“Just for a minute
The silver forked sky
Lit you up like a star
That I will follow

Now it’s found us
Like I have found you
I don’t want to run
Just overwhelm me

I want to see you
As you are now
Every single day
That I am living

Painted in flames
All peeling thunder
Be the lightning in me
That strikes relentless

What if this storm ends?
And I don’t see you
As you are now
Ever again” …

The Lightning Strike (What If This Storm Ends?)
Written by: Gary Lightbody, Jonathan Quinn, Nathan Connolly, Paul Wilson, Tom Simpson

Time begins a whatever sound of music never ending through the never ending starts of measures measured and notes sent bouncing across a five lined staff of tremble and rhythm, of rock and rolling as those tremulous ends of beginning starts and ending stops. An octave away and sound still rocks an ear or two toward silence; not to hear yet, still vibrating life and crossing spaces between sound and whispering wind without pine forests or desert sands.

And ‘coke-blow’ away the white lined wind and never ends the needles’ spin an unreal reality. Faded, the body walks and talks among those shimmers of blackness and along the edges of storms—blinks the kitten eyes and escapes to rooftop stars and window shines. There are no sounds of screams in silence. Music in mind sized levels are only inside mind sized ears to once be seen in scales of notes added to working-words-to-form-verses of sound mix and chorus touch. An often dream; or is this, a poem of poet-speak? And! Not knowing may sometimes create choirs in four-part harmony…

We are beings in this place of stress and salty tears.  We are the used-to-be folks and other things-in-place; where laws are enforced by us without ‘dress-up’ and notions of ‘bodily harm’ or the invasions of street-to-street spaces with threats of harm by ‘other eyes’  conditioned to see our neighborhoods and us (‘We the People’) as the Enemy…People-Person-You and I—We are these beings in this place of stress and salty tears.

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” 

Are we not all travelers-in-time? We are scattered across a someplace time at a somewhere place. We are not timed or blessed or wonderful or gifted or fortunate or meant-to-be a ‘something else; without, a price-tagged-branded-commodity of enhanced steroidal surgically modified blast of cartoon fashion or lip-stick mouths pouted and mounted on another pictured perfect and replicated glossy imitation of sport manned—model swished—corruption dished with a splash dash of hopeless and fanatic fantasy. And! Does protection always equal servitude? When brain understands humanities’ wonder, the wisdom-brain holds to Love-to-Peace-to-Touch and to-Trust…No charges-no gains-no loss-no rust. Then flash among the realities of reality and touch sweet spaces, an instant before lip touch and as co-mingled breath warms the cold evening air. Then discover a rational response to rational insanity.

Along Martian Ridge along one line, eye stretched far there once was a stutter of thorn then throne then thorn then throne. This repeated until distance failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge merged sky and matter dropped from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones writers’ names were etched, crystal tags attached along the top-front of each and every throne.

We measure all things known and all things unknown by quantities of lengths, of short and tall and of large and small. We sing-long-song-tales of beings and of being above and below and within and without and still we are the singers of verses loud and soft and often true and often false because; we are, Spirits of Creations—Creative Critters—one-and-all.

Sparks are in this world! Without a spark of ‘Sparkle’ — ‘Life’ couldn’t or wouldn’t evolve; as it has, during this moment of time or this place-in-this-space. The spark is special and often starts by touch or begins through an ‘Unknowable Kingdom’ of muse, of enlightenment, of genius, of anger, of thrill, of joy, of wonder, of magic or by accident. Watch from inside the shadows of bridge and steel. Watch as wooden shapes pass beneath the towers of man; created, when young species roamed earth-bound and the constructions of shapes and water passages filled their worlds before the tearing days and summer’s songs died. A night bird cries and another winged one settles, protected within thick tree grasses inside the shadows of the moon.

“For I am the first and the last.
I am the honored one and the scorned one.
I am the whore and the holy one.
I am the wife and the virgin….
I am the barren one, and many are her sons….
I am the silence that is incomprehensible….
I am the utterance of my name.”
‘The Mother of Creation’…A voice of Feminine Divine Power

And! Beautiful you are…

‘The Lightning Strike’ (What If This Storm Ends?)..Snow Patrol