Whisperwill

Twill the wisps, then twas not the silence at all,
the night slips slippery sloping as if the twilight
thus falls along the moonbeam that was not
as it once was but now creeps lavenderly 
by the soft satinish copper tones of sleep.
These words imagine themselves to print
the rain drop splotches of ink dip, dip 
sendings like the ripplerills ebbing away
into meticulous dreams shivering softly
across the ice cold sheets. I twon't tell
a soul she whispers along to my ears-
drum song a thumb thumping pong
to the tub tumbling trill I get when
her voice like lavender tickles my 
inner pollywongle something to twitch
I asketh my heart strings to reverberate
her warm repetitions in my sane
as if I can resuscitate the shadow
of activity that plays out in the 
diorama that is my brain.


copyright mv2studios 2016
  

Words and Lyrics

Was she playing a Uke? I asked as we glanced back at the stage
I think so, he said, I nodded and made a note of it on the page
Was she singing in tune to the drummer or that guy on the keys?
Perhaps it was both, her lyrics held me in check, weak in the knees.
like a rumble of emotions, the words ripped a hole into my soul
the sticks beating in time to the foot tapping, my fingers on a roll
floors shaking, it's the music we are making, walls quaking
the words meant more than the scratches on the paper are taking.
This is where I lost track of who was listening to who,
the writer and the Ukelele singer are one where we were two.


copyright
Mikev2 2016

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The Artist

She sits at her studio bench, careful consideration
on her face, the reference sketches lie under the
paint swatches, the acrylics unopened arranged in
order of layer, the sable brushes, the minute tools
waiting for a decision to be made. The aluminum
casting is done, the rough miniature awaits the knife
for the finite details, that will follow.
She could get a 3D printer but the amount of money
wars with her lack of computer skills and the idea that
somehow she will not be able to create the same magic
in plastics that she has managed with aluminum and lead.
"The old ways are better instead," she mumbles as
she pushes her bangs away from her head.
The faded Tomb of Horrors tee shirt splattered with old
paint marred by the new strokes of drying paints
the small tears honor her favorite shirt, her small handles
turn the HB2 pencil in her hands rolling it back and
forth as she considers the final details before she turns
back to the paints.
Our hero awaits clasped in the alligator clips, the shavings
lie scattered below him like discarded armor. The artist
selects the base paints, setting to work, a mildly curious
perplexed expression writes itself across her freckled
cheeks. She adjusts her glasses, clips back the rebellious
bangs, massages the crick in her neck, remembers she has
a cup of coffee. She sips at it realizing that the ever
curmudgeonous Gaming store owner has reheated it while
she was lost in her meditative trance. Thankful she gives
him the blessing of light and hope that Talos will be more
forgiving the next time he call down his name in vain.
"The coffee is good, may the patron saint of miniatures
bless this peice as I already know she should."
The hero awaits the birth of face as the primer is washed
into place, the artist smiles to herself as her art takes shape.

The Next Step

Imagine,
A foggy stream in a wilderness unknown
the run of water, the song of distant birds,
the early morning air, the absence of man
everywhere.
The silence that is not silent surrounds
the crush of pine needles, the swish of
the grasses, the delicate steps of the deer
as the morning passes.
The softness of light, the downfall of dew,
the hallowed moments between the present
and the next, a movement in shadows
the bear splashes into the stream, the flash
of the trout, the minutia of this
dream.
The silhouettes stark against the water
softened sky, the smell of cedar, daisy,
oak and time. The feel of the wet rocks
slick in the water, the rush of the chill
the quick swim of the otter.
The twisting paths through the trees,
the clearing nearby, the shelter of the glade.
the whispers that you think you can hear
the complete loss of fear.
The rustle of the underbrush as some creature
moves to retreat, the crush of space, the
next step comes when the picture
becomes complete.

copyright mv2 studios 2016


credits to Virtual Dreamer and Brad McBride for the video.

Gravitas

Strains restrain the streaming lines in my brain
repeat the refrains of the words scrolling through
the blasted remains segued like a crossfade, this
is English remade,
raw, unmade, repaid.
misunderstood, misused
like grammar, frequently abused
forget being brief, talking with your
hands, elegance demands that you stand before
your judgement, countering with reprimands
is this where you shall stand? Defend your
definitive state, posturing to reinflate that you
are, in fact, the expertise that defines release-
are you complete, did you say it succintly, is this
necessary to repeat, be replete, pretend confidence
reposiution your stance, this is Webster's show
go get your hat and dance.

A waking dream, Point of View, Harper's Ferry, September 19th 2016

I awoke to the gray soft cotton wisps surrounding the house
the silence of slumber over the foliage, the wisps spriting
the shallows between the trees, like teasing ghosts
tendrils snaking throughout my memories, once upon
a dream I walked down the side of this mountain of
thought, watching in the places where the mist has
been brought, like the leaves fallen from the branches
the mazes of webs where these mysteries are caught.
I am akin to the pleasures of the spirits that haunt this
northern wood. All that I am, all that I would want to be,
all that I was before I came here under the veil, under
the hood, the cover of night that slips away in the invisible
dawn, the secrets of starlight, the placement of the moon
from the wells of midnight, the water of life is drawn. I walk
awake as my body sleeps on the cotton sheets. I pull the blanket
of the darkness around my shoulders, the chill is in the air, I
count the meteors falling, their bright flames as if they're calling
down to me, come home, fair child, there is no rest for you down
deep in the shadowy lands, be gone from those forgotten places.

This is what a Dream Feels like.

The desert streams by in flashes of memory and wind
softly seeming, the hair on my arms moves in the currents
the idea of standing in motion, the semi-satisfactory momentum
the balance disturbed, the awkward hint of absurd notion.
The darkness rises, the fall of stars out of the night
the dream of sleep, resting in between the phases of moonlight
casting shadows down onto the landscape like the shattering
cacophony of rain, drum beating rhythm in repetitive strains
wracking the the calm that once was to be found in my brain.
Am I that remains?
The sun kisses the beach, the water rolls in until the two meets
can anything so smooth ever be just as sweet, infinitely complete
I feel the need for flight, for the vibrations that come with speed
as feet find the air, the meaning of words, the prophecies to hear
the writing coming off the wall, ideas to random to find purchase to
catch, berthing on the rocks, the touch of iron strikes sparks
tiny glows adrift in flight, burning like drops of fire floating away
out of sight, the return to the soft regular grains woven into the bed
sheets, the place between I and my lover come to meet, soft,
willows, the duplicity of another sad sweet refrain as the song plays
out to the ripples fading away down into the abyssal deep.
I return once again to the memory of sheep.