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News: My thoughts are clouds I cannot fathom into pastries.

--1 June 2018--

Quote: Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest of hearts. --Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

The Fellowship

June 24, 2019

19.06.23 - meadows are where i wander

The first stanza of this poem came to me during church service yesterday. I wrote it down and promptly forgot about it... then picked it back up this morning and added on some additional verses during my morning commute. I'm quite enchanted by this one. It has a nice feel to it :) 

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----
meadows are where i wander

In the heart of a hind, a hollow lay, hewed
And the heat of the heart held a hole here imbued
With the whistling of wind - oh that willow-bark breeze
Set aside under moon-shine and wintery freeze.
Let my wolfish heart laugh with a lilt to the tune
As I stamp to the beat of that blueberry moon.

* * * * * * *

Honeyed my little nut thoughts I sequester;
Hidden beneath creamy drifts in December.

Timbre's of oak chilled in summertime’s smile, 
Lean-to’s in meadows that stretch for a mile
Here under blossoms of cherry-trees bowed
Here I am harmonized, heaven my shroud. 
Cleanse clean my palate, oh sweet citrus sun,
Sift through my soul until steady we’ve won
All of the war beats and weapons and wills
All of the westerly warbles and thrills.
Each on his own little merry way.. gone;
Each unto treasure, and wholeness, and song. 

Here in my mind I’m middling my path
Each little hope has gone straight to the draft;
This is a war zone and weapons we wield
Against every friction that prays we may yield. 
Deep in the gloom, in the gloam, in the gutter
Deep in the darkness we vibrate and shudder.
Drawn in the darkness our shadow-selves merge
Out with the brightness; to cleanse and to purge
All of the bile and the bitterest breathings
All of the hellscape that undos our healings. 

Drawn with a paintbrush - lines will unfurl
Dipped in the paint-pot, these images curl. 
Off of my mind - onto paper with pen
My heart now is breathing and beating again. 
Born out in poetry, born out in verse
This is my living: against every curse. 
This is my choosing: to warm out my folds
That crinkle inside me - rejecting the mold. 
All of these pieces of paper I hold
Close to my heartstrings. Now mellow, now old. 
Yellowed with yearnings to be understood
To gaze upon carves of compassion on wood
That bleeds out a peace I could hardly have fathomed
A royal red peace that was bled out of passion.
 
So eastward I look and westward I sow
Northward I shiver and southern I blow
All of my limbs become dust in this breeze
My heart is unheavied as empty thoughts cease. 
Pick up my poetry, this is my soul!
This here, my musing, is how I can cope. 
Caught in the cavernous maw of a crow
My fingers imprint all the patterns I grow
Deep in my laughter and under my gaze

That’s where it matters. Yes, that’s where I’ve changed. 

---

Signed with shades of purpose, 
Squeaks. 

June 21, 2019

19.06.21 - And Again

Inspired by I'll Keep You Safe by Sleeping At Last <3

---

Learn to dream again -
Here, clothed in liquid silver silk, 
You are a sight to behold. 

Learn to sing again -
Every solo’ed melody spilling over
Roots and mosses, coming to life. 

Learn to dream again - 
Tucked in between my fingertips,
You are protected and safe.


 
Turn the gears in the clockwork, 
Set the ancients in motion,
Humming honeyed melodies.

You are sweeter than the sunrise
"One" by Sleeping At Last
Soaking the horizon in molten gold
Saturating morning in awe. 

Tilt up your face, love,
Feel the fauna - forested freedom
Languidly grazing in the groves of your mind. 

Like fire this freedom feeds passion
And into the mountains we run,
Picking paces that clip clouds from the sky.

I’ve painted your portrait -
I’ve laid the foundation and built up these walls.
My dream as a builder - breathtaking

You’ve bound yourself to the edge,
To the ends of the earth, to the sea. 
Reflecting your face in the distant galaxies. 

Light the parchment with cobwebbed candles, 
Sparkling futures and thickened grace,

Here and now, seeking peace.


---
Signed with hope, 
Squeaks. 

June 19, 2019

19.06.19 - Rained In Today

Rain and wind and stormy weather, 
Make the other seasons sweeter - 
And I pad towards my heater
Sheltered by the faded feather. 
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Heather holds my hopes above, 
Nestled in the wraps of twine
Hanging from my kitchen’s spine
Sheltered by an ancient love. 

I am rusted and I’m fading
From the current ages, freely
Spinning past the dreams quite easy
Tucked in thoughts charge me weekly
Upend chaos - ransomed cleanly. 

Five thoughts I’ve had here
And one thought I’ve played; 

Mix the drink and pour it slow.



-- 
Signed with moss, 
Squeaks.

June 17, 2019

19.06.17 - Carved Meaning {a poem}

Lay low, soak the heat - sip summer breeze,
Feel your heart, close the beat - slip into the sea. 
Twist the cap, pull it back, shades of blue and green
Tinted eyes, glazed and shy, slow yet somehow seen. 
Caramel skin, yellow blooms, room for me and room for you
Stilted shades, cars and planes, sandy toes for days and days. 

Here I’m walking in the sun, swaying backwards - forward? run. 
Tilt my neck to catch the glimpse of folded hands and woven pins
Piece by piece we’re catching fire, glowing softly - higher and higher. 
Are your sounds the tone of red? Or do they sing a song long dead. 
I am whistling to a tune of ancient reeds and low-slung moons
And there I’m pulling from my ears the holstered hum of hidden years. 
Sunk into the frothy waves I feel the fastened fitting fray
Filtered out of folds to find I once was lost within this mind. 

Make no sense? Or no sense sensed? Or do you feel I’m overspent
I’m catching scales from fins and fronds, but now I’m left with trickling yawns
I’ve opened wide this wholesome hound with maw of dark and deepened sound
In static yet I’ve heard the call from caverns deep and mountains tall. 
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Can you explain these mystery paths? These secret coves and lilting laughs? 
Can you discern the way of life, between the emptied rows of strife? 
Can you uncover songs of old and unweave what was woven cold? 
Can you unpiece the puzzled charms of words once spent to divert harm? 

I think not. It can’t be done. In thinking, love, you’ve lost.. not won. 
Your mind is sharp your heart is heavy and now you’ve left yourself unsteady. 
Between the burdened billowed berms you’ve caught yourself between your turns
And though your ship is shaping up, you’ve lost your worth in what you’ve shot.
Your gun is smoking - smelting - stunned; you’ve slipped between the cracks and crumbs
Your table now is choked with grief - and in your standing, still you weep.  

Now from afar, now earths away, now silenced - now a separate day
I sing from long beyond the waves, beyond the caves, beneath the graves
I sing a song of solemn strains - of stillness and of weathered rains 
Of children left behind the stars, of yearning lungs, feathered - tarred
Of fearless filtered fitted friends, now fallen backwards end on end
And in this chaos-crib of old, I sing of something yet untold
And I can’t hold this poem down, this searching something song and sound
I let it loose I let it fly, and hope it might make sense .. or die. 
If I can get these rhymings out, these words that bustle - hustle - shout
These loose and limp and living beings that bloat against my mindful seams; 
Then maybe I can catch that soul - the savoury silky softer roll 
That carves its path between the ears and fields and fronds and groves of fear. 

But I am searching, still I’m searching, I am waiting, wanting, working 
For a line that catches conscience and will leave me whole and hauntless.
This could be a journey, endless - wending mountains.. poised and penless. 
And though my bones and veins lay bared, I’ll ink this page with how I’ve fared
And I will pour my heart in to the lines I write and songs I brew
For in the making, in creating, in this way I write with shaking, 
I am finding freeing passion for these words from dust are ashen 
And I’m learning, I’m unturning, all the ends I’ve left to yearning 
Words are wily, words are weathered, words have left this boat untethered. 
Here me now I know my way… yet I have chosen to convey
All these thoughts from in this heart, in secret maps and coded charts. 

If you wander wild in webbing you will catch a wonder ebbing
If you wish to wash your wounds, rest a while within this room
Raise your eyes to milky pages, plaited down with liquid stages
On the eyes of the beholder - there you’ll find a truth, far older. 

Here I lay to rest my case. 

Creased, I fold - and rest - this place. 


---
Signed with cold smoking iron, 
Squeaks. 

May 22, 2019

19.05.22 - {if only i were an echo}

I have watched many lives pass from this world lately, and it takes its toll on the heart. 

---
I sit in a field of flowers, painted pastel and picturesque. 
The mint green breeze falls through golden curls and lashes
And the fairy crown upon my head blooms over and over. 
I am spider silk in a world of motor oil
I am crushed nutmeg in a batch of cumin. 
I don’t think I belong here. 

We all find crevices to fall inside,
Little nooks and crannies between book-spines 
Comfortable moments in the cleft of a couch. 
Parched promises spoken over glasses of sparkling dew
Palmed out from an acorn goblet.
I listen and look and linger 
Moment by moment, waiting for something to make sense. 
Yet though we feast beside fauna in a ferned forest 
Under the draping willows between the buttercups,
Still I feel foreign and forgotten
Immersed in the musical melody of this moment
I fade to disappearing as the sky drips jewels through the boughs. 

Here I touch my face, in the fading between memorial scenes. 
This time, awash in sepia glow of a golden gaze,
I think perhaps I’ve found something beautiful -
And the reflection pales under the moonlit flow
Into an ethereal once-upon-a-time that could-have-been.
In a floating breeze of strawberry and honeysuckle 
I find my echo ahead of me, tiptoeing across the moss
Into the edge of the wall I thought I already crossed. 

It stands to truth that the shadows I’ve watched shimmering
On the other side, they call to me,
Singing songs inside the curves between my ears.
I wish I could only see them clearly one more time -
Before this pale egg-blue sorrow shades my eyes again.
Yet they glitter like diamonds embedded in black velvet 
And I am too corporeal to wander where they’ve gone. 

So instead I sit in this glade, glowing under violet-wreathed dreams 
And the dark blue sea that bubbles from beneath my ribs 
Sends a salt tide slowly receding behind my waning pale half moons. 
With legs crossed and head bowed, I steep under the night sky
In a pool of memory that shifts and flickers with the coats in my closet. 

Let me make room for another ghost, and another, and another,
There are too many to count now - 
And I longingly love every blanketed one of them -
For the beauty they gave and the beauty they breathed
And now their silence speaks 
In the beauty I grieve. 

Chiara Bautista
Signed with the song of a spring brook,
Squeaks.

January 3, 2019

190103 - Sun Soaked in Cali {A Poem}




Sounds soak the warm air pouring in the window,
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Your hair is free floating, lapping chin and neck,
Lazy spots speckle the dusted dashboard
And every turn feels like the beat just dropped. 
We’re out here in the California gold -
Whipping by the cool blue ocean on the rim. 
Bronzed skin and glossed lips, tanned limbs 
This is a paradise from the bitter north 
A reprieve from the sacred mountains and snow
And I am loving every minute of it. 

We park the car, step barefooted onto hot pavement, 
Feel it seep into our toes, up the arch and through our bones. 
Race you down to the tidemark 
And splash our way into the ocean 
For a brief moment, we are connected to continents we’ve never seen, 
All by a vast expanse of cerulean and foam. 
Sandy legs firmly planted on little hills 
Tall as pillars before the crabs and gulls and clams. 
Pull the tab back on a soft drink, 
Hear the puff and shrrt before the sugar sweet dance on tongue-tip. 
Pop the seam on a bag of chips, crunch and crinkle 
Interspersed with laughter around an 8 o’clock pallet fire 
That licks the seams of the skyline 
And high tales pass back and forth between smooth teeth. 

In the sun-soft glow against tan-lines, feel the breeze; 
Watch the crash of the waves mimic the impact of your words
Over the thrum of background music rolling out. 
Pull over a hoodie and sandals as the sun dips into the flames. 
I am melted in the moment, like a softened butter stick,
And the tropical smell of sunscreen ends the night 
On a Hawaiian note in the middle of a California summer. 

-------

Signed with love, 
Squeaks.

December 18, 2018

18.12.18 - Patchwork Beauty {A Poem}


On bloodied knees, in the middle of a whirlwind,
Everything is chaos swirling overhead. 
Darkened clouds, puffing out macabre stories
Of the past blanketed in a memorial silver chill.
If this serpentine existence is all there is,
I want no part, set me free. 

They danced in gossamer, rippling silk and glow
Every highlight in perfection glittered
Molded over porcelain flesh, mounded and rolled
Feminine beauty pristine and pointed 
Draped gold over mirrored flush,
Spy demure glances under feathered lashes.
But what is this patchwork creation?
In the midst of the gallant and exquisite
Is a form of pieces and tied lines
Pulled together roughly by automaton hands. 
Can you tell me your secrets? 
Mystery of the dance floor, will you be mine?

Trilled steps like any other girl, but she's different
Laced up with leftover glue and stitching
Patched up with old silks and satins
Scooped up by tired arms and legs
Glance up, crystalline eyes sparking fire in mine. 

Why are you so different, patchwork girl? 
Why are you not like the others here? 
How did you come by this curious state? 
Will you dance with me out here on the floor?

She is ruffled and blushing and beautiful
And my eyes won't leave her.
A disruption to the perfection of classic beauty
This wildflower in the well-trained garden of a master.
Those who would pluck it out to discard,
Those are standing aside as I sweep her in my arms
Out onto the dance floor, as a prized artist of movement.

She wasn't quick on her feet, 
But the poetry of her missteps spoke to my heart
And unraveled the chains that bound me
To the standards I had come to think as rules. 
And my coattails mixed with her skirt
Finery and foolery - but somehow 
This was the way it should be. 

It was in that moment I knew the secret of living -
The beauty of the moment and the pieces,
Like a living chessboard upturned in a game
The unknown gave me my breath. 
And the air chilled to mountain water,
Greedily brought to parched lips and swallowed.
And I was the thirstiest wanderer. 
This uncharted dance with myself is a mystery. 
I am both the villain and the hero of the tale
And in my slaying of the dragon,
I unravel my patchwork cloak.
Isn't it the pieces that bring us together? 
All the nobbles and knickknacks,
Blended into a wildflower garden
Behind my knees and under my throat. 
Every harsh line and gentle curve.
Sewn up in the freckles and scars 
Of a harshly-loved porcelain body. 

Sitting in front of a mirror is a chore,
And staring into the eyes of a stranger, even more.
Who is this curious fellow looking back at me?
Full of feminine beauty and militant anger?
What lies beneath the skin and bones and organs?
Where have you hid the soul? 

It is with traitorous hands she gathers cream
And caresses her shoulders, arms, knees, legs
Smoothing out battlefield maps to soft canvas
It is a love no one else can give -
For no one knows this patchwork piece like she.

It is with a tender sweep she blocks up crying ears
Wiping their tears, she fills them up with sweet sounds;
And with gentleness, she laces her tongue with honey
And washes her storm-heavy eyes in pooled sunlight.
The fragrant scent of nutmeg and lemons cleanses the room
Then, pulling up her patchwork dress, she covers the burns
From unwanted hands and fists and sleeved brushes.
She is beauty and mystery and peaceful chaos. 
An enigma in a society of painted porcelain dolls -
Wildflower in a tended garden of roses. 
And where has this love been learned? 
Ah, that is the question, is it not? 
She found it, many years ago, wrapped kindly
Between the pages of an ancient text 
And in a library of many words and thoughts,
She lost herself in the first love letter ever written,
There amongst the stars, she found meaning
And at the feet of the slaughtered victor
She stumbled over the secret to truly love herself again. 

---

Signed with frosted ice,
Squeaks.

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