Tagged: author

Vision.

From the Vault.

Originally posted on 1-7-12, with music.

 

What is flesh, but a creation?
A limited fuse lit by an unseen hand-
Can it heal?
Yes.
Can it grow?
Yes,
and we don’t have to lift a finger.
What is flesh, but a wrapper,
a covering-
much like a candy bar,
or a tiny mint-
a mask for something more defined
and complex-
a shirt for our thoughts,
socks for our feelings,
a jacket for our innermost workings-
we can spend years crying tears of all
colors,
or smiling moonlit smiles…
with or without the courage to move
forward, or backward,
with or without the strength to stand on
current ground.
What is flesh, but a creation-
what is creation, but a thought turned into
action-
and action, a collection of concerted
effort-
it heals,
it grows,
and all we have to do is continue to
breathe.
The sun…it always shines*

-G. Boston

 

 

 

 

Poems from the Vault.

Originally posted on 10-8-12, this poem is a little reminder that there is hope at the end of every dark tunnel, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.  The key is to keep moving forward; pushing, clawing, grinding…whatever it takes, until your eyes can see clearly once more.  Always reach out to those going through troubles; lend a helping hand, and make a point to uplift rather than put down.  Make an effort to find your peace…and help others discover theirs.  And remember to never fear the journey.
Twenty years imbalanced.

Twenty years spent roaming the stillness and

bedding down in a locked room.

Twenty years imbalanced-

a steaming brew boiled within those walls,

bubbling over and staining the pot with its

drippings.

Bubbles rose to the surface and exploded

into nothing-

spirits rose and fell like ocean tides,

and emotions rode those waves like daring

surfers in search of that unattainable thrill.

Thoughts and hopes and dreams appeared and

dissipated like gobs of rain under a hot sun-

twenty years imbalanced-

parched and afloat, drifting along choppy seas,

surrounded by irony, and unable to take a sip-

the know how just wasn’t yet there,

so he treated himself like a book,

and became an encyclopedia-

detailed, methodical,

and yet dusty and unread,

his pages stained with longing and mystery.

He learned to read himself, word for word,

until a detailed silhouette materialized.

A volume was left open on a table one

morning,

close to an open window-

a ripe plum purple morning, threaded

with the orange mists of dawn, and streaked

with whispering winds-

winds that meandered through the window and stirred

the sediments of dust and waste…

an eager gust crept along the table and

managed to turn a page…

Twenty years imbalanced.

Twenty years unsteady, unguided, unheard-

twenty years locked behind silent, mirrored walls,

examining and learning the words of himself-

the opening of that window flipped a page,

just a random page,

with a new one resting calmly beside it-

a new chapter-

waiting eagerly under

the brilliance of the rising sun*

8-7-16 + Ennio Morricone

image