Stepping.

It is the reality of life,

the hellos and goodbyes,

the lift you ups

the crashing downs,

the love in eyes

and the loss of hope,

the happy and the sad.

It is the reality in life,

the fantasy of mind,

where the story is told,

without boundaries,

but there are fences hidden,

along dusty roads,

that you only see,

when looking.

It is the reality of life,

the endless circle,

that is walked along,

wearing thin the dirt,

and trampling the grass,

as my steps hit hard,

never reaching the end,

a place to sleep,

for the weary.

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Be not in reality.

It was written on her brow,

raised above the eye,

questioning and inquiring,

blaming with a sigh.

She had a way about her,

a single minded brain,

and though I just wanted,

she always said the same.

In fantasies we fondle,

like teenagers in the rain,

keeping warm by pressing bodies,

an excuse for the game.

I sigh at gentle memories,

like scavenged bits of tin,

for only in this memory,

will that love begin.

The Girl and a Horse Called Moon.

There once was a land that seemed to be made of gold. The meadows, the houses, the streets, shined as if polished everyday with sunlight. The people smiled and worked each day. When they came home they laughed until the last rays dipped down below the hills. When the dark came all the people slept and dreamed of the day to come. This was all that was needed; all were satisfied with their lives, except one small girl.

She wasn’t a bad girl, or a girl who didn’t work as hard as the rest. She was a girl who dreamed of something more than the gold of the day, more than the laughter before bed. She felt as if there was more to see, more to feel, more to be.

On this night she lay awake until all were sound asleep and dreaming their own dreams. She crept out of her warm bed and slipped into her slippers. She left her house silently, into the cool night.

The moon was the first to greet the little girl. Its smile shined down from the sky. The stars seemed to wink hello to her and the breeze whispered her name. She felt alive in the night air. Alone with the world she had never seen before. It was as if the night had waited just for her and she finally heard it.

She wandered up the main street, her slippers muffling her steps, her nightgown clinging to her as the wind touched her lightly. All the houses were dark; all the people were dreaming unaware of this little girl. She walked off the path, running through one of the many golden meadows.

The long grasses caressed her as she went. It was as if each blade wanted to hug her close, but she was too fast to hug them back. The girl headed for the hill that she often climbed in the day. It was a gentle slope that went on and on, until it seemed to touch those winking stars.

The moon grew as she climbed. The further she went the larger it became. She was in awe of it, she marveled at its beauty. By the time she crested the hill, she was sure she was in love with it. At the top of the large hill she fell onto her back and stared up at the moon she loved. She held out her hands willing it to come down to her. She wished so very hard. She just wanted to touch it and feel it’s warmth on her palm.

“Oh Moon, why don’t you come sit beside me?” She asked in her little voice.

The moon was silent, just smiling down upon the girl. She frowned at its silence.

“Oh Moon, please come down and sit with me.” She called once again.

Still the moon just smiled.

“Oh Moon, I wish you loved me as I love you,” she whispered.

The moon seemed to shimmer at her words, and then seemed to melt from the sky. It poured down like a stream of pure light, almost blinding the girl. The light landed just in front of her and as it dropped its last bit of light she saw before her a stallion of brilliant white. Its mane twinkling like the stars, it stood tall and strong in front of her.

“My lady, don’t doubt my love for you. I am just the moon and cannot sit with any mortal being, but tonight I come to you so we may spend this evening together and this memory shall stay with us forever.”

The girl grabbed the mane of her moon and swung herself astride the its back and became the woman she would be. She felt the strength of her moon as they galloped into the night sky. The wind rushed and the stars bowed. She and her love, making the sky their own. The night seemed to go on forever, but forever has its own boundaries and soon they returned to the hill.

“Our time is at an end,” the moon said to the girl.

“But I don’t want it to end,” the girl said as she slid from the moon’s back.

The beast smiled down at the girl and lowered its head into her hands. She felt the warm breath upon her palm, it was like feeling heaven.

“Some day I will come for you, remember my touch.” and with that the stallion melted back into the sky and the moon returned to its night.

The girl was left alone and cold. She turned her back and made her way back to the town and her life that seemed less. The years passed and memory fades as it usually does. The girl did become a woman, a wife, and a mother, then finally a grandmother. She stayed in at night and dreamed her dreams of the day to come, her moon slipping from her.

One night she awoke from her dream and wandered to the rooms of her grandchildren. Upon arriving at her granddaughter’s room she found the bed empty. She searched the house but was not able to find the little girl. All she found was the main door open to the night. She slipped on her slippers and stepped out into the dark.

She felt the breeze call her name, she saw the stars winking down at her. She could not run, but she never stopped moving up that familiar hill. When she finally made it to the top, she saw a grand horse, as bright as the moon which was strangely absent. Sitting on its back was her granddaughter.

For some reason she could not remember, tears flowed down her cheeks. She wished she could be the girl on that horse and that she could ride through the night. She moved closer to the pair and they both looked down on her.

“Grandma, you came!”

“Well of course I came; I wouldn’t have my girl out in the cold.” She said to the girl.

“You were right, you were right,” the girl seemed to say to the stallion.

“Right about what child?” the old woman asked.

The white horse turned to her and let out a long breath. It danced on the night air searching for the hand of the woman. As it touched her palm warmth filled her hand.

“Remember,” the stallion whispered.

The old woman felt her chest heave and fell to her knees in tears.

“Oh my moon, My moon…you, you…”

“Oh my lady, I once told you we would meet again, and here I am. Your sweet child has brought you to me and at last we can ride on from this place together.”

The woman moved to touch the beautiful face of her moon. Her wrinkled hand smoothing the fur of its cheek, “But moon, I am old, and no longer that girl you loved.”

“My lady, the moon does not know time and is older than you will ever be.”

The granddaughter slipped off the stead. She moved to her grandma and hugged her tight. “Go grandma, the moon told me all about your night so long ago. You need to ride one more time.”

The shaky woman grasped the mane and tried to swing onto the beasts back, but strength had left her. The beast dropped to his knees and the grandchild of the little girl helped her onto the back off the moon. Soon the woman she was sat high upon the back of her love. She felt the wind pick up and the power of the stallion beneath her.

“I love you child,” she said to her granddaughter.

“I love you too,” the granddaughter replied.

The moon ran off and into the sky. Once again time stood still. The wind rushed and the stars bowed. This time forever seemed to last a bit longer as they both rode into the sky. For the moon was not letting his love go, and the girl wasn’t letting go.

When She Paints…

 

Once upon a time…because nice stories always start that way…there lived a girl who loved to paint.She felt alive with brush in hand and canvas bare and ready. With her hand she would stroke the canvass, waiting for it to speak to her as only it could. “Tell me what you are” she would whisper and wait for whisper to come back. Only she could hear it’s tale and only she could paint it. When she painted it was like magic.

Before her was her paint. Colours so vibrant and bright, they would shine on the canvas like multicoloured stars in a twinkling sky. She dipped her brush in the deep red, feeling the whisper, as much as hearing it. A long stroke across the white and the story had begun. Her hands danced with her arms in a waltz as beautiful the girl herself. She sang as she covered the canvas, a song as sweet as honey straight from the comb.

Greens married blues which married reds…the story becoming more than told, it became real in her hands. If one could see love it would be those reds. If one could touch sky, it would be those blues. If one could feel envy, one would feel it for that green, being so close to the other colours.

The story became one of oceans, green blue, a colour that seemed to move like a real ocean created by the girl. The sky was a blue that seemed to go on forever and in looking one would think they saw birds flying within it. There, on the ocean, she placed a red boat, and if you looked from the corner of your eye, that boat bobbed on those waves of paint.

With a delicate hand she used the finest of her brushes and on that boat she painted a small man in a yellow raincoat. She looked at her creation, smiling at the scene. She looked so deep into it that she almost willed it real. She could hear the birds, smell the tides, hear the creak of that boat. With brush in hand she dabbed it in grey and on the horizon painted dark clouds. They seem to coil and churn like an evil creature covering such a beautiful scene.

“Turn around,” she whispered to the boat and the man.

“A storm is coming,” she said to the paint.

Tears filled her eyes, asshe watched the grey approach. She shook her head and screamed at the canvas with all of her heart.

“Turn around Daddy…turn around!”

As in anything in life, we wish for things to change. The girl wished her Daddy hadn’t gone to sea. She wished he had not stayed out to weather the storm. She wished that someone, anyone had told him to turn around, for then he would not be gone.

She held on to the edge of the painting. She tightened her grip. She closed her eyes and imagined the sounds and smells. She did this and she wished again. This time she wished the only wish she could…as she picked up her finest brush and painted one more thing.

…and if we look again at the canvas, we would swear that we knew the other figure on that boat. We would swear that the boat was now moving back to that painted shore, even though it is impossible. We would wonder where the painter had gone, but in our minds we know. When she painted it was like magic…