze that quantified each second and just faced into the formless face of the day that names itself differently with each passing wind. Those men had grown old at the helm of these fleets, they have seen the sea and their bodies spoke the hidden language of the wash.

 

A sudden jolt incited a frenzy, the vessel swayed as though sea was calling it in. There was panic and hurried action as every able body man took his place by the netting and fought against the sea. All the young man could do was follow suit. Driven by panic, he heaved and pulled, picturing the fleet falling victim to the depth, fueled by fear. His mind was wild with worry, maybe the sea was calling for the men to make true their claims of bravery, maybe their merriment insulted their phantom deity. Spatters of panic settled into a joint effort, the men succeeded in liberating the nets from the water and with it a school of fish danced their bodies atop the deck. Aged timber, coated with the bounty of the sea, they had a claimed a victory.

The old men had learned the hidden language of the sea, they listened with ears that have spent years conversing with the tides, decoding the power of the deity’s gifts. There is a patience that only the voyage can teach, he was beginning to learn that. The young man carried the song in his heart, at the ships birth his heart echoed with another bout of “Children of the Sea”, born into a brotherhood that endures the tides of life.

 

Silence

It’s a soft cloud that settles after so much rain, after the tumultuous applause of tongues simmers away to allow a mist to claim the room. It’s a safe place sometimes, it saves our grace when there is chaos and there are too many decibels to deal with, held softly it grants a respite from the stampede of life’s less tranquil spectrums. Silence slides through empty homes when life is spent, when days are sent to slumber, it paints into the night a thin slip of light that allows the smallest lungs, from beneath the blades of grass, to serenade the night.

Sometimes silence thunders, it harbors echos of a life already lived. When the traffic of everyday is drowned out by silence, inside us, the cannons of old wars reverberate their anguish. The dialogues that refuse to die, live inside the quiet moments that still the senses. Silence rouses the nocturnal voices that are rested while the world of sounds is active, the voices that find you when the world around you pauses for rest. Silence is never silence, the echos are waiting, silence allows for another spectrum of life that has no opening for anyone but you.

Allowed to its share of life, silence is a loving gesture, a needed gesture. I could dance in the cacophony of my senses wildest celebration for senseless stretches of time, however the constant crashing of waves eats away at my shores. When the waves simmer and still their frenzy for a moment, a host of game is invited into the flow, and for a moment I can take stock of my quarry. I can see what it is that is attracted to to swim amidst my flow. When we get busy living it’s hard to see what we are drawing into our intimate space, I take the quiet as a cue to watch for the elements that thread through these echos of a life lived, I thin the heard accordingly.

In listening to the sounds of silence, I have learned the rhythm. The ebb and flow of the outside world bleeding in, of my inside world beating out. I listen, and move my feet to the hidden cadence of that harmony.

If we were having coffee right now …

If we were having coffee right now, I would have my order of caffeine at hand, mixed with enough caramel to make the kick bearable. I would take my triple chocolate muffin and whatever scraps of paper I was carrying around that day, and I would sit them right next to yours in a quiet corner of the cafe. I’m guessing it’s been a while since we last saw each other, so we would ramble along for a little while, so much to say yet so little time. I’d be happy we finally found the time to have our sit down, your schedule is as busy as mine, sometimes they simmer out for long enough to grant us our fix of caffeinated froth and friendship.

If we were having coffee right now, I would have to tell you all about my writing, about my thoughts, about my make shift epiphanies and everything that is new with me. Its no secret that I decided a while ago to write my way into old age. I would inundate you with stories about the poetry slams and open mics that I’d been to and all the ways it was very much the drug that made the chaotic mesh work of everyday bearable. The thrill of working those crafted syllable into the air, the silent crowds hovering under this mist of my uninhibited truths. My writing is going well, it’s not great but it’s good. I would have to mold it into some kind of palatable excuse for my vanishing for months at a time.

If we were having coffee right now, I would have to tell you about my latest challenges. About how I might be veering away from the baked goods that we loved so much, maybe I’d still be a vegetarian at the time. I would tell you why I’m leaving these things behind, it’s wouldn’t be because I loved them less, but because my limbs had started to feel heavier, and running after some semblance of freedom is tiring work. All the training I’d been doing has highlighted the thickness around my bones, and a heaviness in my heart, a few less cakes, a few less pints of our weekend elixir and a few less dances in the company that pioneered our friendship. This should not confuse you with lack of presence. Name the time and place and I’ll be there with my dancing shoes on and you will not be robbed of any part of the man you knew.

If we were having coffee now we would most likely be in our home town. Since moving away from everything I rarely show my face in the old neighborhood, but you’ll always be reason enough to swing back to the familiar stone faced towers that played the back drop to so many summers. The place that has catered to so many memories, too many “one drink” outings that spiraled into an insomniacs paradise.

If we were having coffee right now I would be counting the hours in empty servings of coffee that would begin full but would end as hollow cups filled with the residue of laughter and reminiscence. If we were having coffee right now I would dread any goodbyes. I’d be watching you piece together the phantom days that tie the faded goodbyes to our pleasant hellos, always weary always wise to the traces of the epilogue of our dear dialogue.

One more coffee for the road. Sadly there are no to go cups of you to help perk up the lethargy of your absence.

No Farewells from me.

Just goodbye for now.

Him for Her

There was a cruel miscarriage of justice written in ash and embers. The amber glow of spent vigour twisted the vines that once hugged the old tree. Once brilliant with chlorophyll and teaming with life, the luminous veins were the symbol of a hope that lived before the sky summoned it’s executioner. Now ashen and frail they lay strewn amongst the blades of grass, robbed of vitality, bearing no semblance to there original beauty.

From the speckled screen of privilege, I was kept safe at a distance, watching the ruckus unfold. The storm would rile itself up with that thunderous call and response that claimed the stormy nights. The room would shake as the air, taught by the rain and imposing clouds, was cut clean by the limbs of lights that stretched down. Outside my looking pane, out of reach of the reality of it all, nature was claiming its dominion over nature. My mother told me that lightning never strikes the same place twice. I’ve heard the words repeated time and time again, now looking on at the remains of the old tree, smitten by the sky, I prayed the heavens would spare that patch of earth another bout of fury.

I can’t remember when it was that I stopped running from those thunderous claps. I never took note of the way the fear molded itself into fascination. I out grew the cowering and faced into the storm from the safety of my window. A veil clear enough to never hide whats there to see, but veil enough to to ensure I didn’t taste the sting of the moment.

The elements wear their emotions on there sleeves, never resigning themselves to the judgment of onlookers. The thunder has been praised and vilified, none of this had altered its readiness to do its bidding. Staring at the remains of the old tree I see that beauty has hidden bite, nature has hidden might, the sharp sparks of heaven could strike as marvelous, or touch upon earth with ugly hues of destruction. There is a pantomime of ether that will wind to unfold in unexpected endings, in unexpected beginnings, unexpected majesty and mourning.

 

 

There was a cruel a miscarriage of justice written in ash and embers. The amber glow of unchecked rage, rattled off in storms that ate away at her. Such jagged diction, then taken as norm, was gifted thoughtlessly until they touched on the sinews of that lone soul brave enough to stand tall in the open, weathering the storms.

I hate that I wasn’t the only one watching as another cloudy day claimed her smile as the hope that coursed her veins was claimed by thunder. Her voice was lost in the wash of a horse wind begging her to “Remember her place.”

“What place?” I thought.

Sadly I knew.

There are only so many storm that privilege can shelter me away from. With out the rain on my back I’m numb to the reality of the stand, I forfeit forever my watching post.

My sister. I will be counted in the forest that will grow around you. I will be there to stand by you when the world is all raindrops and fire. I will stand tall, rooted deeply, footing firm and far reaching so every storm will tread tentatively before washing the ground around you. She fights for her right to stand tall in the bitter air. She stands tall to outlive the roar of the witless lumberjacks chains, intent on binding her strength. I have watched those branches tapped for way too long, limbs leaking with majesty, bleeding your sustenance dry. Your crooked bark outlines the story that was written in silence, the broken Armour that recounts the nights fighting against the storm.

When the sky is all raindrops and fire, I promise to stand with you.

A Beautiful Mind 

Somewhere in secret you are casting spells. Behind the fashioned glow of everything here and now, you find a way of stealing a piece of where you’ve been, transmuting a life already lived and lending wonder to the willing ear.

I wonder if you’ve thought about it that way. Maybe you’re too consumed by your muse, too far taken to see the wake of you diction, ultimately, my addiction. I wonder if you know what it is you do, because I worry about the day you wake up to your cunning, the day you find kinship in the clouds. One day you’ll step away from this mortal relm. Oshun, don’t swoon to far when Apollo calls, you’ve swayed the rooted mountain range that stood in my way, unveiling a hidden world.

I guess that in sharing your story you’ve grown immune to the wealth of what is new to me. I often lent only half of my heart to my art, I sold so many stories short of there worth because of lessons in living that I confused as finished, I though my vulnerability would stifle my strength. Where I was crooked in sight, your softly spoken truth had shattered a curse, you showed a fuller frame through uninhibited zeal.

At first there was culture, you painted your history in new hues, a kaleidoscope of every thing you, and everything home. I hadnt the faintest idea that there were somany ornaments blessed in your character that words have only started to show justice. Trinkets from a never forgotten world still reverberate there richness in the contents of your spirit. There is no truer beauty than those vulnarable petals that wilt from the fully flowered thoughts you were brave enough offer into this cold world. You became brave enough to share their radience with a soul that is ready to listen and accept its presence, whole heartedly, I savour them.

How hurried and controlled I was in youth, how stern and caution I remain in youth. I’d forgetten than not everyone neglects the gardens of their minds. Here I stand speechless, I have no strength to resist the allure of a beautiful mind.

My brothers had taught me to be greedy with my attention, lest I plunder my value and worth. There was talk of unwritten ettiquette that I was more than ready to disown when I was allowed a chance to walk inside a mind so alive. Beautiful minds are kept safe from the tumulous tides of the everyday. They are built while breaking away the constricting landscapes of the prescribed mind frames and feeding the beauty of body and soul. It was after I decided to take the time to learn the pyramids of your minds that more wonders breached from this lowly desert.

I’m waiting eagerly, searching with keen eyes for more flowers to disown their obscurity. I will always find time for a beautiful mind.

The Fast 

Hearty handfuls of everything here and now have well and truly clouded the system. Arteries are thick with the residues of satisfaction. The breath is now shallow. Tasting the sweetness of now has stolen from a true enjoyment of the atmosphere. The peripheral mind atrophies when it’s allowed to dwindle in the somber swirls of comfort. The obesity of malcontent hasn’t been an issue to the body well suited to the wasted patch of immediacy.
Starve the ego, let it drain its own energies with the complaints it’s more than ready to deposit, but too cowardly to withdraw from. Sometimes that lethargy needs to meet its match. Fast, sweat out the evil seeds. Something offers itself up when the slate is wiped clean.
Don’t act as though you’ve never though about it. You washed up on the shores of your greatest dreams and found yourself prisoner to the harbour. The helm of your vessel was too sweet a temptation to touch on the uninterrupted forest that lines the coast. The vessel isn’t a bad omen or an enemy to your voyage so far. It kept you in good stead, when the waves were peaking over the bow and testing the firmness of your journey it was there for you. Your ship held fast, though you were lost and wondering, it kept you far enough above the swim to afford you breath. Beaching on the coast was a blessing and a curse, you haven’t found your Atlantis, but el dorado is within reach.
Burn that cask of fermented thought, let the plumes of distress signal in your intent to be the next brave soul to wonder “what if?” and journey far enough to find an answer.
Fast.
Sweat away the labours of your fears and give in to the little spark of effervescence that weened you off the shores of the other world and into the tumultuous sheet of adventure you survived, to make a home on the shores of possibility.
I can never promise safety. If I did you’d be unamused by such a sterile venture. You have managed to conquer the seas of uncertainty and found a new adventure. The new night that shrouds your courage illuminates when you are brave enough to part with the match sticks that steal from the wonder of the naked stars.
Adventure is calling. Fast your heart, mind and body. Weed out the impurities, allow the garden of your true potential a fighting chance to sprout wonders.

Running With Wolves

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The forest is thick  deep in the misty black. Footsteps echo among the forgotten leaves, the mighty pines hang boldly over the lair where the wolf pack roams.

Never forget the pack. We cut our teeth on the remains of victory. In defeat we concur our inconsistencies. We run to the sound of a drum held taught by the sinews of that which was never able to break our spirit. I have forgotten a world without the howling of my brothers. Where once I believed in the silent revery, I grew to learn the vigor that wins the true spoils of growth. It was in that union of fire that I was washed of fear and complacency. The sweat poured, diluted my cowardice as I educated my body on the price of victory.

It was a lesson late in fruition, when it matured a new side to silence had gained value. I was able to learn that the hollow words are the undoing of a cub who runs with the pack. Amongst women and men who let the intensity of there conviction live in action the weakest of the pack learns integrity from the front of the ranks. Battle hardened, bleeding out the fear and learning never to shy from the fray.Whoever dares to meet the challenge is rewarded in turn.

I stumbled into a clan that does not entertain false promise. I’m running with the pack, the conviction of my march into the hunt will determine if I go hungry.

Into the Night

We were all besides ourselves. A thick night had landed on our backs, all we had were our voices. I’ll always be thankful for that, they served as a cadence to hope.

There were familiar voices beneath that shadowy canopy, they echoed out giving us comfort while the strange ruckus of the night air tested our peace. There is a strangeness to that thick smoke that settles in the absence of light, the world loses familiarity when a sun wains. A world without colour, without shape, is a world removed from anything we knew.

My hope survived by my efforts to stay afloat, I made sure to keep my feet alive in the midst of a foreign night. My bearings were the first to lose there energies, but my heart refused to give in, it shouldered the burden and taught me the strength needed to fight for the finish. There were jeers and cheers buoyed by the fear and frenzy, among those were familiar voices fighting for clarity.
I’m sorry I hadn’t called back when you begged for your rest brother. I’m sorry I wasn’t waiting when you tried to convince me it was only a matter of time. I’m sorry I held my tongue while you screamed into the deep lull, anger hadn’t won us a victory yet. I can’t undo the pace of my passions, love was leading me.

The truth is we were never sure when we would finally breath without the clouds of uncertainty staining our breathe. Although the light had felt like a lifetime ago, it was never reason enough for me to resign to night.
Once we had broken out of the darkness we relished the light, searching around in our rediscovered clarity reviving a forgotten confidence. Filling our bellies with food and drink, we reconvened and took stock of our memories. It was funny to hear our accounts as we each offered them up in turn. Each of us boasted some degree of bravery that crowned us victors of that sudden eclipse. We all worked “hard” to survive, through our efforts some of us lived others worked only to stay alive.

I noticed our faces, some were proud of their patience, burrowed in shallow graves that offered safety, they waited for the light to return. I noticed that some faces were colder even after the sun had touch them. The night had worked itself into their hearts, their faith was whittled thin, for them the light was always ready to leave.

I nursed my scars and made my promise to keep my limbs thick with the energy that led me forward. There were scrapes and falls, there were flashes of fear but only the fear had drowned in those sudden pools of doubt I was fortunate enough to stumble into.
I worried about the fray before, I never thought I was ready to face it. Only inside the turmoil had I surrendered to the potency and the true value of that moment. I could fret tirelessly, drawing up pictures of my problems and solutions, or I could let my heart beat that fire into my limbs and settle into the fray.

When you’re there, you’re there, stay present. Don’t drink from those notions of possibilities unrealised. Seize your moments, seize your power as the author of the fight to the finish. You’re story will be written under the canvass of your journeys nocturnal forest. You’re story will come alive under the spotlight of your victories sun. Sharpen your sword, and once more into the night.

Wake Up Call.

 

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I was challenged by my notion of passion. The thought caught me at an important part of my day, the moment when my alarm wakes me up for the first time. It’s always the same, I feel a heaviness in my body, my eyes timidly sip in the light, and I’m met by the snooze paradox, there is a split second decision to be made, to keep pushing or lay still.

I got into the habit of setting more than one alarm, I didn’t trust myself. This means that if I missed the first alarm, there would be a second, third and fourth to follow to rouse me and succeed where the first one failed.

I have over analysed that morning struggle for a long time. I always blamed the lethargy on my nutrition and sleeping pattern, I felt as though the reason I wasn’t as energized by that call to action was simply down to the fact that I wasn’t well rested and my body wasn’t fueled right. That argument made sense until the weekend rolled around. After a late nights sleep and having skipped a meal the night before I met the morning ready, raring to go, I was up before the sun had a chance to sneak in into my through the gap between my curtains.

It hit me, my will to rise wasn’t seeded in my diet, or the quality of my sleep, it was summoned from higher up. I wont deny the importance of food and sleep, but I ignore the excitement that filled my hear waking up to a blank canvas beckoning my mark.When my day was a fresh sheet I could carve and claim as my own it excited me. On the other hand when I was met by a paint by numbers scenario to step into my steps stuttered. Having to trace over somebody else’s work robbed me of planting my chance seed at the heart of it all. Something about being limited to the white spaces dotted around the page stole from the fun of the whole page.

People talk about the importance of “whys” an awful lot. I understood the concept well, I felt I lived inside the idea for a long time, for a very long time, I was wrong. We can retrospectively rationalize anything given half a chance, as humans we excel here. I was always ready, I held a hand full of reasons to offer up when I was presented with a question as to why I am a certain way. The whole idea of naming things, gave me a comfort in the mystery of everything, the devil we know is better than the devil we dont. I guess I was too eager to have an answer for the questions I had no answers to, I was rushing away from assumed uncertainty, I didn’t take enough time to answer them myself. I understand now that I don’t always have to have the answer. Sometimes its okay not to know, sometimes it’s better. It makes it feel better when you feel around that empty space and learn the true nature of it all, instead of padding the holes in our knowledge with an answer that sustains the illusion of control.

If you ask me 5 years from now, 5 months from now, or even 5 days from now, “What gets you up every morning?” my answer will probably change. But today… It’s this,

 I’m just excited to get better everyday. I’ve found this crazy canvas that would take a lifetime to paint, and I’m ready for the challenge. Allow me freedom to paint my masterpiece.

Are you working on your masterpiece?

 

S.K