Keys And Doors…

D112Often a magic key or sets of those unlocking instruments are an imagined tool to escape—to find—to prevail and to become again lost in secret recesses—accesses known only to a favorite few or in the plain-view of everyone. There are so many secrets discovered and so little time for those secret solutions. And! The way to hearts is always through hearts.

Keys are for the gate or the vault or the power over everything or underneath ever day. These bits of magic are always certain and almost—mostly remain undiscovered. On somewhere worlds of somewhere places keys of several plus two bring together and combine to open portals of sometime space to those able to find those magic tools.

Open now the valves of hearts before the ending winds of fantasy and miracle crafts of ancient presents start the sound and close the jeweled reminding remainders of once was and will again be—behind this closet space and scattered among the norms of whimsy. Combine the key of blood across a place knowing the unknown knowledge and uncertainty of places developed—forgotten and reminded as ancient sketches text ruins of things and times to remember.

We did not find ourselves within swirls of gold and pebbles of purple stones. We touch beneath the blue of sky before clouds reasoned our reason for running toward our cave of gray rocks and soft dirt. We touch blood-love dry from rain and warmed away from wind howl and storm. A key of warm blood and heart surge and the air of together gate and through a portal into forever—ever place.

Key then we and we are—before the rain and after the mystic portions of storm and war and wind and rain and gain and pain and the losses of yesterday’s mystical memories inside today. Across a world of life the same blood moves and time exists only in those carrying the sweetness of a nothing concept or a notion of not this moment. Time is never-key. No time are magic keys of forever places and spaces between raindrops and years-to-end.

And! Beautiful you are…

Wishing for Butterfly Town…

14aCity sounds like ‘Sity’ and that is a child’s word for big places of big buildings and wide streets and shops and stores and things and stuff and shine and glitter and people-folks and fun and fear. In the October Sity; stuff and things and stores and people-folks are not so many and the anymore of anything is less or more depending on the perspective of child eyes and hopes and the knowing of future’s day-long past.

From the oily rain to the fires of Coven’s lights, morning dances across concrete’s jumbled scattering around LoGrean Park where ‘Sity’ lanterns once caused shadows to dance and the dawns of many days went and came from then- now and back again ‘til records stopped spinning and paper-to-digital-history-news— tired of writers and found page-edges empty save tattered wear and the waning lights of evening.

This is ‘Sity’ in the telling of tales and of laughing tears and fears and sing-songs’ wiggle into spaces between rock and sand and the hiding places of sound between silence and about to be vibrated from inside minds’ reach through lips across teeth and into spaces among oil of rain and spatter and fiction-truth and into ears that hear nothing except silenced sound and giggle.

This is the hiding door that takes us to Column Room. Tessie likes the purple scarves and dotted cloth. Jackson likes the hiding places-on and other rooms just off big column and down the great-distant hall. No one comes here anymore; save Crowman and younger ones they call the Hurts. And! Not so many of them around since the last rains.

Crowman never worries about the timing of this because he is not time-for-time.

‘I have seen this thing before, to no one but the Hurts and they listen to him always, since the beginning of things, of days or nights or evenings or mornings, or when things were and were not. I know this place like the farm, the river when fish were fish and would swim right by the bait.’

‘This is the road. A hoppity-skippity-small little road not needing a reason, rhyme or paving covers over sidewalk – cracks that if “you step on a crack or break, something that rhymes with nothing by a word that names the place where sidewalk ends then starts again.’

He stands on eternal legs and begins down the hoppity-skippity road. He stops and the Hurts join him. He skips toward them and they skip toward him. He turns and a little light flicks just skips in front of him. A little flitting light of sparkle and nothing else.

Little Tessie through a small hole between her front teeth whispers,

 ‘Butterfly…’ No question, not statement, not fact not…

‘Almost a Crowman,’ he almost answered,

‘I know this…We Know! ‘I have known this Sparkle!’ ‘Know Spark.’

Then Butterfly whispers to sounds of the love of whispered love and patient-patience and times of ‘Sity’ pieces and rhyme:

‘This is this line! I have waited and watched and wanted and needed and loved you since Day ends and starts-again. It is- it is- it is a little hoppity-skippity prayer of a little road that begins.’

The Hurts laugh and so often laughter hurts. Not this time of day and not this time of evening’s sprawl and night’s length before we life sparkle live-life-again.

‘Angel? Nope…Gone…Nope…With Us?…Nope…Then Gone OK? Why?—No…Then?’

Almost—Butterfly touches angel and angel touches angel and angel and angel…

Light touches light and Crowman almost knows nothing or something that does not matter the matter or irritate the matter. Light smiles and ‘yes’—Tessie, ‘Angels do smile’. Time  in this fair-land where Mother Nature’s Golden Ones discover another place where Peace may—maybe exist.

And! Beautiful you are…

From…’Sity Songs’ by Philip M. Edwards