I was startled to see my face at the bottom of
my mug,
eyes staring back at me as I emptied my cup-
the sky was gray overhead, and the wind whispered
a tale of storm and thunder and rain-
I could see the tempest staring back at me from
above, and from the eyes at the bottom of my cup-
how much of it had I swallowed, I wondered
bowels full of its tang-
a bird soared above, like an arrow through the trees,
free and without care below the dim of the clouds-
calm-
calm as the trees in front of me, as they waved amongst
themselves under the sigh of the breeze-
calm as the butterfly that stopped abruptly at my feet-
calm-
the wind often speaks of it-
as do the nights, without care-
the days, a hand of the clock, some random machine
powered by some unknown sun-
I was afraid to look into those eyes-
afraid of what I might see-
afraid of the tempest that they contained,
and of the thunder that they bellowed,
of the rain that lay ahead-
my thoughts escaped with the butterfly,
stowed away as a tiny speck on its wing,
and it carried me high above and into the mist of the
coming storm,
alone amongst the gray*

We sit and dream about our wants and needs and goals-
We think, we imagine, we gripe, and yet we still sit-
If we do nothing, we get just that – nothing.
Getting what we want is about grabbing life by the reins
And taking control of those dreams-
It’s about fleshing out those goals-
And shutting out those gripes-
It’s about standing up, leading from the front,
And getting what needs to be gotten,
And doing it today rather than tomorrow-
Now, instead of later-
It’s about taking ownership and seeing things
Through to completion-
Life is like a ward, a district, and it will rise
With us, or fall with us-
We determine its outcome-
We decide whether or not it will decline or thrive-
Create a dynasty, or create a ghost town-
Win or lose, it’s up to us and all about how
Bad we want it-
In the end, you either want it bad or not at all-
The question is, how bad?

Whoopi Goldberg; my all time favorite eyebrow-less Oscar host.  Neil Patrick Harris; the ultimate in kid dweebery made famous playing Doogie Howser, M.D., and a former child star that has maintained surprisingly lasting relevance.  Put the two together and you get Clara’s Heart, a little known 1988 emotional concoction.  It’s very much a quintessential coming of age story, following the journey of teen David Hart through the wreckage of his parent’s dissolving marriage, and the subsequent burgeoning friendship that he develops with his housekeeper, played by Goldberg.  With the tumult of his home life as a backdrop, we’re allowed to take a gander at the boy’s internal struggles with school, his social awkwardness, his desire to find self identity, and his drive to make the swim team.  We’re also given a glimpse into a mysterious and deeply troubling incident that has followed Goldberg’s character for years.  Together, they begin to fill a void, and through that friendship, begin to learn a great deal about themselves.  Clara’s Heart; not an Oscar winner by any means, but a story that’s well worth a watch.  By the way, the trailer below is pretty awfully atrocious, but it’s the only link that would work!

the old man sat staring out of the window
at the flower, wishing it were
dead,
and stifled a sneeze as a small cloud of dust
wafted under his nostrils from the stagnant
room-
he wondered why the hell it had to grow so tall
and free, when he himself could not-
when had his own world frosted over and
grown dank and frigid-
he’d grown old one day,
unexpectedly-
where had the years gone?
when did the wrinkles appear like earthen fissures,
mapping his face like a geological survey,
latitudinal and longitudinal struggles written
plainly in his expressions-
when did the ashen gray turn to arctic white,
pale as a January dawn-
hands worn down by friction, and spotted like
some wild animal,
a beast as rabid and fierce as his rage,
starved and bitter and hungry-
a fury flamed by the easy loveliness of that
flower-
what a contrast-
he resented its carefree stature,
and its elegant grace-
he couldn’t help but think that beauty
was a sight meant for others,
never him-
if only he were a bee, able to extract just a tiny
drip of that joy-
would that make a difference?*

Peace is in the flutter of the
leaf as it sails deep into the wind-
peace is under the shade of the oak tree
in August,
and within the ray of sunlight in January-
it’s in the moment that we make
amends with the past,
and it rests in the contentment of the present-
peace is the gift opened by those brave souls,
those with guts enough to recognize it-
peace is the soul of every smile,
every sigh,
every amiable touch-
it is a gift for the courageous,
earned by spreading wings amid
typhoons,
and navigating oceans with closed eyes-
we are all blind to the next step-
that’s just life-
finding comfort in that mystery is
peace*

 

There’s powerful, and then there’s Bo Jonsson Grip powerful.  By any means necessary, Jonsson (Grip is Swedish for griffin), a Swedish noble, managed to nab the highest titles available (including ruler of Finland), was in possession of the largest landholdings in Swedish history (even more than the royal family), and served as the right hand man of the king.   He exerted tremendous control over the politics of the day, and his influence over foreign and domestic matters was unparalleled; in addition, his wealth and position allowed for crucial input regarding royal matters and matters of succession.  It is even said that he got away with the murder of one of his second wife’s admirers due to his high status.  Bo Jonsson…distinguished.

With clouds in his eyes,
he stood there in the field gaping
at the plane overhead-
a tiny fleck of shimmering steel
glinting against the afternoon sun,
with a billowing white tail stretching
the full length of the sky-
he stood there watching it trace its path and
dissipate slowly into the rich blue,
until it was no more-
such a powerful force that plane must have been
as it hurtled through the sky, arrow straight,
until it was enveloped by the clouds-
he thought about that for a moment-
the plane,
the passengers,
the excitement,
the mystery-
the thrill of being on that flight,
the adventure of being blasted into
the unknown-
that youthful sense of amazement
filled his head with all sorts of dreams,
goals,
and the spark that only age seems to dim-
he stood there for a moment, the thick grass
gently brushing against his ankles,
the warm wind whistling through the leaves behind
him,
and whispered to himself of the journeys
that he would one day take,
and the mysteries that he would one day solve-
with clouds in his eyes, he smiled,
and went back to his play*

Pale moonlight whispered through the blinds
like warm breath into January air-
a thick, swirling melody that danced like
a translucent ballerina before my eyes,
full of spectral blue grace
and midnight mystery-
it crept in slowly as l lay in bed pre dream,
and swept over me like the silken comfort
of an old quilt, or the familiar warmth of a
tender companion-
my salvation lay there in front of me
like a tempest, a thousand dreams rolled
into one, a thousand dreams tempting
me into a darkened glade,
that wondrous, oft visited void,
so beautiful to gaze into,
so rich with scents of autumn and
laughter, and eyes bright with smiles-
but I found myself halted by the fear of
stepping into the undergrowth,
and there I stood, frozen at the edge of
beauty-
pale moonlight whispered through the blinds
like warm breath into January air, and there I
was, a prisoner of my dreams,
suspended in a web of mist and
blinded by it as it billowed into a fog-
the laughter faded, and the smiling eyes dimmed into
dusky shadows-
I awoke, and like laser beams from an old sci-fi film,
those threads of light permeated my thoughts-
all day, I thought about their meaning-
I drifted back to that dream time and again,
revisiting the haunting images and savoring them
as they lingered about in my memory
begging to be decoded-
I closed my eyes, and I was there again in a daydream,
alone at the edge, the smell of pine knocking on the
door of my memory, the soft ping of laughter echoing
off the bristling pines-
there I stood,
hoping to lose myself completely in the stillness of
that fog*

The coal of the soul is best ignited with the fire of self belief.

The Great Wall of China was built to protect the realm
from foreign invaders,
using a colossal mass of soldiers and stone-
Hadrian’s wall was constructed to defend the far reaches of the
Roman empire against the endless diaspora of barbarian hordes that
roamed the depths of the uncharted-
stone walls were used successfully at Fredericksburg and Gettysburg
to conceal troops from the enemy until the time was ripe to fire-
walls-
we build them to defend-
we build them to conceal-
we build them to protect-
we build them to hide-
we hunker down behind them as a cover from the known and the
unknown-
protection from the elements,
from our foes,
from ourselves,
from life itself-
from the outside world and all of its sting-
but when do they come down?
some walls last for centuries, some for thousands of years,
partial and full-
some stand nearly as stout and strong as the day they were
born,
while others lay in crumbled ruin, long toppled by the whim of age and
time-
buried under the dirt and rock and sediment of change-
some walls were not meant to be breached, while others
should never have been constructed in the first place-
others stand as a testament to the fears that we carry with us
from year to year,
those fears that pound our walls in waves like foreign invaders
in search of the treasures of our keep*