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Wed, 03 Jun 2009 20:01:56 -0700

Double Take~

Not too far from shore lies a portly estate that sits in well with it's overlooking surroundings. Blue is the main color of the maison's clapboards, however, all the details have been whitewashed for distinction. Distinctly so, high in it's majesty a woman walks wearing a treaded path in the floorboards.

Aye, 'tis the "widow's walk!" Encased in fragile spindles of distinction, she paces and looks far off into the distance of the Atlantic hoping to see his approaching vessel near the craggy shore. Her brows knit and her arms cross and uncross in frustration as her shawl gently blows in the salt wind. Mark her forehead which is also caressed by the wind as the movement of her strands expose a widow's peak. Has she been doubly crossed to walk that which she is? - Maggie ~ 9/27/06

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Wed, 03 Jun 2009 13:08:15 -0700

NOVEM~

Speakth thee of thy sense
Yet fear it not be vulgar to mine ear
For what is not heard speakth just as well
I ask thee for nothing save truth
Behold!
I shall not shatter like fine crystal
Yet the not knowing tears at fiber and thus leaves it bedraggled
All is good on the mend
O to darn again!
Speakth thee the words which thou know'st to be true
Me can'st force what well regarded words I would likest to hear
But I may beg of thee the words thou may think'st should cause me harm
Nay. No harm shall come from truth
Tis far worse to be in vile defense of heart
Save for what purpose?
Love?
Ah, but no votive cast forth light leaving even shadows to dance
My words dent thee not
Regard!
Clock winds back
Forward to start
When November reigns
Alas we shall part
I know not when November comes
But see it upon the horizon
Pray thee well for the season anew
I bid thee glad tidings and the joys of life
As that is my love for thee
It shall not die with age ~ Maggie ~ June 3, 2009 @ 3:50 p.m. EST

"If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. And if they don't, they never were." - Kahlil Gibran

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Sat, 23 May 2009 19:11:06 -0700

ME~

Me look unto I as I do not recognize I. Gaze. Ah there! Yes. Beneath the curtain lies the being.

Screaming in silence is always the loudest and the echoes reverberate and can shake one to their core. No one knows what veils one wears or why. Smiles alight and show not what factors haunt. Nonetheless, one screams until they cry and then tend to themselves quietly-kindly and lovingly. Compartments are made for storage of such volumes which gather dust over time yet the compartment is never forgotten nor are the volumes that are stored within. They serve as a reference point. Refer back to chapter 26 in book 9 which is housed on self 8 in room 1. Ah! It says I lived! I now leave this volume to you. ~ Maggie ~ May 6, 2009 @ 6:38 p.m. EST

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Sat, 23 May 2009 19:03:14 -0700

TRI to think MONAD in NEO ONE EON

Tri as eye mite smaller not aye bee
When an eon is not neon
How bright will we see?

Monad, Dyad, and Triad
Ogdoad Ad Infinitum
Ennead Ad Infinitum
Zero is not nothing but is Ad Infinitum at Uroboros

Imagine looking out into what is and upon a pondering it vanishes with thought. What comes into focus in piecemeal form is that of visions overlaid on the here/now. When reading things dealing with math, science, biology, et al, I often run experiments in my head and what I see is the making of my vision. Focused are these that even if I could spill to you what I see, I could not do so in words. I had once written about not needing bodies as we could produce via thought. Mere meme replication which is capable of building itself within our world (the thinker) based on all previous knowledge be it personal experience and/or otherwise. Maybe I am wrong, but what I see in simple form is that even upon a collision, something else arises. Call it a phoenix if you will which exists in round time. ~ Maggie ~ April, 19, 2009 @ 10:37 p.m. EST

The first line was inspired by my friend Ryan. !Erauqs ton era ew.

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Tue, 24 Mar 2009 18:52:55 -0700

Man Made~

Raindrops on concrete
Grass breaks through well fed
Sky glow radiates growth
Breaking and cracking that which keeps it covered
Not allowing for breath
MAN MADE!
The mother knows it is not of her doing
To cover the child so that the child is smothered and lifeless
Although small and seemingly insignificant
A blade of grass is mightier than concrete
Only man creates the lifeless
Where is our NATURE of honor or our HONOR of nature? ~ Maggie ~ Penned 3/20/09 in the p.m.

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Tue, 24 Mar 2009 18:30:45 -0700

Ah! The fresh night air as it hit my face. I close my eyes to absorb. The smoke billows upward like an ascending oblong cloud whose movement is refined to that of choreographed spiral steps in tune with the sparks.

The sparks, as they escape the main flame, intertwine to mime that of braided snakes making liquid way in lakes whose stones are but the stars.

Black is the blanket whose cover looms above holed with the rocks' glimmer. I did not spy the moon.

Hail to the awakening whose spirit sores upon the birth. Smoke and fire are mere representations of the burning within of life and all that is.

Masterful is the art of becoming
Over and over again
New...
Where lies the dawn when the dawn is not what it seems?
Where is it that the wind blows and the ribbons fly to spin only to intertwine becoming one? ~ Maggie ~ Penned on 3/20/09 @ 7:35 p.m. EST

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Sun, 28 Sep 2008 19:47:28 -0700

True Hearts Lie In Tears...

Ah, the joy of friendship and the warmth that it brings. A true and fine heart of love in pure form. It is simply essence. Simply beautiful. The words strike a melody orchestrated in fine tune with human vibrations. Did you feel my heart? I have been a bad friend forgive me! The words written of in regard to not seeing or speaking with a friend does not diminish the friendship are mine and was sent back to me in excellent form. Friendship does warm the heart over all things as it is TRUE and unpretentious. What do we seek from one another? The sharing of color...the time when we blend yellow and red to form orange or red and blue to form purple? We then paint our world. What is our world from a philosophic standpoint? We, as creators, should know. Define and redefine over time...escape back into self...REALIZATION!

To cry out of emotion because of words spoken or written in honest and true form are best. Does that make romantic hearts? To some perhaps. Then again, what is romantic? It is defined different than it should be. Too honed to sex rather than merit with lines...fine lines joined specifically for poets, writers, and artists who understand the just difference. The just cause and causation and manifestation of real love.

How pure is pure? When seeking nothing but color from white which is light there is a spectrum. Within that spectrum lies purity and real love of the romantic because it is not superficial. Like a wound from a saber, it is deep and depth is always sought as it is greater than the shallow. Can the heart be found with a piece of cotton or a string when it cannot penetrate as the saber? Aye! However, one would have to learn the trade of understanding to find the value...the depth. Tis all a matter of perception. I have objectively looked over the words in type and hand form and found value to which I am subjective.

If the heart is an instrument of stringed precision, the chords have been struck in a mighty way awakening the sleep to see the greater light. It is good to be reminded of the real now and again by those that truly love us in kind for no reason other than they can. Within our bond lies humanity. To this I cry. ~ Maggie ~ September 24, 2008 @ 7:22 p.m. EST

I dedicate this to my sweet comrade in Germany.

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Tue, 23 Sep 2008 15:13:52 -0700

The Spider's Bite~

The pen being mightier than the sword

I have heard thee thus I have stirred

To crawl from my crevassed hiding place

Creeping along the narrow passage and

Conquering that which has chained me

Unleashing that which has been caged

Confined and otherwise buried

Deep within the darkest regions it

Rises to the surface like cream

Unsoured and unspoiled

Oh sweet sweet resurrection

My web I weave as my hunger grows

Feel the tender pain of the spider's bite and

Feel the poison dart through thy veins as

That is thy reward ~ Maggie

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Tue, 16 Sep 2008 14:24:27 -0700

The Ideal of the Snail's Compass

Sure I have been to see the snail, however, my form is unknown. How is it that I could observe from above and see it glide over and above the sea-foam green waters that do not conform to a regular wave motion but clash upon themselves like negatively reflected fives or Cs. Not only did I play witness to its movement from above, I was also privy to within. Why pray tell did the occupants dress in similar garb and why were there no individual shelters there?

I still remember the inner swirls of the shell and the rainbow or have you abalone features to it. What a wonderful display of color on not so white. Ah yes! Let me not forget the sky. Purple was its color which magnified the green foam waters. What did really escape my vision was the tower. Yes I did see it looming in the distance in all its splendid glory, but from no land did it come. Frankly, the tower with its Russian topped cap was more at smoke or lit mist in that it was not a solid object. Try as I might to glance ahead to see if a wall was attached, the vision was kept from me.

The snail, other than being large enough to hold a population of individuals, was just a snail. The birds on the other hand had an interesting feature in that they were rainbow colored gliders. Rainbow gliders who flapped not. I wonder if it is safe to say that land does not exist in this domain where the snail hails? It is only my observation to state that no land was seen. Then again was the snail merely a transport vehicle and hence the reason no shelters existed for the purpose of individual privacy?

If I, in whatever form that I may have been, was able to be without and within the snail, what might I have been? As I saw, I would assume that I had eyes to see. As I wondered and pondered, I assume that I had a brain to think. As I was within the snail, I was smaller than it was. As I was above it, perhaps I was flying. Then again, the bird of great size would not be able to enter within the snail nor were other birds observed within. Besides, how could I go from hovering above to hovering within without noting the penetration of the shell? Why was my presence not observed by the inhabitants who needed for nothing?

The vision came sometime ago, but the idea keeps returning. It is not only the idea, but also the vision as I remembered it. Memory - I did have a voice as I had asked to see more. Specifically, I wanted to see my way beyond the tower. However, my request only brought about the appearance of a bird/being in my path that completely obscured the vision.

Allow me to see it again! Return me there so that I may know more about that which I have described and more about that I which I am in the scope of it all. ~ Maggie ~ Penned Sept. 16, 2008 prior to 3:00 p.m. EST.

NOTE: I did start to write a story today of Jellin, Poster (as in imposter), Darbo, and Clink. Jellin and Poster live in Mynera of Bargone and Darbo and Clink live in Canthera of Looma.

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Mon, 15 Sep 2008 15:44:45 -0700

To Be Like Sand...

Alone on a beach, she is coiled in a fetal position rocking with the flow of the waves. Rocking and wishing to become part of something greater. "This womanhood is not working" she screams to the wind as her voice travels and becomes a whisper in the distance and simply waves further down the beach. The words are inaudible to other humans, but I hear her scream. I watch her as she gathers herself into a sitting position and scans the horizon. Her thoughts lie in imagination and reality as she watches the setting sun with tear filled eyes holding steady to her knees as if holding onto life itself which is defined by her taut muscles full of expression and definition.

"Oh Sybil, why do you feel so?" I enter into her mind and try to comfort her. At first she shakes her head in an act of defiance as if to defy her own essence. My words come more loudly the second time and she responds. "Why have labels been affixed to me that I should be that which others define me as? Why is it that I am not supposed to be what I am? Am I not to feel? Should I squelch all my emotions and not be a human in order to make others happy? I am not a character with a predefined role in a sad tale." I listen and ponder these words and direct them back to her and she brings them back inside for inspection.

Lost in thought, I play upon her hair and she releases the grip she held so tightly to. With her arms and hands now free, she plays with the sand picking it up and allowing the grains to pass through her fingers. "This is time" she says as she ponders her own words. "The sand was always here and will always be so in rock or grain form. Be it rock or rock eroded to sand, it is still the same thing." With these words she lies back in a relaxed state while looking skyward. All along still allowing the grains to slip through her fingers.

I so want to hug her and let her know that it is okay to be all that she is even unto this world where acceptance is not regarded, however, my density is so thin that I only come across as a light warm breeze and a ray. Again, I enter her mind with a question. "Sybil, would you rather be a grain of sand?" She replies "I already am." With these words, she picks herself up and walks into the water. ~ Maggie ~ September 12, 2008 @ 4:35 p.m. EST