finally a new poem...

The stillness of nature

Such a safe harbor
this place called nature
it’s soft symphony
beckoning me to be still
to slow down
to breathe deep its fragrance of peace
to walk in a lostness
that is peacefully enjoyable
to slowly experience
the unfolding artwork
before my eyes
the colors that sooth me
It’s creator
coming beside me as I walk
whispering to me
or wordlessly
we walk
enjoying each other’s company
for far too short of a time period…

under the dust

I really got an image in my head from something said in a class I was in tonight. We've all heard the expression of "kicking up the dust". So, here is a poem, inspired by this small phrase from class tonight.

Under The Dust

what is
under the dust
not really
the best
parts of "us"
didn't see it
till I kicked at it
but now that I do
I'd rather hoped
it had rusted away
the past?
the present?
pushed in a corner
dented

choices

some mine
some

body else's

mistakes made
I hide
in the shade
grab my blade
to slay or trade
my broken pieces
which to keep?
which should be
put to sleep?
which
make me feel
like a creep?
yet
under the dust
some garbage lies
don't want it to be seen
not trying to be mean
yet I mean
what I say
when I tell you
I want
to sweep it away
don't let it
come out & play
not today
not tomorrow
throw it out
like dead flowers
cause if it doesn't
get thrown away
it'll get kicked up again
someday

by b.e. noll

May His grace drip from your fingers,
B

the bitter pill

well, I'm on some med.s, as well as having my usual rhythm distorted. In some ways this is good. It allows me to try somethings. My plans for a "unique Valentine's Day" treat for Mick are going well. However my mood, & my stomach, are very erratic of late. Which inspires a "less than jolly" poem tonight...

The bitter pill

again
with these pills.
trouble,
distraction,
bad,
shallow thought garbage.
actions
that shouldn’t be
acted out,
or wrote down
for that matter.
up, down, inside out
outside in
the end of a rope
the start of a design
meandering through
preparing for some things
not ready for anything

What a bitter pill this is
not prescribed
by a doctor
this bitter thing
needs to dissolve
to go away
not to be revisited
permanently grounded
buried, really
preferably
somewhere
no one
will ever want to come out
and play near.

by b.e. noll

on Thanksgiving

To the maker of all things

Thank you
for making sound
for turning some of it into music
for allowing us to sing & write
to you
thanks
for painting the skies
for long walks in the woods
for going with me on them
for beautiful views
for the way my woman walks
for the way she looks at me
and the way she feels
cuddled into me
thanks for the ability to walk
thanks for language
for my eyes
and much of what I get to see
for giving people
[some I know
& some I don't]
the ability to be creative
like you
thanks for light
thanks for night
thanks for food
thank you
that I can cook
[somewhat]
for saxophones
for drums
for bass
for the interesting & old
& odd instruments
that people like Kemper Crabb & Troy Donockley play
thank you for the roof over my head
& the fact it doesn't leak
thank you for those who sit with me
when my sadness leaks
out
for LW
for it's coffee bar
& all the cool folks
who have let their stuff
be displayed for me to see
for the safe haven
LW often seems to be
thanks for being
my safe fortress
for me to be me in
thanks that you are a rock
to build solidly on
& a warm comfort
to keep me
to relax me in
thanks for my family
they are more rare than precious gems
thanks for giving me nieces
to remind me of the joy
children can bring

you alone
know better than most
that I will be thanking you
for thousands of centuries
for all you have given to me
in this wisp
of breath called my life
Thank you for your grace
your unwavering, deeper than the cosmos love,
for your mercy
your faithfulness endures
truly,
there is none like you
and I'm thankful
for that too...

B. E. Noll

[untitled]

I haven't posted a poem for a while... & I'm contemplating some things...

a puzzle, an awakening

It was hard
to awaken the real me
when the ghosts had been running a muck for years
slowly
I became aware
of all that lie beneath
fractals
shards
I felt like
broken glass
like I was grafting
“frankenstiening”
things about a crowd of people
I thought I met once
I kept thinking
I liked
the pieces
would I
could I
like them assembled?
could they
would they
end up
as me?
then
who, exactly
would I be?
Am I making me?
or…
am I
awakening
to the me
I was born to be?

by
B.E. Noll

this is based on a conversation I had just this evening...

Why I don’t Love You

Why don’t I love you?
…let me explain the ways
I don’t love you for your hair
you may lose it
or choose to give it up
[“take it all off”]
I don’t love you for your smile
your brain may one day forget how to make one
I don’t love you for your physique
[though it is quite unique]
because it may “go down”
before the sun does
perhaps even on this very day
your eyes though they may twinkle
over some favorite doughnut [sprinkle?]
I don’t love you for them
[they only see part of me,
as mine only see part of you]
No
these are the ways I do not love you
if I care for you
it’s not really much based
on what my eyes “behold”
for that is just what your soul wears
“soul clothes”
you might say
…but it’s the thin part of you
it’s not the meat
it’s not the best part
the best part is
talking
“hanging”
how you express yourself
how you are ok
with me expressing myself
you don’t need to like everything I like
or like it as much as me
even if we both
write poetry
you will be you
and I
me
real friends let you
just be
and freely enjoy

Yesterday was restful...

I wrote this on my walk yesterday...

I walked with God today

We walk along
the rain dampened path
water bubbling on tiny ponds
dropping
bending leaves
turning the leaves into symbols
trees, logs, & dirt
acting as congas
of all sizes
a symphony without end
as we walk
I talk
on & on
over & over
some of the same thoughts
using different words
trying to get you to spend time with me
not feeling you very strongly
until…
I finally run out of things to say
suddenly
I feel you
rush over me
all is right in the universe
time seems to “run aground”
we walk
silently together
through you landscape painting/ sculpture
I don’t want it to end
…and one day
it won’t

poem fragment

The Endless Poem [or The Poem of Infinity]

[christmas... the birth of hope]
a child is born this night
a boy
a son
the light (& hope)
of the world
of the created universe
born without defect
to accept all defects
born to rid poeple like me
of our wounds & scars
yet keep the ones
I've put on Him
this boy
this man
is tangible hope not "I hope so" hope
hope I can "hang with"
hope that will never get lost
hope that refuses to die
the man born this day
is different than all others
born of his own choosing
will allow us to beat him
kill him
so that
by doing so
he
can save us
...from ourselves.

This man
This "Prince of God"
is heir
to an unchallengable kingdom
a son
who's father
is ageless
matchless
fathumless
insurmountable
untamable
unmeasurable
...
[end of this fragment]


Remember...
What's under the tree
isn't nearly as wonderful, valuable, or priceless...
as who put it there.

the real gifts at Christmas
are around the tree
what's under it are post it notes
to remind you of them.

Poeple are the best gifts.

Merry Christmas,
B

L.L. Challenge [+ 1 that's a bit different]

So, I haven't posted anything "new" in a while.... hope you like these...

Sound therapist

I’m glad you enjoy taking me with you
We’re buds
You take me everywhere
I help you cry
I help you laugh
I help you sleep
I help you to write
I even get to help you quiet yourself
So you can have special moments with Him
I have some black marks
Where I used to be just white
Sometimes I’m stuffed
& sometimes
My memory
Is rather light
I’m not the most popular
Version of me
But YOU like me
And that’s enough
You make me feel special
Useful
I’m grateful
That I’m yours
I even get to be an inspiration
For your photos
[or is that courage to take them?]
I get to help you express yourself
And I think it’s cool
Thanks

US

You & me
Are we the way
We were meant to be?
Are we good for each other?
Or would another be better
At making an “us” than we are?
I’d like to think
This “us” is not toxic
Not tragic
But perhaps a bit
Problematic
Never quite automatic
We reach for each other
Through the static
Straining against the chains
That bind us
The barriers that
Threaten
To keep us apart
We are a part
And yet pulled apart
I think we need some time
But for what I cannot say…

retracing

Life is still a freight train lately. But as I glanced through my poems the other day, I found an old one. I am so far away from this place now. The person who wrote this is a stranger to me now. I don't like how dark it starts, but the end is worth it, even if it is a bit "sappy". [hopefully you'll feel the same]

Diminished

Diminished,
I am
Diminished,
I
Stay.
Diminishing,
Some
Do not realize
How they help me
To become
More diminished
A word
May be all it takes
Maybe
It’s even unspoken,
Just a look will do
A lot
Of my diminishment
Is screamed
Inside
My own head
“you cannot be diminished”
It would say
Using a new word
The decrepit
Old way
“you cannot become worse
-because you are already
The worst”
Jesus
Did not die
Just
To watch this unfold
No
He died,
To fold it back up
Put it in His pocket
And walk away with it
To
Once
And for all
Whisper
“Yes, you are diminished
But your life expectancy,
Is much longer
Than that word’s is”
What will happen to Me
Will begin to wage & win the war against
Diminishment
Diminishment
Will now be transformed into
Healing,
Hope will be the prescription
God the Father
Becomes the Doctor…
Jesus,
Becomes the pharmacist
His blood
The drug we wish we could have made
[but are ohh so glad we have]

...well, as some of you have found out by now, I am not currently in the newest issue of INKLINGS. By choice [mine]. While it's nice to be in there... it is equally nice to read an issue that is wholly new to me. To have a completely new issue to "peruse". I planned this for a while [like Oct. 2008]. It is hard not to offer something, but kind of weird to be in there too. To read my words published in a hard copy, lying around church. [& who knows where else] I don't believe it's permanent, I am still writing after all. Hopefully the new issue will be online, at some point, for those of you who "don't live in the neighborhood", as the saying goes. Sorry to "plug the church I go to", but it is a blessing to be involved in a church that loves the arts. [guess I just want to "share the wealth"]
Oh... & I'm sorry my posts are erratic.

Is it a gift?

I have been asked an intriguing question, recently. For the second time. It was first about writing poems. Do you think your poem writing is a gift? [this was the first time] No. It's a breathing exercise for my hands. ...I hope that when others read them... it may help them to feel: less alone, not as different than everyone else is -or strange. That, it may somehow give words or a voice to thoughts they are trying to either say, or perhaps understand in themselves. I hope sometimes it'll make them laugh, & for a brief moment forget the lousy day they just had. I guess I also hope that some can be a thank you/love note to God. [hopefully that doesn't sound too weird]

That was my answer... then I was asked recently the same question about photos.
Do you think your photography is a gift? No. not really. I don't remember what all I said... but one phrase stuck with me & I cannot get it out of my head to save my life. [truthfully I like it, & cannot believe I said it] My answer:
If a picture is worth a thousand words... then each photo is a thousand word thank you note to God, thanking Him for whatever is in the picture. Thanking Him for His creativeness. Thanking Him for sharing it with me.

So... are these things gifts? I don't really need to answer that do I. It's hard to see them as gifts to be given. I see them as gifts to be received. I'm glad that I have them. I'm glad for what they do to/for me. Though, sometimes, I'm glad no one I know is around when I use them. I feel like a kid who got to sneak some cookies while no one was looking. Like my second field trip to the golf course, I couldn't stop laughing & smiling. It just felt good. I felt like a 5 year old.

I promised a poem. This one is recent. I am going through my stuff [read junk] & I feel like I'm going through my life at the same time...

Go Through Me

Please
Go through me
Help me to step away
Further & further away
From stupid distractions
Clean out the cobwebs of my soul
Open all the doors,
Break all the seals of neglect
go through every single room
I want to be whole
fill in the holes in me, please
throw out
what I shouldn't keep
Be the foundation of this structure
...& the architect
Use Your plans to construct
It as You dreamed it to be.
I know I'll like it
Because You are my favorite artist.

Mulching

so my mulching is finally done, thanks Dad [who doesn't read blogs, but oh well]. My Dad helped me finish it. Did my allergies bother me? ....let's just say "I've felt better". I tried to take a few pix, but they are all horrendously dark. We completely changed the back "patio area" [this is using the term in THE most loose way humanly possible]. I actually like it now. My Dad is freakishly good at stuff like that, & I'm... well, not. I am finally starting to feel better than I have in a while [why do I feel like a broken record saying this?] I felt lousy for the last week & over the holiday weekend [Sun. I went from bed to the couch & back, nice]. So another of my "summer projects" is done. Next up, storm door. I'll post some pix later on. I'm kind of being a bit "anti-social" lately. I have set some pretty heavy goals for this year. [actually, I'm kind of catching up on an accumulating list of them. Most are more than six years old! ugh. Let's say I'm trying to put procrastination off till tomorrow.]
So, if those of you who live round here don't see me in my usual capacity, it's temporary. As for the sparseness of my blogging... I'm unplugging a good bit lately. I need to... [perhaps recalibrate is a good way to put it]

another older poem..... [written at my uncle's cabin]

A Walk Through the Woods

I walk through
The woods today
…feeling like
A lost prince
…found by
His beloved King
I drink in
Every smell
Every sound
Every color
Every image
I walk
Through
The rough
Draft of a
Kingdom
Soon coming

The world has seemed
[the past 3 years]
Like it was
Wearing thin
-almost
“tired of itself”
But as You
Seem to keep
Doing to [with?] me
It is always
The most dry
…just before it rains
It felt like
It was raining
All the time
-it still does
…but now
It is a different kind of rain
Cleansing
Clearing
Refreshing
Painting
-in new vivid colors
All that I see
All that I smell
Dark…
Is not as dark
Desperate…
Is less hopeless
Hope…
Oddly blooms
Like a flower in the desert
My life isn’t
Different
Hasn’t changed
…but I have
I see that I can
Go back
To my
“Self made trap”
I…
Don’t…
Wanna
I…
Like it
Out here
…with You

By Brian N.

an old poem

Written a few years ago now, this was my answer to the question: Why do you write? [I may write a new ..."poem answer", sometime]

why I write to you

I’m trying to write to you
Because the silence is killing me
I’m trying to write to you
Because when I look at you …
You look back at me (in the face, in the eye)
Because when you look at me…
You make me think you care
think you care whether I live, or die
you look hurt when you look at me
and realize that I want to die
you look like you will listen to whatever I say
…and care about me anyway.
You look like you want to protect me
You look like you believe that I matter
You look at me & don’t run away
You look at me & you seem to cry when I bleed
When I hurt, you have tears
When I’m lonely & you see me, you come near
Sometimes you are what I fear
I know you want to help me
When I talk, you hear me
When I’m not well, you watch over me
When I hurt, your presence heals me
When I wish I could feel God hug me
He sends you

This is my answer
This is the why
This is…
Why I write to you
You are… the end of my silence
You are… the ear,
That hears
I am finding my voice
Because you bother to hear it

...I don't know if someone pointedly asked me why I write to them, but the thought popped into my head at some point. And that came out.

hope you enjoy...

Poems based on the word mask [& the challenge of “pretending to be something else”]

Masks

Collect them all

Tiny little

Fake lives

We hide behind

So no one

Really knows

Who we are

Are they safe?

Of course they are

…but

That

May very well be

What’s wrong with them

Masks

Challenge no one

They don’t offend

[& it wouldn’t matter

If they did]

Because

If you don’t like

This one

We can

Swap it out

For a more appealing one

But masks

Are

Dead

It’s pretty hard

To keep a lifeless thing

On something

Organic

Sooner

Or later

The real person

Shows up

Anyway

The longer

It takes

The scarier

The day

When the mask

Falls

Off

Masks [what you meant…maybe,

kinda, sorta]

I love it

That I am

What you

Grab

And take with you

When you go off

To spend time with Him

You smile

[& laugh @ yourself]

He does, too

I get to be

The “paint brush” you use

To have

“Conversations in art”

With

The Artist

You pick me up

And look toward the sky

Pushing my buttons

To capture a small fraction

Of what you see

Thanking Him

For His ability

To make

What you are

Looking at

I’m not new

[& neither are you]

We fit

[we’re both more than a bit worn]

We’re both “scratched”

A bit “dented”

Here ‘n there

But He doesn’t mind

And we belong to each other

When you grab me in your hand

I feel your excitement

….& I hear you singing in your head

Laughing & giddy

Like a little boy

Wondering

Where

He’ll lead us today

Wondering what

He’ll point out this time?

So glad I can be a connection

A tether from you to Him

turning titles into poems

I'm having a bit of trouble with my computer lately. However I thought I'd post a few newer poems. These are based on L.L. 's latest post title.

A Golden Chain

[first angle]

A golden chain
Poetry seems to me
A secret weapon
To set me free
A chance to say
Things that sometimes
Can’t be said
A chance to
Get
Some black thing
Out of my head
To put it down
Lay it down
Fold the book
& walk away
A chance to
Get it
Out of the way
So I can better live
This day.

A golden chain

[second angle]

A golden chain
To lock me
Away
To keep me
From this here day
Private thoughts
That shouldn’t be
Robbing me
Of any good
That could be
Why do I
Allow these thoughts
To chain me?
When I should
Give them
The boot…

The Anatomy of a Gift

The Anatomy of a Gift [or how I see humans, the appreciation of my friends]
As I have said [probably too many times now] Humans are The Sculptures of God.
Your clothes, glasses, jewelry, hair color [if you die it, anyway], tattoos, etc. are the wrapping paper. Your body is the box... but your soul is the gift. It is the essence of you. I look at my friends, my family, my wife... as someone who goes to a gallery looks at photos, paintings, & sculptures. I'm thankful for my friends. [& my family. I've known a lot of people who's families suck. I am blessed, believe me. My life would have been so much worse...& probably a whole lot shorter, if it were not for family.]
I'm thankful for all of my gifts. You may not believe it... but you are a gift.
[& now, "gift poems" 2 of 3]

A poem to my gifts….

You have no clue
Do you?
How very significant
You are.
How you are
The very physical
Tangible
Hug of Yahweh
Just by walking by
Saying “hi”
Your message
Your email
Never liked
Being followed
Till
A couple of you
“twittered”
That you were
And
It just meant
I’m not alone
What happens
To me matters
Thanks,
Seems
Like such a small word
For it
…
I’m so glad
That God made
Each of you
Not only that
But He is actually willing
To share you all with me
You are art
You rival
The sky
The grand canyon
In all it’s spender
Is not as wonderful
As each of you.
One day
I hope
He pulls back the veil
And lets you
See you
As I do
Only then
Will
You understand
Why
I love you
Thanks for
Loving me, too…

So…
Once again
It’s my birthday
…but
I’m not waiting
To see what I “get”
I have
A priceless gift
You…
[all I want is you]

The best friends…

When you’ve come unglued,
You’re insides have all been spewed
You’ve exploded,
& your heart lies in a million pieces
They walk in…
They are the only ones
who dare….
They dare to care
“here’s a piece”, one will say
“I found one, too”, not far away
They gather all the pieces
of your once whole soul
Then they kneel before Him
& this is what they’ll say
“Daddy,
… he’s broken
… please…. fix him”

By brian n.
[written several years ago]

you are a gift,
you matter,
don't forget...

I'll explain later...

a poem, about gifts. I'm working on something rather lengthy right now. [oh...yeah, I am feeling more "me". My stomach is settling, I have 3 days left till the pills are gone!]

Real Gifts

Birthdays

And Christmas

I get gifts

On these days

I must make a list

Of “what I want”

So I might receive

Some of these things

Books

Music

Art

Tools to fix things

Things that need tools

Just to put them together

Out for dinner

Perhaps a movie

A long walk

A fruitful talk

A scenic view

Enjoyed by few

But…

Lately…

I can’t seem to make

Long lists

Like I used to

…

Truth is

You can’t buy

What I want

They don’t sell it

That’s ok

…I couldn’t afford it anyway

The things I’ll get

Nice as they will be

[cannot add up, to you & me]

They are “post it” notes

As far as I can see

Reminders

That you love me

Sometimes

I cannot imagine

Why

…but I cannot

Imagine

Living

Without it

You will ask me again

This year

[and soon, now, I know]

“What do you want

For your birthday?”

Really

Honestly

I know it’s hard

For you to believe

I know

You don’t think it’s much

But

All

I want

Is you

by brian n.

a few darker poems....

As I sat trying to make a message from a twitter/blog post from twloha for [of all things] a twitter to Hugh Jackman [yeah, the movie star one... I have completely lost it]
I also am thinking over a conversation from Wed. night.
and listening to "Born" by Over the Rhine......

to make a sound

you don't know
how hard it is
to speak
do you?
the thoughts
that run
though
someone's head
afraid
of how
you'll be
if the silence
is broken
sorry
to have
such
painful
violent
memories

You don't know
what it's like
to live through
something
only to realize
...you wish
you hadn't.

You don't realize
how healing
it can be
to speak
...& be heard.
still cared for...
still wanted...
still accepted...
to have someone
sit
in the ugly darkness
refusing
to leave you there

But once someone does
He can show up
in such a way
suddenly
He
has hands
feet
arms His love
transferred
through
the care of another soul
suddenly
even when sickness
sadness
darkness
returns
it is uncomfortable
.....not me
anymore....


can't say: "yes"

I cannot
just give up
& die.
not that I haven't wanted to...
I just can't
I can say it
I can believe it
but I cannot bring it
into my story
like a
pc filter
that kicks
you out of a place
you shouldn't be in
I am "locked out"
of giving up.

Strange,
I spent
far too much time
"right outside the door"
"let me die!!!
"No"
came the thunderous whisper
a secret voice
I cannot
disobey
[or stand against]
so I sat
camped outside a door
I have no place opening

...seems strange now,
to remember that time
even as illness
depresses me
today.....
it's different
I can enter depression
but it cannot stay with me
it can't keep up
...though
it tries to come
between me
and my friends
it is too weak now
my friends
too strong
too close
[perhaps too prayerful]
like bouncers
they stand between us
and echo
the whispered "NO"
"you can't be here....
leave..."

my friends
are a true
and strong
gift.

Sorry I'm a bit darker here. I probably shouldn't post these. But for now I'll leave them up...
soldiers to stand watch....
to remind me of Jamie's blog ending [& now a shirt]
"Wake up
your alive
we're on your side"
B

the 3 mysteries of place [part 2], poetry as comedy, ...& signing my work

...in no order. So, the writing poetry as comedy thing wasn't easy. [I'm not sure I did it write]
but... here 'tis:

Poetry as comedy
one
funny thing
about poetry
[@ least mine]
is
the more
raw& honest
it is
the more fear
of sharing but I do it anyway
I am
the more people
resonate
with it
I never thought
that
what I use
to break out
of my
self made
trap
would end up as someone
else's
escape plan [map?]
I also
never realized
that
writing my
private
struggles
would be
so helpful
[even to me]
I never
realized
how poetry can
be comical
-& yet
in the midst
of the
laughter
[or after]
it can
still make me say
"yeah, I feel that!"
still teach
so much

I never realized
that I
could use
poetry
to learn
to talk.

So that's the attempt at comedy. [hopefully I'll do better at this in the future]
Now for the "3 mysteries of place part 2"...

The sacred mystery of landscapes

I don’t
Really know
When,
How,
Or where
My love of landscapes
Began
I do know
That the first rays
Of a new dawn
Began
In a park
A chance
To encounter
The Almighty
Something
That when “birthed”
At my church
I looked back
And realized
I had already been
Going to
The Labyrinth
Years ago…
Now
As I try
To learn
To both:
Be comfortable
In my skin,
And
To live
Into my skin.
I’m learning
But I’m certainly
Not “there” yet
Landscapes
Are a place where
God seems
So much
Closer,
Louder,
Larger,
Than other places.
I feel surrounded
By the
“God who is bigger than air itself”
Surrounded by
An intimate lover
I walk into a park,
Onto a trail…
And it is like entering
The God of the Cosmos
Sometimes I talk
Sometimes He talks
Sometimes we just
Silently listen
To the orchestra of nature.
The symphony of birds.
I take in
The amazing painting…
That I’m standing in.
The living paintings of Yahweh.

by Brian E. Noll

I have to get used to looking at this now. To explain, I have been giving my friend deAnn some poems for some time now. She publishes poems in Inklings, a quarterly publication that is available at the Common Grounds Coffee Bar [@ LWCC]. Yesterday was the deadline for submissions to the next issue. I have been taking photos for about a year now. Contemplative photography, as some call it. Just "borrowing images" [for an explaination go here] of God's painting the Earth. The last photo field trip, I really got cought up in being His kid. Anyway, I was asked to provide photos to be posted on the VC Photo blog, no problem. I [for whatever reason] decided to tell Kevin to use Brian E. Noll. I don't know if he will post them or not, nor do I know when. Don't care. I love Kevin, he's like a brother to me. And I can't wait to see what he writes next [his few posts have been wonderful]. And he's amazing with a camera. deAnn will [I think -don't hold me to it] use a photo I took while at my Uncle's cabin, for the cover of Inklings this next issue. So I told her to use the same name. I don't always communicate very well [especially when I'm nervous]. So between misunderstandings & divine movement in my life, I am [quite timidly, & with much trembling] using this name for my new poems to be published in there as well.

I really need to go for now, but it feels good to be laying this out here..... [pray for a fool, will ya?]

currently listening to Bruce Coburn's "Slice 'o Life" live solo discs online, here.

[Thanks Byron]

the 3 mysteries of place [part 1]

Somehow, as I have been writing emails, & looking at the title of Barkat's post on "Thresholds and Sanctuaries: the Mysterious Power of Place". I got this "trilogy of places".
so, here is "place #1".....

the mysterious [sometimes sacred] sanctuary of music
Music
Is my sanctuary
an aural room
an audio labyrinth
some of it
reminds me
of places
I never wanted to be
loneliness,
despair,
isolation,
pain,
messiness…
some of it
is like a favorite teacher
…or like my Earthly father
never tired,
always ready
to take me someplace wonderful
-just for fun
some
is a place to rest
a place to be tuned
[or calibrated to the Almighty]
a place to hide
[sometimes from myself]
some music
makes every molecule
sing for joy
to the maker of all things
music…
sometimes…
is my therapist
sometimes…
my medication
or a reminder
that I need to be medicated
by an audience with
The Maker