that once and glorious Because

 

 

 

she had never known a feeling such as this before . . . the midsummer’s eve of her life, up to this moment, had left her wanting, had left the bittersweet taste of regret, of seas not sailed, of horizons not found, and tomorrows not lived . . . and of love once glimpsed, once touched, once embraced, but now, as elusive as the fragrance of roses, there, yet not seen, there, yet not felt, only a whisper, and not quite a promise . . .

the fruits of her labors were abundant, and her memories lasting and long-savored . . . her family, her home, her husband, her son, all were precious jewels in the richness of her life, the elements of a contentment that once shone like a crown . . . but all were becoming the faded images in the portrait of her soul, like the dust of an age lying quietly on the windowsills of Yesterday, like blue-gray ivy adorning the walls of her mind, like phantoms, like butterflies, weaving through the empty corridors of her heart . . .

 

 

from The Voyage of Kings ~ A StoryTeller’s Dream  The Kiss, of Always

 

 

 

The Voyage of Kings ~ A StoryTeller's Dream

 

buy the new Digital and Print Editions on Amazon and Barnes&Noble

 

 

from this Moment, on

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.

.

in The Shelters,  of Kindness

(  behold this Flock,  of Grace  )

 

They arrive,  from anywhere,  without name or number,  rescued,  recovered,  or reclaimed from often desperate or destitute surroundings,  circumstances,  or abuse,  or from being ‘tagged’ for an early and unmarked grave within a system or society so overwhelmed with mismanaged or misguided intentions,  doled out with all but enough compassion,  concern,  or common sense,  that sympathetic and lasting remedies or resolutions are only found in the all-too-rare instances of extreme generosity,  perseverance,  and understanding,  and of course,  kindness . . .

Their ‘crimes’ against human sensibilities are those that only become obvious when they are cast out from among the ‘beloved’,  who are no longer able or allowed a chance to exist within a sanctuary offering those simple and precious acts of benevolence we ourselves could not live without . . . somehow surviving without a smile,  a touch,  a softly-spoken word,  or sustenance,  a roof over their heads,  a safe haven to call their own,  or just the warmth that radiates from the nearness of friends,  family,  or loved ones . . . the very air they breathe only echoes with the whispers of their abandon,  for they have found themselves no longer welcome or wanted,  by a world no longer listening to or well beyond caring for,  these once kindred spirits and companions . . .

Yet,  they were born in innocence,  and therefore with just as much right,  perhaps even a divine blessing,  to be called or regarded as God’s Children as are their human counterparts,  and are just as or even more deserving of our compassion or largesse than what defines our civic or social obligations,  or what we,  by statute,   bestow upon some of our own outcasts and misfits . . . by the sheer vagaries of fate or misfortune,  and the crush or cruelty that comes from having no other choice or defense against it,  is that the only promises in life they are guaranteed to know or have fulfilled,  are unending hunger,  and bone-deep loneliness,  for all the rest of their days . . . unless . . .

My sincerest hope,  and yes certainly the wish of every soul born into this world to ever witness or to wonder of this heart-rending travesty,  is that I can try to ‘lift them up’,  to ease the burden of their sorrows or hardship from their shoulders,  to give back to them what they have so selflessly brought into this heart of mine,  and if at all possible,  to begin to mend theirs . . . to listen to their stories,  to be their voice for as long as it takes for them to be heard,  or at least until they are lucky enough to find a new home,  and become significant and dear to others,  and in turn hold them as dear,  to live within the absence of fear,  and to one day re-emerge within the purpose God gave them,  to really matter in this world just enough,  to find and give love,  again . . .

And yes to thank them,  for being who and what they are,  and for bringing the reason ‘why’ back into my life,  and for allowing me a chance to really understand the true meaning of the word ‘humanity’ . . . which,  after all,  is exactly the reason why God adorned this earth with their presence,  and their purpose,  in the first place . . . because in their aspects,  we will always see grace . . . and in their eyes,  we will forever see,  ourselves . . .

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Thy Corona

 

 

The Ring,  Round,  The Sun

 

 

O

it does not

 embrace my finger,  nor

wrap around my wrist,  it does not

hang from chain,  for neck,  nor ear,  is kissed,

made not of gold or silver,  nor any jewel from the sea,

no trace or mark,  no crest or seal,  nor fancy filigree,

two shards of iron,  welded,  by a circle of steel,

and there in the nest,  of my palm,  it rests,

to remind me,  the road I walk,  is real,

I hold it for Ever and for Always,

until One Day,  so grand,

when Ever says,

I am home,  Angel,

     and lays it,  in

     Her Hand . . . for

     it is just a Keyring,

     where hangs,

     from Her Heart,

     The Key,

     so joined,

     as The Tears

     of Infinity,

     They,  as

     Love,  Again,

     will Be . . .

 

 

 

from Book III,  The Diamond ( Third Beginning ) The Seventh DoveTale – The Breath of Angels

 

 

PostScript:  this piece was recorded as being written on July 4th,  1996,  though I believe the actual keyring was given to me by a very dear friend,  about and for whom so many of these early stories were composed ( and,  to this very day,  I have never met ) and shortly after the  encounter with the lightning took place in ’95 . . .

and the story within this story,  is the remarkable fact,  that I carried this small keyring,  in the palm of my left hand,  held in place by the tip of my ring finger . . . every moment,  every hour,  every day,  every night,  every week,  and every month . . . for four years . . .

and,  on its own,  this would seem quite bizarre behavior,  but there was a bit of purpose-driven madness or motivation beneath the surface . . . for one of the very first things I had to learn,  in order to deal with,  and therefore write of,  the endless river of thoughts and words that flowed through that period of my life,  was Patience . . . and holding that keyring,  for that long,  and in that manner,  was the only way I ever would . . .

regrettably,  the keyring was lost,  in the late Fall,  of 1999 . . .

 

 

 

 

 

One Wish

 

 

 

One,  Earth

  

 

          One,

       Whole,

    Perfect Union,           

One Sight,

One Right,

One Light,

One Truth,

One Heart,

     One Love,  Again . . .

 

 

 

from Book II,  The Sword ( Second Sound ) The First DoveTale – The Fires of Ice

 

 

 

through a Field, of Stones

 

 

 

The Walk,  of Life

(  Virtuosity  )

 

 

 

Patience,  Tolerance,  Acceptance,  Compassion,  Understanding,  Forgiveness,  and Love,  Again . . .

 

 

 

 

from,  well,  EveryWhere . . .

 

 

 

by a Magnitude, of One

 

 

Thy Corona

  

  

and Somehow,  in The Softening,  of This Ancient Mist,

If there was truly an Essence,  that draws Us closer,

We will gather Our Senses,  and Our Memories kissed,

 wrapping Her Whisper ’round Our glistening Hearts,

and offer up Our Questions,  and Our Sorrows,  unTold,

inviting Us,  One by One,  toward this rising Tide of

to be honored,  unconditionally,  in This Ring,  of Gold,

Her Serenity,  then We deserve,  The Envy of Most,

and until Our Prayers,  become The Province of When,

     as We dance Our Way,  from The Veil of Her Ghost . . .

     Our Shadows will stand,  in The Light,  of Love,  Again . . .

 

 

 

 from Book III,  The Diamond ( Third Beginning ) The Ninth DoveTale – The Shield of Courage