The Dawning Dusk

I love the rose of dusk as the day fades away. It whispers of coming lands, come to bear away. And yet so soft they whistle slow. Our minds to bring to God to know.

Waif -Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
	Falls from the wings of Night,
	As a feather is wafted downward
	From an eagle in his flight.
	I see the lights of the village
	Gleam through the rain and the mist,
	And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
	That my soul cannot resist:
	A feeling of sadness and longing,
	That is not akin to pain,
	And resembles sorrow only
	As the mist resembles the rain.
	Come, read to me some poem,
	Some simple and heartfelt lay,
	That shall soothe this restless feeling,
	And banish the thoughts of day.
	Not from the grand old masters,
	Not from the bards sublime,
	Whose distant footsteps echo
	Through the corridors of Time.
	For, like strains of martial music,
	Their mighty thoughts suggest
	Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
	And to-night I long for rest.
	Read from some humbler poet,
	Whose songs gushed from his heart,
	As showers from the clouds of summer,
	Or tears from the eyelids start;
	Who, through long days of labor,
	And nights devoid of ease,
	Still heard in his soul the music
	Of wonderful melodies.
	Such songs have power to quiet
	The restless pulse of care,
	And come like the benediction
	That follows after prayer.
	Then read from the treasured volume
	The poem of thy choice,
	And lend to the rhyme of the poet
	The beauty of thy voice.
	And the night shall be filled with music,
	And the cares, that infest the day,
	Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
	And as silently steal away.

Reinaluna and the Moonlit Bay

Theres a melody that plays in the stars above at night.

A moonlit melody of sunlit noontime.

It is a song that tells the story of one maiden who was never allowed to see the sun,

And what it meant to her to be with the moon.

There was once a princess who lived in the Irish Countryside. Her parents were poor villagers, who had once been royalty, but when the Scots had come to defeat the Irish the had been divested of all their wealth and allowed to remain in the country only if they kept their royalty a secret.

One day a mob of Scottish thieves rode to the cottage of the royal family and threatened the king and queen. They had been told that the villagers had discovered their neighbors true identity. The Scottish King was afraid that the villagers would revolt and raise the old king back up to power, and so he had hired these evil men to kill them for him.

The young princess hid under her bed trembling while she watched her father and mother sliced to bits before her eyes. The guards tramped through the house raiding it, stealing all the gold they could find, which wasn't much since the royal family's wealth had all been stolen before.

They latched the doors to the cottage, and lit the hay roof on fire. Violet flames licked the sky and the princess grew afraid. She was a very brave princess, though, and so she caught her screaming cat up into her arms and rushed upstairs to the loft. There was a hidden ladder out the back and she scrambled down to the wheat fields behind her home.

Just as she flew into the woods a burning swatch of hay came down on her. A young soldier who had been watching her escape ran surreptitiously to her side. He stomped out the fire singing her skin and gave her a lotion.

"Put this on your burns," he said, "You will heal, but you will no longer be able to go outside during the day. Burns this deep leave damage so deep that the sun will bring it back up again. Find somewhere safe, and hide, stay there until it is time, I will come find you."

The little girl ran with the cat in one arm, the lotion in the other, as if her life depended on it, for truly it did depend on her running. She reached the depths of the forest and took a deep breath. She had suffered grevious burns, her lips were parched and cracked and her skin was scarlet and blistering. She resolved to run just a little farther to her favorite hiding place.

It was a cave on the side of a cliff. It overlooked a lagoon that was sheltered by rocks that looked like bridges, creating a secret bay just outside of her new home.

The Princess lived there for several years. She did heal from her burns, but as the soldier had said, she was only able to go outside at night, for if she did she fell gravely ill, and grew better only with long periods of rest and much time on the water at night.

One day many years later a stranger came into the village at night. He sat at the bar of the inn and listened to the gossip of the town. Some visiting children were listening to an old Grandmother telling them stories...

"They say she wanders the bay at night, and sings, looking for the lost love who saved her life."

"Is it true Grandmother?"

"The bay is a beautiful area, at night the moon casts strange shadows."

"But Grandmother is she there?"

"She is alive in the moonlight."

The Innkeeper looked up surprised as the visiting soldier jolted out of the door, grabbing all of his things and disappeared into the twilight.

He heard the legend from the Grandmother's lips and his heart leapt. He knew it must be the princess of which she spoke. His mind had dwelt on the small girl that he helped that day when he was so young and he often wondered what had become of her. That is what brought him to this village once a year, searching for some hint of her existence, and for the first time, he knew someone had seen her.

He ran at lightning speed through the woods and scrambled down the cliffs into the bay, and then he waited.

Moments later a figure of insurpassable beauty wandered out into the moonlight. She wore a blue spun gown that glittered as if it itself were made of moonbeams, cherry blossoms spilled through the locks of hair that shared their hue with wheat lit by the golden sun. Midnight blue mist surrounded them, and basked the pair in a magical glow, and the long, lost soldier stepped into the light.

The Princess looked up. Something about the figure before her defied the fear she should have felt. She gazed at him, as he returned her gaze and the two stepped toward each other.

The Soldier stepped forward one last time, and held the Princess' hand in his. For a moment they stood in perfect silence. The moon spoke what their hearts knew.

The moon revealed their romance and in their silence they accepted it.

The Soldier pressed the Princess' hand to his lips and bowed before her.

"My Princess, will you have me?"

The princess inclined her head in assent, and he smiled.

"You will be my Princess Reinaluna, and you will live on in legend for all of time."

And so she has.

The moonlit bay still lies in the cliffs of Ireland, and those who visit sometimes say that they can hear the lovers singing of their romance.

A romance foretold by the moon and brought together by eternal, selfless love.

A Battle

There’s a place to which I journey,

When the desert is inside me.

It’s a place of many wonders-

So much joy and thunder-

That I am consumed.

It’s a place where those who wander,

Meet, embrace inner sight, and ponder,

What means much more to them,

Then any to enter that glen.

It’s sight, poet’s wonder.

It’s a magic poison infecting

Every fiber of my being.

A broken open tear wound,

Cowering at every sound,

And begging for silence.

A majestic inhabitation cries out,

For me to ascend, and shouts,

Screams, begs for sight,

Razor sharp against a night,

And mourns the dark.

It pummels inside my brain,

Beating my mournful refrain,

Terrorizing what sadness I hold,

And forcing me back to the fold,

While my lips linger.

The reversed smile of poisoned peace,

Holds within desire to be pleased,

At every moment borne,

But by my struggle it is shorn,

And I weep.

Tears,

Silence.

And I weep

Of time that has poisoned my inside,

And tempted to discourage sight.

Begging for every moment to evade

The dark that threatens to invade.

I beg for more grace

That He bestows in suffering

To bestow peace, love in everything,
The antidote to the harrowing wounds,

That utter the sounds of his hell-hounds.

I hold my head up,

And offer my heart in humble contemplation,

Remember the “Yes” of the Annunciation.

I collapse to beg for His Own Strength,
Whose Heart burns up the Love it sang.

I take up my cross,

The insignificant suffering of one,

Who never had a real wounds,

Who was injured at the simplest dart,

Who felt every pierce to the heart.

I hope He finds

My humble contemplation of His Love,

An approach to the grace of those above,

That He may find in His Heart not to scorn

The torn, unable, move of one who mourned.

I am consumed

And lost in a hope and night,

That obliterates all sight,

And I plead myself to elope,

To weep, To love, and To Hope.

Objection

On Listening to Paramore’s Emergency

In a world where children are bent and bruised,

Parents have left to find their fortune.

Their jagged edges are covered with bandages,

Hearts broken get cartoon caricatures.

“A man can turn his head only so many times,”

It has been said, “And say that he sees nothing:

Every where he turns his head, that is what he sees,

Nothing.

Yet he turns again, empty, brokenness, shattered skyscrapers,

Buried castles in the sky, and he tramples on their fairytales.

In a time when the world of children,

Has become nothing more than reality,

Dreams are burnt to ashes and a soot that suffocates.

Those meant to guard the little ones, offend most deep.

Their education in the ways of the world,

Brings down their own despair on the hopeful hearts

Of those who have not yet been jaded.

So children hold bruises behind their skin

And fairytales are buried with their castles.

Brick by boring brick, we build real life,

Devoid of true magic, left to seek the dark supernatural,

Equilibrium between beauty and rationality,

Crumples beneath the curses of the real.

C.S. Lewis On Fairytales

“By confining your child to blameless stories of child life in which nothing at all alarming ever happened, you would fail to banish the terrors, and would succeed in banishing all that can ennoble them or make them endurable. For in the fairy tales, side by side with the terrible figures, we find the immemorial comforters and protectors, the radiant ones; and the terrible figures are not merely terrible, but sublime. It would be nice if no little boy in bed, hearing or thinking he hears, a sound, were ever at all frightened. But if he is going to be frightened, I think it better that he should think of giants and dragons than merely of burglars. And I think St. George, or any bright champion in armour, is a better comfort than the idea of police.”
– “On Three Ways of Writing for Children”

Friendship Withered

Enveloped in the melancholy daylight, of a friendship that will not wither, I sit. I wait. For some message of what I am to do, what I am to say.

I don’t have the time to believe that all we do will be fulfilled,

But I dream that our loves will combine in eternal majesty.

I don’t want to be with you in romantic consummation,

I want to be peaceful in friendship aspirations.

But you greet in caring lovingness and I cold-shoulder turn,

Steel embraces heart inside behind my hurting bones.

I cannot show you an anger I can’t possess,

But somewhere do you hear a loneliness?

That I wish our friendship dead and consumed by dark eternal,

Because I wish our friendship always light and loved eternal.

Your destruction wrought a wound of paradox and night,

And left me without understanding, peace, and sight.

Now I sit, I wait, I wait to know. To know where our amoris love should go.

Confused at times I wait and linger, I tender caring show,

But yet when you pursue I wonder, where should our love go?

Just in Case

Artist-Miles

Song-Just in Case

Album-As Fast As You Can

The album cover of Miles’ As Fast as You Can is a picture of a highway at night. Lights are blurring past and the road stretches out ad infinitum. The sense of relaxed energy persuaded me to listen to the sample song listed on indie-music.com, Just in Case. The song would be the perfect song for a drive off into the twilight like that on the cover.

The song begins in way somewhat reminiscent to the keyboard sounds of Owl City’s Fireflies and it takes on a rock beat as it goes, filtering at times into sound effects that simulate the expansive feeling of nighttime driving. Rough vocals add a grittiness to the song, but they are female, making it just smooth enough to maintain a light feel.

The band, Miles, is a little-known independent band with music on independent websites. This song is an example of their light rock, almost jazzy feel, but they also have the more spunky Face to Face. It sounds more like a mix between The Fray and OK Go’s Here it Goes Again. It is a song that you could jam to in your bedroom at night, but it still maintains the bands characteristic feel.

This is a band that would fit perfectly in the libraries of music fans that appreciate meaningful lyrics as well as a contemplative feel to their music. Miles is not impossibly slow music, but it is upbeat just enough that one could relax and enjoy it while doing something else, and it would have a soothing effect. It is almost otherworldly in the peaceful effect it has, truly bringing its listener into the serenity of driving along on a scarcely lit highway, passing by the blur of bright lights.

Writer's Block

“Once upon a time, in a land far away…

“A long time ago, far, far away.

“Down the street from…”

“Cursed be every Muse that ever messed with my head!” The exasperated writer threw slips of paper with a vehemence that shot them across the room, which any writer knows is difficult with how frustratingly light paper is.

It had been quite an evening for Arenda Plythe. Actually, it had been a trying year, but the day itself had set upon a mission to cruelly destroy every shred of hope and joy that had ever made her smile.

She had opened her eyes that morning with a start. She carefully stretched herself awake, so as not to disturb the epiphany she had received in the night. Tenderly slipping out of her sheets, she moved toward her computer, grasped it, pulled it onto her lap, and triumphantly held it to her.

“YES!” she shrieked. Thankfully, her apartment was surrounded by real estate’s curse- empty apartments- and no one heard her.

Emily Alfet had been haunting her for years, but it was this year that her publishing contract depended on a great story, and it was this year that she had lost her abilities. She could not, for the sake of her life, think of what had happened to Emily Alfet, or what should, or could happen to her. She could not even force herself to begin the tale.

She had been having dreams of the lovely Emily Alfet. A spoiled daughter of Alfred Alfet, she did nothing but attend balls, premieres of movies, and the numerous other functions that debutante’s had the opportunity to grace with their presence.

Arenda despised Emily with the passion of a woman wronged in some grotesque fashion. All that she had ever done is exist, but to exist in Arenda’s mind and never allow her to grasp why, was a crime of gigantic proportions, at least for a fictional character whose sole purpose was to express Arenda’s creativity. Worse than this heroine’s defiance, however, was her actual being. This spoiled girl had invented herself for no other purpose but to torture her creator. Emily had become a reality for the purpose of driving Arenda completely and entirely insane.

Arenda knew this now. It had been six days short of a year since Emily had come into Arenda’s life, and every other character had disappeared from her musings. Emily possessed her, demanded to be placed in a story, yet eluded Arenda on every front. What other explanation could there be for these actions? Every poet had some amount of madness within, right? So maybe this is where that came from. Perhaps every poet was plagued by some weapon of his daemon. Perhaps every poet was destroyed by his own Muse.

Against all odds, Arenda was about to defy these poetic bounds. Today she was inspired. She knew what to do with the infuriating character she knew exactly…wait. Arenda had gotten so lost in her excitement that she had forgotten every word of what had come to her regarding Miss. Emily Alfet, heiress extradoinaire. And so she had come to the frustrating state she was in on this lovely fall day.

The morning had blossomed into daytime, and daytime into afternoon, blurring every hope Arenda had of writing a first draft for her publisher. She had made every attempt she could think of to bring back her Muse, but it had left, with a decided flounce and slam of the door.

She wandered around the park, turned upside down in a mockery of yoga positions, twisted into a pretzel, prayed for an hour, sat with her journal in her lap, for hours. She had procrastinated before, waited so many days, thinking she had time before the deadline. Now there were six days left, and she knew it was necessary to begin the story, but she couldn’t. Her Muse had caught her into the most ridiculous web of deceit and superficiality and all she could think of was…shopping.

Perfect! She could experiment with the character by living her life for a day. It would be incredible, spending what little bit of money was left in her account, which was exactly…none. In fact she was in debt up to her eyeballs. Oh well, isn’t that what credit cards were invented for?

Arenda prepared quickly for a day of shopping, dressing in her only pair of enormous fur boots, a pair of skinny jeans, and one of a limited edition coat from a batch made by Prada. She had gotten these for a commercial she had done months earlier when she was desperate, but the use she had prepared for them today was much more honorable.

She walked out the door with her overly practiced model walk and strolled out to Saks Fifth Avenue.

Three hours later Arenda tried to shrug off the disgust she felt at herself. She had shopped for hours, no regard for money, no regard for anyone. She had been rude to employees. She had been more selective about her clothes than she ever would have been in her life. She had seen it done in movies, as all have, and she had always wondered what it would be like to have no care in the world for anyone or anything but yourself. She was not prepared for what it would do to her. She was consumed by this feeling of utter despair. She could not put her finger on the reason why until she faced herself and what she had allowed her self to be for the day.

Flashbacks assailed her of all the events that had passed, and she began to feel sicker and sicker. Finally, she traced it all back to the reason why. She had changed who she was for a day, for a character, for nothing more than a character who persecuted her every night and every day. Slowly, a just and overpowering hatred for Emily Alfet welled up in the remorseful heart developing deep in Arenda’s chest.

She sat to write.

“Emily Alfet was a selfish, spoiled debutante. She had never worked a day in her life, and everything she ever wanted was given to her on a silver platter.” So the war began between the selfish character and the author who hated her.

It would become Arenda’s greatest novel, but as she sat typing today, she did not know that. Her consuming hatred of all she had discovered in herself came out in her interactions with the Muse and Emily Alfet. She related the characteristics of Emily Alfet, the despicably worldly circumstances that had led her into the being she was today, anecdotes of Emily’s destructive behavior on the worlds of romance, business, friendship and family.

But one day, Emily Alfet faced trouble. This was Arenda’s triumph. It was the moment she had been waiting for from the beginning of Emily Alfet’s tale. A man clad in black approached behind Emily, knocked out her bodyguard, and kidnapped the spoiled debutante, while she was on her way to the concert after-party of the year.

Arenda stared at the screen with a feeling of smug satisfaction at the woe she would wreak in the life of Emily Alfet from here on out. Looking at the clock she realized that she had been working from seven o’clock Sunday until seven o’clock Tuesday with barely a break in typing. They say that hatred is like love, because they are both a consuming, passionate emotion towards another. If love make you do crazy things, hatred had worked this magic for Arenda Plythe. She had eaten little and slept none as Emily Alfet’s youth had unfolded on the page. Each word had come from some worthy anger in her that lent itself to a passionate writing surpassing that of anything she had ever written before. But now it was time to sleep.

She slept for the twelve hours of the night, waking up in a sleepy stupor of one who has waited far too long for sleep, but her spirit had become mild in the night. A peace lay over her as she held her newly fixed mug of English tea and prepared to write.

A golden sun filtered through the brown leaves outside her window, bathing her studio apartment in a glow of majestic purity. Her fingers caressed the keys as she typed out the rest of Emily Alfet’s fate and she slowly breathed in a redemptive air.

Emily Alfet was one of the most despicable characters the Muse had ever bestowed on man. She was a shallow, superficial, selfish human being, but under the terrifying circumstance of her kidnapping, the seed of honor deep within revealed itself and began to appear.

Arenda related the story of the terror that Emily Alfet felt. First, there was the indignance of a rich young woman who wants nothing more than to go home, but as she realized that these men would kill her if her father did not hand over money to them a keen reality set into her spirit. Something about the realization that death is approaching changes what a person is willing to do.

The men killed children, women, the weak, the innocent, while the heiress Alfet looked on, at first with trepidation, then with great anger and sorrow. Her story became one of human triumph as Arenda moved her towards the rescue of a helpless victim of the men’s cruelty. It was their business to make money, and Emily shared something in common with every victim they chose. They all had grown up with an excessive amount of money, little education, and all they ever wanted.

When it came time that the criminals would meet Alfred Alfet, he insisted that he speak to his daughter before he would turn over the ransom. Instead of begging for her life, she begged her father not to give them a cent. She begged him, and told him as quick as she could of the horrors they were guilty of. One of the men grabbed the phone away from her, hitting her in the face with it in a rush, and on the other side of her man punched her in the stomach and tangled her arm within his. His finger pointed into her face, breaking every “personal bubble” that she had ever possessed. He leered at her with a face of hatred and putrid perversion that superseded any evil she had ever seen.

Emily Alfet came into her true role as heroine when she rescued the children hidden in her kidnappers house. Through flying bullets and the terrors the brutal men wreaked on her, she brought women and children into a safety for which they could never have been more grateful. The story ended. Emily was bent and broken but transformed. She was a new human being. The superficial character that had come to life by Arenda’s pen had woven herself into a new existence. She had become the virtue that she lacked, and had taken on a new identity.

As had Arenda Plythe. She rested back in her chair and gazed at the screen. She lifted the mug to her lips, knowing full well that it was empty. Meditatively she touched the cup with her fingers, feeling within the transformation that had occurred between her spirit and Emily Alfet’s. She had found redemption in the work that had pursued her for the year. She had found redemption the object of her hatred. The Muse had worked a war on the two of them that would never cease its work on the two women engaged in its battles, and from that war and its loving outcome proceeded Arenda’s fame, and the humility that would maintain her spirit. It was the mystery behind Arenda Plythe’s great career as poet and author.

The End

Review of Wendell Berry's "Given"

Given manifests Wendell Berry’s talent at its poetic heights, drawing the reader further and further into the magical world of the real. It is a compilation of short poems about every aspect of life, from cathedrals to dust motes, a dramatic poem, and his “Sabbath poems.” The compilation moves from the simplicity of everyday life, to the mysteries of the eternal, entangling its reader in the majesty the Berry is able to portray.

The first sections of Given “In a Country Once Forested” and “Further Words” are composed of short, simple poems, yet somehow a tremendous meaning is portrayed in these slight tributes to life. The Cathedral is “Stone/of the earth/made/of its own weight/light” and All “bend in one wind.” These are two full poems both manifesting symbolism despite their smallness. The trick of many of these short poems is that their meaning surpasses the full understanding of the reader encompassing mystery that allows the reader to enter into contemplation of the words and their meaning.

Berry masterfully wraps his reader into the fullness of contemplation in the third section of Given, “Sonata at Payne Hollow.” It is the tale of two ghosts who were wedded in life, but consumed by something beyond themselves as well. They were enchanted out of themselves by the contemplation of nature and the world. Harlan is consumed by wanderlust and Anna is caught up in the beauty of his wanderer’s soul. In Harlan’s yearning for solitary wonderment, he realizes that the perfection he would reach alone is not as perfect as the “imperfect union of two,” which he engages in with his wife. The wonder of this poem of love between humans and nature wraps the reader into the world of contemplation that Berry expresses throughout his writing.

The last journey that Berry guides his reader to is the depth of peace following contemplation. “Sabbaths” is a collection of poems from his Sunday walks over the years. The reader experiences the sensation of wandering in the beauty that he has been caught up in with Berry’s mountain of wonder. The climax of the “Sonata” lends itself to a gliding journey downwards and a peaceful exit of the land that Wendell Berry has Given to his reader.

Wendell Berry’s Given is a journey that Berry wishes to guide his people in. The world of simplicity lends itself to the wonder and contemplation that he intends to bestow and illustrate. The quest is to receive fulfillment, to know beauty, to be blown away by all that one sees, and to therefore live true joy. It is Berry’s gift to his reader, bestowed in a tender love for nature, the world and the reader, a joy that overflows from his own heart into the spirit of those receiving his gift. It is an experience that should be lived and not simply read, an exploration of the soul and world that should change the one who encounters its beauty.

Hope

It may be said that love is a myth, beyond the really real,

That perhaps the selfless love of truth and forms

Passes out of human existence. That perhaps the love

I sing weaves itself through human dreams,
And says goodbye. Leaving dreams to be all they are,

Dreams. Not a true way to live one's life.

Not the way to pursue all and every moment.

I say no. I say something in life is love,

Something to be led, something to be made,

Something to endure, and live, and bear with pain,

Something to be, in all you are, something to be

In all that is, but never just a dream-

Unless dreams are simple happenstance,

the greatest gifts in life, truer than all else,

If dreams are thus, then let me pursue the dream of love.

Let me live its every care, let me explore its every ode

To every human being, Let me be love,

Let me live love, Let me Love, let me love Love

And in the loving, let me live, and let me illuminate Love,

Let me illustrate love, let me bring all to Love's illumination,

Illustration, Let me bring the mystery of love

To the handwritten blossoms of love's labour.

Let me live love in the page, and let the glory of love never fade.

But let love be love in love's own page, and in love's own way,

May love's fair road be paved

in the souls of all those who say,

They will hope.

The Ghost of The Duchess

Moonlight misted in around her form as the shadowed one entered.

Victorian garb of ebony whispers and silken scarlet welcomed the journey of the night

To come, in every man's sight, every man sitting in the pub on a moonlit night,

Every man prepared for twilight but never for the midnight brought by the mysterious

Lady in ever-changing attire. Ebony milk rustled into the room that night,

Intentions never clearer, yet never more mysterious than in the darkest, deepest night.

Mist dissipated throughout the room, until she closed the door on outside's midnight,

Entering in her own loveliness, sublime intensity raging in every motion made,

Towards the bar she entered, not a word, every mishap, every happenstance lingered

Reliant on her touch. Breath itself held in dimensions unknown, for fear of disapproving glance,

A dart that would cease life, to wilted roses bring the peonies of springtime, nighttime

To the brightest day. Her lips began and all whispered into dust of happenstance long past.

Stillness stayed despite the breath of her request. Bartender stood in obedience rapt with fear

of unabate. He has no knowledge of the poor man she sought. Terror may consume him,

But all would turn him in, had they heard of him. Anton Reaion, she said, two words,

A request and demand brought silent terror on each, for everyone knew they must reply,

And no one knew the reason why, but to satisfy the Lady of undefined stature,

And mysterious grace of sable duchess with scarlet threat poised in every motion.

But wait, a tear, the monster of ebony and red breaks, but holds high her honor.

A bloody sun sets in the opaque eyes she closes from the shattering, felt in the core of all surrounding men. Air crackles with the glitter of her pain, once known, but now remembered.

And sublimity becomes ghostly melody. Some protection afforded by elegant disaster.

A broken heart hidden by the majesty of someone only known as something more.

Sublimity the melody of hidden walls of passion closed. Sublimity all affording

Protection from all recalling darkness of her day. Better never known of pains untold,

He who entered place of ill renown, never to depart, pilfering her heart of every joy.

Fidelity disgraced in place ill-known, adoration misplaced in girl ill-found,

Yet in all her life the duchess mourned, and prayed for his lost soul. And wandered all eternity

Every night, in the temple to disgrace, to beg for prayer for he who lost all grace.

The duchess sainted with tragic melodies, mourned eternally the tragedy of love misplaced,

Her selfless heart trembled with the overload of grace, pouring in from above to beg her for him

To pray, for the wronged and the mourning in prayer can bring forth more than any.

Then, for him she pleaded night and day, through time eternal, from yesterday, to every day,

Everlasting quest, each night, she comes, she pleads. She asks his name, that he may in no case

Ever be forgot, and remembered be, for all these prayers she sought.

But in sable scarlet whisper she must come with grace, of upheld honor, and defining face,

Majesty of some sorrow beyond the understood. A Battle in full waged within her soul, and yet,

She ne'er allowed the ill one to take o'er, but sought in time to bestow her power,

Breaking heart heard each night below their bower, shattering felt in glasses heartfelt shower,

Prayers ellicited by the whispered words, Mother Mary, let them all be heard.

And so she fades into the dark midnight, and begins her quest again, to bring him to the Light.

Poems of Nature's Beauty

The first seems hypocritical, since I am writing on a computer now, but it is the preparation for the truest sentiments revealed in the second poem.

Industry

What is the magic of a machine?

Functionality incarnate, utilitarian usage,

What merit is in that?

What beauty can be found in a plastic box?

Holds everything but deadens all,

Why would we accept that?

What functionality engages the mind,

In faithful commitment to nothingness?

What hell-bound trap is that?

Nature

Do you ever get over-whelmed

by the beauty of life?

Can you smell the blossoms

of winter spring?

Do the stars lean to your embrace

and get welcomed by your returning kiss?

If not, where do you get caught up?

Why do you let everyday disturbances

Soil the life you live?

Will you let Him entrance you

With the wonders He bestows?

The Rain of all His blessings and grace?

Will you let Him wander into your soul?

Will you bend the knees and let your love go?

Soar to Him in His wonder?

Let Him wander in your winded soul.

Dark Light-Part I

The whispers of a faint breeze caress the wisps of hair that fly behind me in the wind. I breathe within the smell of willow trees and honey all around me. This meadow has been my home for the summer. I have made some visits to the house that sits peacefully in the distance, but I find myself at peace surrounded by the daisies and the wheat fields.

I am wearing a sun-dress, a white flowery thing given to me by my grandmother. She is the one who brought me here. After all that happened, she wanted to bring me to a place where I could give all of my worries to the air, and the breeze, and in time be restored to some semblance of myself. But what she never expected, had no way of knowing, was the magic in the trees, the peace that would rise in my breast every night as I gaze upon the stars, the magic I would sense in the day-breeze on my face. The sunbeams embrace my pain and melt it away, the breeze lifts my soul into some existence far beyond the superficial one I made for myself.

So, in my grandmother’s love, and the retreat she created for me, I have been able to reside in true joy, a happiness I never knew I could feel. But, how could I reach this point. Something that must be understood is the ability of darkness to be the light. Not many men recognize the importance of paradox in human existence, but I have journeyed into the ebony black corners of a human life, and I now know the meaning of darkness. Only with help could I leave the abyss in which I was imprisoned, but I now know the mission of my life.

You see, we all ask why are we here? Everyone wants to know their purpose in life. But it is in the most truly horrifying moments of life that one discovers the true end to their quest. It is when the test is completed that one sees the two paths she could have chosen, and sees the evolution of her true self in the face of danger. I wouldn’t have told you months before now that I would believe in a purpose to life. I would never have said that darkness had a purpose. For in that time darkness ruled my existence, but now I’m in the field of daises, and I have freedom.

A Sunset

There are times

There are times when I am surrounded by all that is not illustrious,

When bonds and chains shackle me to the grounds of this-worldly things,

Duties and livelihoods consuming my mind, the Muse is stifled by my own will.

In my mental journey I must fly from there into the cedar descent from trees,

Where bonny red and yellow leaves, fall around the oaks and aspens,

Weeping Willows stream their chorus and trickle into the stream.

But somehow I am curled up into the base of a tree,

Furry boots encompass my tender toes, and gloves bind my hands,

But my hand writes, my words paint into the musings of my mind,

And the Muse paints the image I reside in.

Poetry, my mind asks, my mind engages, my mind encounters,

The word, the meaning, the life, the musing melody,

Musing maybe it is time to live the melody,

Maybe live the tender embrace of noon time fall day

Maybe August, October melodies of fallen leaves and whistling wind

Beckon me to seek some Higher Power of passion and melody

But maybe my mind escapes me and imagination dominates

But for a while, whose time passing day did decree time would allow,

For time's sad predicament of passing by all the time

Did still leave it time to be in me, for now.

God

What would it be were I to whistle

Some sweet new song of daily sighs?

Would wrens rain down upon the water?

Would rainclouds dance upon the sky?

Where would I find what I look for?

Some new sought sound or silent roar.

Would I find my way in the break of day?

Would the sigh of rain brush pain away?

Why would I seek so much more to find?

So much beyond the gifts I have

Would I be peaceful if giv'n all?

Would waiting weeks wither fall?

No, he said, not ever

Would I find if I always sought.

For in this life we never

Know what it is we want.

Here

Here I sit,

Underneath

The leaves of trees

The blossoming rays of light

As the day approaches

The darkness

Of the night.

Here I sit,

Alone in peace

With my quiet prayer

With sun and tree and the blue sky

As my heart approaches

The peaceful

Time of light.

Here I sit,

Awaiting it

For only He may know

The time and what it will be

That in time approaches

To make me

Then at peace.

Here I sit

now knowing

That before that time

I must be alone with him

For holy reproaches

Will make me

Yield in time.

Here I sit

Times later

knowing now the rhyme

That melody of which He whispers

for grace approaches

in violent waves

And signs.

The End

The Silent Stream

What is this still, unspoken tear?

The steady stream which flows

Forth in peaceful sorrowing

And subtle pain bespeaks?

Why doth this tear restrain itself

In peaceful medley run

Like lost deer in ethereal wood

With a concern for none.

For sobbing sorrow rends the heart

But shallow pain it is

Compared to the transcendent soul

That releases pain in this.

A sea serene and peaceful is

Inside the deepest soul,

Yet a wound doth pierce a depth

That ever goes unknown

But somehow even in the strife

A smile could be won,

A natural love and tender touch

And all that could be prized

But a true and silent glance

At the deepest sea of soul

Portends the moans inside.

But why do deepest sorrows

Consist in only this?

While sobs proceed from shallow pricks

And from paper-cuts blood streams,

The stranger wound is one who lets

Solely the silence speak.

The depth of pain could be much more,

Or perhaps exist as less,

And the peace itself could think

That this sorrow is less.

But why does this tear speak so still

And stream so steadily?

For perhaps it knows all will be well,

And sees it’s Remedy.

The Works of God

I took this picture at a Retreat last year, at Camp Cloverleaf-Lake Placid, FL. Just this week it won first place in the "When I Behold the Works of God" Nature Photography Contest-judged by professional Naples photographers.

Made to Be

A maiden may sing a melancholy melody

of maybes and babies and made for metaphors.

Maybe she'll sing of the whys and the wherefores

But where does she sing her truest melody?

Maybe she'll fall bit by bit into love

Maybe she'll be lost into all that may be above

But truly therefore she'll sing to love.

In Love with Love

Love is a topic that I find most inherent in the human person, and in my own life. It is a subject which I explore extensively, and hopefully will be the subject for my Thesis at Ave Maria University. That being said, it is highly probable that many blog posts will be on love, philosophical and theological aspects of it-my assimilation of all that I learn regarding it.

Today, in a class I have on Christ and His Church, we were discussing Deus Caritas Est. In the Eros section, our professor mentioned the fault of being "in love with love." That struck a chord with me, because I am so enthusiastic about love and all that it is and all that it means. Later, I was speaking to a most respected priest about "being in love with the idea of love" and he said, "Love is not idea, it is a person-that is God, and you can be in love with Him all you want. Of course, this lent itself to further scrutiny because both seemed to contradict themselves. However, it seems to me that the solution lies in "loving Love" not "loving love" and realizing that you are "loving Love" rather than simply loving without this awareness.

I have found in my own life that is easy to fall in love with the idea of love in the sense that a conversation about "eros" would be speaking of. Women in general fall into this easily. It is a pleasant experience to have one who gives himself to you. He dedicates himself to you in a particular way, and promises to love you always. Every woman wants that. Women are naturally very loving and as such, have a great need to BE loved. Therefore, it is easy for women to fall into an emotional attachment to being "in love" but they will never be satisfied by this "feeling" or situation because no human person can ever fulfill all the loving that needs to be given to a human heart-it is only in God that one can find that everlasting exclusive love that one desires.

That, however, was not the chord that our professor struck with me when he spoke of being in love with love. It was what he was speaking of, but what occured to me was-is it possible for one to be in love with the idea of TRUE love-Agape love, God's love, for I have found in myself that tendency. I love love, the idea of giving of self fully to another(to God and to God through another human being.) I love the idea of unity and all that God commands us to with other people. However, it seemed to me that something was amiss in the way in which I saw this being "in love with love." It is in that mystery that I found Father's words to be helpful.

The problem with "loving love" even if it is holy love is that one may fail to realize Who one is loving. It is easy to love the idea of how love exists or could exist in the other person and fail to realize that what you are seeing is not necessarily that quality inherent in the person. You are seeing God and Who He acts in, and how He acts in them. It is something so much more powerful, but that much more difficult to recognize. The flaw in viewing it as simply an "idea" is that it can become something that is no longer particular to that person. It is a presence of something that you love in that person, but it is no longer that person that you love. However, if you realize that you are viewing God in that person, then it is possible to love many people in that way-to view God's presence in them and realize that it is Him working in them and them allowing Him to do so. This understanding attributes the virtues of the person more to God, and realizes the limitations of the person as well and that they are simply allowing God to work in them. Recognition of the limitations of other people is beneficial because it prevents one from expecting another person to be fully like God. It also allows you to recognize the limitations of your love for that person and recognize its true foundation, as well as to see what it is that you truly do love in that person-that they are allowing God to work in their lives. Thus, one can truly love others for what they are doing and accept the flaws which they possess at the same time.

All Above-A Soft, Sweet Love

Wisps of clouds bud orange, blue, white,

Here are soft layers that fly

They stretch below me, soft love below me in the sky,

Fading, misting, my window to the lights.

Twinkling tales of lives below the night,

A house, men’s work-a-day, everyday jobsite

A sole, tall steady one, standing tall and bright

It must be of great import, this one great light.

Fields upon fields spread dark like the night

Hiding who knows the kinds and forms of life

Trees perhaps, and creeks, may be scarcely out of sight

In a darkness not of evil, peaceful dark of night.

Ascend again, look to the sky above the night

Dark blue fades, day nears twilight,

Soon a star will twinkle in the night

Mother Goose rhyming her ode to stars so bright.

Yet on such a one, peaceful night

Love of Him whispering to the seeker’s sight

It is missed by some, the many who are blind,

This soft sweet love of a winter’s twilight.

A Home for The Wanderer

The night is a time when thistles grow,

When close kept coons and reindeer tiptoe,

And when such things are all about,

The time rings out to abandon thought,

To approach slumber in the sandman's arm,

And ward off all fears and dreads of man's harm.

But it is in the silence of this night

That I myself find strength to fight

The demons that pursue the quest I lead

To learn who I am in word and deed

They overtake and blacken the vast night sky

But never will I allow them to make me not try.

So I begin this now on a mission for self

For self and perhaps for somebody else

For the one who will read and understand

Of for one who must needs depart for strange land

For there is a mystery I wish to convey

Not here but in something more, maybe, someday.

It lies within reach, I look forward to't

But at times I wonder if I could ever do it.

My artist's heart is wounded by trying too hard

Yet without previous labor I could not reach this far.

So, I engage on this mission, to whittle away

The flaws I fear dearly in name of someday.

So, listen my friends, if willing you may be,

If it please or changes you as it did me

I hope wonder shall come with each passing glance

And I hope for our for hearts, mind and body to dance

And help me to see, Lord, in each day I'm beckoned

And in each word printed make me Your servant.

I embark upon this journey of blogging because I know I am imperfect. It is my wish that in writing everyday, or at least frequently, that I will learn. I wish to write my soul, and I wish to write my God. I wish to paint pictures in the air for all to see. I wish to bring wonder to those who cannot see it, and restore it to those who are too tired to look for it. Most of all, I wish to see it myself. It is a gift, a blessing, that I have been given that I never want to lose. Forever I want to see some sort of magic in a bird that sings, a woman that cries, the trees that whistle. I never want to lose a childlike sense of wonder at every moment I am exposed to and I never want to give up my pursuit of art and its gentle mystery. So, wish me luck as I embark on this quest, I believe in some way that this time is my test, but I enjoy the intrigue of each moment's release and I ask that journey's blessings always increase.

Amen.