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"When days are washed in silent stillness and all that's present is our willingness to make good our days this life within the frame of mortal time, we find if whether we are true to ourselves and others too for what we wish for to belong will enhance or will dethrone the prowess of our eager bidding among the time paths of the living."

Jade Jaspers
When I in want of silent stillness search for leisure of my will
I do placate my natural mind to the depths of my own kind
That abides in places mild where what is known was once the wild
Imagination unbridled free above the mountains, above the seas
In hands that toiled in dirts of earth giving life in endless births
To flowers, songs and celebrations of adventures and hibernation
Drinking wines of passions true voicing visions out of the blue
Basking in the warmth of sun where all is welcome to become
A lasting art of living fair where none is shunned and devil beware
The voices of the living rise in melodies beyond the cries
Where none have heard so sure a sound that can be found on yonder ground
And youth is not a wished for thing but brought anew in shower rains
To wash away the makeshift madness and bring to life a new day's gladness
Running with the tides of time lilting in the soul of minds
Who never falter or besmirch the chance again to bring with mirth
A new beginning to create the time of day with all due haste
Thus to be a day where lived the friends of all who care to give
A word a rhyme a flower bloom a tale to spin on spinning loom
A thread to stitch a phrase to page and thanks to grace a newborn sage
Who in a search of their own will did themselves duly instill
A sail to hoist to catch the wind and chart a course without an end
To thrash and breach the walls that hold the natural wild of poet's soul
Breaking loose and setting free the words of wonders that will be
A freedom born to voice the wild imagination of the mild.

Some would say that it’s just my wistfulness longing for younger days, daydreaming or wishing for some far away place that I’m sentimental about. But it’s not and I know that because I want, in my right now, to set my hands in motion to build my life’s dreams outside of the confinements of others wild schemes that lead me away from the moments that I would sit down beside you to idly chide about concepts of nature, about poetic writings and prose, about sceneries and concepts of our thinking that births our wants.
In a day where the world is still spinning in its orbit surrounded by the universal nothingness that cradles us in its keeping between the layers of gravitational pulleys that holds us all in our place among the celestial seas of multiple galaxies full of planets and stars, meteors, asteroids and such, the plight of my life moved on. Not in some grand gesture of overt acclamation but in all the simplicity of living there is. There were no real highlights, or let's do that again, there was no real connections of my life without or within the usual occurrences where living is just that; living. Yet, I was alive and I in my mind look inward to find something to give a voice. A flower, a sky, a wisp of birds flying high, clouds conjoining, colors adorning, air full of scents, anything that could mean that the miraculous is always on display. For that is my way of reminding myself that yes I lived today. Some would say or proclaim, so what, the stars in the sky are all still the same as yesterday and the day before that and years before those but to me they look down on me and whisper my name, pleased to know that like them I am still here, although many wouldn’t know it or even care if they did. To me it is everything. It is those moments in life that yearn deep inside to be welcomed among the things that give all life its substance, all creation its abundance, all the worries of the world away. No one truly understands those moments in individuals who need them unless they’ve been through the exact same paths of existence in life. Yet they are as truthful as a glass of water that hydrates the body from dehydration, as essential as breathing in clean air, as refreshing as a summer’s rain, and as pleasant as a gentle friend. And in a day where the world is still spinning in its orbit, full of its own desires of humanity both far and near, surrounded by the universal nothingness that cradles all of us upon our earth, I found my way back to a much needed cheer. To sit in the silence of an early morning hour and remind myself that yes, yes I am alive and had another day to live among the innocence of inquiring children with so much to say in so little time; to feel the sun warm me gently and hear a young puppy whine. To share a smile and make a laugh with a companion who, same as me, was glad to have those little moments where me and she became a we.
How dare I think less of my thoughts than I do. As I linger upon a blank page staring into my own ideas, waiting for the moments when all creation speaks, needing only a listener to hear its still small voice in the mad rushes of daily do's and don'ts and how very much like me to dare to hear it. For what am I? Nothing more than one of life's children wanting my personal best among a millennium of atmospheres. And how very fortunate am I that these words, they find me. Waiting, wanting, in need of their presence. For what am I if not this? The fruits of my forebears who gifted me the appreciation of writing with words.

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As words tell me a story I cherish them with my hands. I wrap my thoughts around them to keep them safe so that they have a person to talk to who’s not too busy to appreciate them. It is my way of allowing a dream to dream of dreaming. An often forgotten art of the world, where the imagination is freed among the atmospheres of becoming something other than a fact of existing. When words tell me they wish to speak for a time, I console them with a place to take form. In friendship as a friend, in relationship as a student, in moments of eternity, in loneliness understanding they too are alone without the willing hands of another to give them a home. A place to visit, welcomed. When words present themselves to me I wish them well the time. To understand the moments of a writer’s hands like mine. Who admires moments of a day where behind a closed locked door give them all the space they need to become what they are for. A taught skill, learned and remembered, respected and cherished for the continuation of they’re divine gifting to a living imaginations existence.
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