Willed and weaved a garden so wild,
Milled and mislead the ardent child.
Lanes now murky but started so mild.
The air is earthy prompting fiends to smile.
Essence of a Northern Nymph
That whisp of birch,
And steam from spruce,
That bath of ash,
That air unloose.
Some Stories are Best Shared!
So this morning I woke up very early and decided to get a bit of a headstart. I had planned on going to work to address a few issues. I was to work just before 7:00 AM. Later in the morning I stopped in at the Mailroom. Before heading back to my office, I decided to check in with our Security department.
While at the security office I had a conversation with one of the Operational Supervisors. During the conversation, we discussed convocation and her experience of walking across the stage last year. She reflected on two of our Excutives and their excitement for her accomplishment.
Continue reading Some Stories are Best Shared!I’ll rest one day
One of these days I’ll learn,
How my sisters and brothers sleep.
How my brothers and sisters downturn,
How they lose themselves, visioning sheep.
But I’ll disturb decayed leaves,
Edging through a scree of scents.
Inhaling all passing of leads,
And those salient ephemeral events.
Our Collective
For those who are afflicted
Vanish as all stamina is spent
And, we will feel the weight
This foe and this fear
Without any rest we will rundown
Our collective spirit
Without any rest we will rundown
This foe and this fear
And, we will feel the weight
Vanish as all stamina is spent
For those who are afflicted
The five effects of heroes
Blissfully we regard our Paladins,
Emotionally their work elevation.
Bolstering spirits through tales of tellings,
Releasing cerebral isolation,
A sacred salve for our wounds, fostering
Vibrant resilience and reserves of force,
Entertaining our dreams to wandering.
Writers’ Witchery
Some idioms are inked in sleight of hand.
Look over or overlook illusions.
Abled alchemists assert high command,
Mixing calamity and confusions.
Permanent Marks
Line art, fine art, black arts, permanent marks,
All bits, like all points, on all prior parts.
Those scars, scrapes and all fusion of shapes,
New lines etched on what deteriorates.
In ink, a thirst or reflection fastened,
Imagery indelibly imagined.
Raw, renewed or repeated catharsis,
That bit of buzz and heart unharnesses.
The artist said there was only one rule.
That other Dimension
Espy and explore eratic echos,
Recklessly considering framed feelings.
Should I be more worried for that fellow?
He seemed constrained by his revealings.
His aspect was aligned within limits,
Until we chose diametrical doors.
Beyond his, my life may just prohibit,
Or maybe, just go missing for hours.
On the finding of confidence.
Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, you gently glide throughout.
The clot of air, horrid, humid worry,
Blurred branches fettering out in fury.
Bleary digits stretching out to quelch,
To trap, to tear, and to tow to the mulch.
Those lurid margins and high stands fornenst,
“Awake!” “Awareness!” to what they dispense.
The sharp jagged bank will set stiff your gait,
But the stones are surer than the callous hate,
Of copse that will hitch the wrong sort of knot,
And vicious impishness of faithless thoughts.
Let dilemma drip down to rest in tarn,
Hike the bituminous path, the creases worn.
Set high away from that stygian pool,
Scape your escape, in reminisce find fuel.
Alight that tinder of apprehension,
Of self-distrust, and fear of rejection.
Throw in the fire the bole of reluctance,
And have a moment of warm indulgence.
Can you recognize the aphotic doubt?
That midnight pool, your roots run throughout.