Witchy Love and the Priestess

Witchy love and the Priestess, on the Sunday morning stand. We go our very different ways. I stand alone in a world that she does not know. I remind myself not to close in on her. Still, I have to remind myself of what might have been. It was all some crazy dream or was it some possibility? And did she listen to the words and the music? And did she understand the things that I tried to say to her? And did she realise that the things that she said to me, spoke to my soul? Turning away in the aftermath, if there really is an aftermath, and if it is really a turning away, haunts my commitment, my honesty, my truth. And I was thinking of her appropriateness and I cared to think that she was going to be ok. I had heard the word the word before, and I was informed that it meant destruction. And tonight, all the world in my world wants me to care for her and hold her in my caring dream. Somewhere, away from a certain reality, I sense her, and feel that she senses me also. And is she dark as the nighttime? And is she apart from love? And am I a part of her truth? And where is truth as regards the magic? And what happened to that magic anyway? Did it disappear or did she ignore its possibillity? I guess that the end is the end, but my feeling can have no end. My feeling is real, and it is with her always.

Monday Morning

The angel cries, the mirror beckons, a reflection that is not of another's success. Dark haired Hispanic bella, and she is so inviting, and I greet her with a sympathetic smile. Yesterday faded into today. The morning sought to awaken me away from comfortable simplicity. And on Sean McDermott Street in the middle of the morning, I recognised a face as it recognised mine. She says I should visit, be familiar, and I smile, and I remember that she remembered, with some kind of impressiveness. Dark is her beauty and light is her heart, and loving is her countenance. Memories of ancient love, envelope and the sun comes to play, looking me straight in the eye. And in the dream there was a Spanish Galleon, and in the dream there was fire, and outside of the dream, all was illusion. And the dream and the reality found unity with themselves. And I heard a sad song on the radio, of love that had walked away by itself, where destiny had refused. And on O'Connell Street, she stood there wondering, about her memory and the words that she spoke to me with. And I tell myself to be easy and turn just slightly from her, to what I believe is my truth. And the authorities were on the raid on Moore Street this morning, and they were weak in their strength, and I was secretly pleased. I walked my way home in the early afternoon, with a smile and a memory of ancient times. Love was in the air and its colour was magic.

Prayer

Paint me with your love. Let your soul close into mine. Eyes to the sky, and seeking the gift. And this moment of this day, let it exactly be all that there is. Let there be no nighttime. Let us be indivisable, let the moon enter our hearts. Let there be love, and let the love be righteous, and let it strengthen and let it run wild and let it be free. and let the music listen, and let it find harmony, and let our love be a prayer, and let the prayer be heard by the God of love. And may the God of love embrace our togetherness, our selfishness, our aloneness, our oneness.

Yesterday

The changes of her heart invade her mind. And I discovered through her that romance was a spiritual thing. And fleeting seems to be truth within her apparent insincerity, that I accused her of. And had guilt thereafter and couldn't be easy with conclusions, which were never meant to be conclusions. I can't quite manage to steer clear of yesterday, when she was around and around me in her prescence. I thought that I could look somewhere for answers when in reality I knew in the truth of myself, that the truth was all within myself. And yesterday has moved on, and has taken its own course, yesterday doesn't dwell in today, it has turned its back on the present, and in the present, she is around somewhere, although nowhere to be seen, without the prospect of being seen. And I wonder if today can really be true of yesterday. Yesterday when there was the feeling of love. Yesterday, when her eyes shined in mine. Yesterday when she was here.

The Music and Me

after all the muzak, I am in a Godly place listening to the delights of the art. And at the fingertips of my good fortune, I luxuriate in the beauty that is close to me. Still though, I haven't given myself to the beauty of it all, like I have and I can. Somewhere a voice is calling, as in the words of the old John McCormack song, or at least the song that he sang, and am wondering to myself, 'just how suggestible am I?' I am provoked by my non compliance, and my thoughts turn to love, the love that dwells deeply within the art of this beautiful sound of sounds. And the evening envelops me and looks at me in a precarious place, and it gazes in the eyes, and it wraps its arms around me, both in comfort and in warning me to go to the place where it feels, and possibly I, feel where I belong.

The Question

I remember when she told me that 'the only magic you will ever need, you'll find in love' and in that moment I wondered if Christians believed in magic. And I wondered then and I am still wondering now, and I believe that she has shared her magic with me, and her eyes told me to pursue the magic that she held within her, and in the distance between our eyes, the magic spoke to me of love, and she walked away on that holy evening and my eyes followed her as she left, she had given me enough to make me follow her, and I went home in the evening, to find myself alone with her in my mind, and my mind consulted the heart for feeling, and the feeling spoke to me both of mind and heart and the oneness of both, and then there had been a question, a question that I didn't realise had been asked,

Children in the Rain

Children in the rain, with no eye on the past, a thought explodes, causing a momentary ambition to be fulfilled. The old people now are but illusions, attempting to destroy the brilliancy of childhood. They are largely ignored as they should be. There is thunder in the eyes and the spirit speaks and screams and the spirit dwells and is present in each moment. Children in the rain, where there is no darkness. And the rain is but a cooling concern, the sky is yet not crying but gently embracing in empathy. And in a swingpark there is excitement and togetherness, and communion. Laughing eyes explain to the world, that the world has got it wrong. And I think that the world had better listen, because this world that the children have hanging over them, does not know. And I look in at the children in the rain and I remember when I was a child standing in the rain, but didn't realise the power or the beauty that I now perceive.

Waiting for You Impatiently

Standing within the shadow, Headphone sounds and the rain is trickling on the outside. There is guilt in the heart and its beginning to turn to a mild kind of anger. Her face is on my mind, and I sense her smile. The distance is close always, she is near to me and I feel her around me. Wondering where she will lead me to, and if it a real place to be. Defining who we are what we are, she said to me, wondering if I was to go back in school again, and the heart smiles in a sardonic kind of way. Waiting for the future, I am restless, and the heart beats in anticipation and it quietens again and I relax. The streets are made for heroes and I am on the inside and gazing through the window of my life. I am haunted by my need of her and I must endure, I brighten, I can't allow the depths to darken me. I have told her that I could tell her in the truth of my heart, and yet I am questioning my own motives. It has turned now to Autumn and the sun is largely gone, but the moon can be so beautiful in the peaceful nighttime. So I wait to discover about these definitions she had spoken of, and a smile arises. Its going to be alright I convince myself.

Mandolin

Been treating my Mandolin like a stranger, and in turn the Mandolin wont allow me closeness. Music indeed has distanced itself somewhat, and I plead for mercy, and I then have to enter my memory, and the scenes of times when there was oneness and the days had no end, and all of heart was in tune with the magic.

Strangeness

Women are strange, or is it just her? Or is it me perhaps?

Isn't it Strange?

Isn't it strange when something happens when nothing happens and when the silence speaks to you disturbing you to understanding?