Song For A Nightbird

I want you to know, I thank you for holding me.
I want you to know that I WILL return that comfort without failure, and with the heart's beating lullaby.

I want you to know that you are not the Sun in the sky, or the Moon betwixt tree and field,
Rather you are a shimmer of the moon's beam that I appreciate, 
acknowledging it's light as well as its darkness.

I want you to know that what you do doesn't go unseen,
The sacrifices you have made, and will make, I record in my heart.

I want you to know that I see you -- both in happiness, and in the fear of not balancing all who surround you.

I want you to know that you are noticed, not for what you may do for me, but simply for your raw, unedited self, . . . the woman who just is.

I want you to know that I know the way your spirit has bent under the pressure of expectations, and I know the times that you've broken down, alone.

I want you to know that despite whatever you may feel of yourself, I look at you with pride, and see why you love the owl for its noble grace, its sight, and path through moonlit skies, when the vision of others, fails.

I want you to know that you're not only one thing to be, but many facets of a precious gem.  
Perhaps not the most flashing or reflective, but more rare and beautiful than a treasure of old.

I want you to know that my empathy always flows to you, I see your tiredness when you may think no one does, and the smile to yourself that brightens your eyes.  

I want you to know that you're brilliant over and over, in the quietest of ways.

I want you to know that you're understood, even if words are not agreed upon.

I want you to know that you don't have to do a thing to keep what I feel, how I care, or be seen, here.

I want you to know that no matter how time ebbs, or how much the waters of age bend our bodies, you'll find me smiling, still telling you with all sincerity that you're beautiful.

I want you to know that you are known.
I want you to know that whatever you do, are, or become, is safe, here.

These musings are not written in strife, or some ill-begotten blindness of twinkling lights which burn bright for a moment, then fall asleep.
They are pure of heart and mind and soul.

For you are already everything you hope to be, 
Even if those flowers are yet to bloom, the seeds are there, planted long ago.
Yet still, because I love your heart and all you are, I just want you to know.

-G.



🐒

You could be my silver spring

My blue-green colors flashing
I would be your only dream
Your shining on, ocean crashing

And did you say she was pretty?
And did you say that she loves you?
Baby, I don't wanna know

I began not to love you
Turn around, see me running
I said I loved you years ago
Telling myself you never loved me
No . . .

And did you say she was pretty?
And did you say that she loves you?
Baby, I don't wanna know
Oh no . . .

And can you tell me was it worth it?
Really, I don't wanna know . . .


Time cast its spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could've loved you
But you would not let me
Time cast its spell on you
But you won't forget me
I know I could've loved you
But you would not let me
I'll follow you down to the sound
Of my voice that haunts you
You'll never get away from the
Sound of the woman that loves you.

Was I just a fool?
You'll never get away from the sound
Of the woman that loves you
Was I just a fool?
I'll follow you down to the sound
Of my voice that haunts you
Give me just a chance
You'll never get away, never get away, never get away . . .
(your own heart won't let you)*


You could be my silver spring
My blue-green colors flashing . . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Madame du Coeur Brisé, Je Suis . . .

"Silver Springs" written by Stephanie L. Nicks (Stevie Nicks), 1976. 
Released 1977, 1997. Warner-Reprise Records. 
All rights belong to these entities and my Dear Lady, Stevie.


*Not part of original lyrics; added by TheGypsyShadow

A Song to A Muse

The poet falls with night in the soul.

Her Muse catches her hair, and draws near with soft hands the feel of comfort and love.

"Where must I go, and what shall I do?" asks the tired bard. 
You are the Light, and yet my fingers errantly wave your flames away. 
My heart lies heavy in these mountains of the moon, and the days of bright sun are oft times unfamiliar and jaunted."

Musa smiles through tears as the poet joins with a pained reality spinning downward.
"I've no where else to go," Poet screams without voice, choking on the very foliage that grows in frustrated shadows.

Hand reaching outward, touching the Muse, an old bardess becomes young and soft once more.
Feeling the depth of her heart, the inspiration of her passion lifts a broken body upward, carrying it in those seconds when it cannot carry itself.

"For all my living life I may never understand why you love me, my Sweet Muse."
"Yet I think on you softly, with fondness of the soul.  Your touch, were it water in the cisterns of a spirit, would flood my mind with a breaking heart sort of love that endures through any ache." 

The Muse smiles, and the tears fade, exchanging themselves with those of the tired scribe. 

"All I can do is love you." the poet rises to say.
"My heart is yours. 
It always has been . . .
it has always said yes to say yes, to you." 
The smooth tale may crack at times, and my pen might be scarce for ink,
but for you, I shall never grow tired of loving; I shall ne'er fall short of needing to feel you wrap around my wounds. 

Nor shall one ever cease to gently tend and kiss the hurt of your scars.  


The Poet says further, "This is my gift, and I fear it is all I have, sometimes." 
"Yet," she whispers, "if my garden were flowered vineyards that bloomed for every second that I am yours in love, then you could walk said garden and tread only on the petals. 
It is only my song, but it is for you, and only for you, my Love."

My body may break and my voice falter, but my hands will never tire of touching you.  If your waters were youth-strong, I should drink them, and never grow old.

You are Light to me. 
Nothing in the Universe could be more thankful for you, to you, and because of you, than I.

My Muse, my Dearest Heart," Poet whispers . . . when your blood courses, it is mine that runs red with passion.  When my lips feel parched, yours swab away the heat of desire.
I only have my song, but it is Life, to me.  Were Life the coursers of mighty steeds digging across the sea-salt laden beaches of time, then my body would bear you forward, and smile from the mirror at you . . . so sweetened by what I see when to your eyes, mine look. 

I love you with boundless energies.  The times when my voice cracks are pain that I bear . . . but you, my Sweet Musa Mea, you breathe and I come alive . . . once more.



G.

Vuelo de la Pájara Desierto

The moments when caresses reach into the softness of
empassioned bodies,
Where I realize that we must feel every moment, because it is so easy to do.

The moments when twinkling lights across the blurred river tell me that my time here is waning,

The moments when my eyes soften on you and your lips caress the soul of my being.

The moments when I don’t move for a whisper, but come alive for it.

The moments when we join the time and space of ourselves, stretching across the chasm of infinity, where breath flows like rain.

The moments when I realize that the dawn brings a departure in which I leave only in body.

The moment I realized that the larger part of me never left you.

The moment I see;

The moment you see;

The moment we see those eyes of the other over pleasured touches.

The moments of time that tick away in sleep most peaceful.

The moments of rushing engines in my ears, and the exhilaration of shaking metal matching the trembling furor of my fingers.
The moments of leaving on that Southern Bird, back to the haunted passages of my living ghost.

The moments when tears, amazement, and the emotion of the heart are broken and battered over the lift into the skies.   Take me Phoenix-Bird.  Take me there . . .

The moments when I didn’t see the Grand Desert anymore; the moments that sorrowed me out of your open sky of heaven . . . oh how I suffered, then.

The moments when I felt my heart fall out from my bones onto a ground of clouds.

The moments when those tears were free. 
The moments when I see that these tears ARE free to miss you.

Lifetimes later, the moments of desire and despair in water over my knees that steams in fingered resonance, slowly across my soul.

The moments of ocean’s depth and plunging back into you, the taste of your body, the flavor of your smile,
Forward . . . hurled madly into the laughter that destroyed my strength, flinging me downward into a loss of resolve.

The moments of finding purpose and making you proud.

The moments of coming and going, from where I once called home, to the flashing of where I belong.

Into the West . . .


She says in songed voice, "you move me." 

And yes, Mi Amor . . . you really do . . . move me.




Buffering . . .










Image by atomhawk
http://atomhawk.deviantart.com/

Soul Pause

There's a familiarity here.
Rubbing my head, I recognize it, and it is a home away from home.

You're safe,
You're smooth, cool, ease.

In the pitch of fevered thoughts, you straighten a road that I travel
in slinging curves,
and my eyes see you in the middle of twists.
I can pull away, fall away, and 'hide beside you if only for a while.'

You hold up a cover of steady, pillared, firmness in the swirl of a winter's discontent.
You stand in the doorway of balance beckoning thither,
as through the screaming winds, beaten and scratched my feet slog forward in the sandstorm,
always toward some semblance, any notion of even-ness.

Spinning madly on heels of tumult and terpsichoran insanity,
with the ease of a wink you extend your arm and stop my motion, catching me into your arms . . .
steady and unyielding to the frenzy of tempest all around.

Hold my mind in its glass temperance.
If love for you were smoke in ashen woods,
I would be the lick of flames on the feet of the trees.

-G.



For Mi Querida Loba. 
Thank you for seeing me. 

Misha loves you, Baby . . .