Dirty Little Secrets

Words are so strong…
the foundation of the Muse,
the perfect word remains
buried
beneath all of the trash words,
the Muse is indifferent,
She’s busy and has no time for us.
Words can make a reader weep softly
or cut with the precision of a scalpel.
Not every word is in every dictionary.
I often just open one at random
and marvel at what’s inside,
searching for taboo words
culled from the dirt,
a secret hinting at the beauty and the grandeur
of writing.

Words grow from the earth
like magick,
perfect weapons for someone with power
and the knowledge of when to use them;
a skillful mixture of passion,
suspense, and horror
loneliness and frustration,
dismal self-image,
wrests our pen away
and handcuffs us
to some soggy blah of an ending.
Daring to step beyond
convention,
imagery tingles
words resonate.
Writers develop a philosophy
of creativity, art and spirituality;
clarify
vague and unsettling emotions,
are willing to share the vulnerability
of their own souls
without artificial sentimentality
writers
both enjoy and endure.

Come with me to the wildwood,
the forest of Broceliande,
where the air smells of sandalwood
adrift on winds of Faerieland.

Dance with me ’round the standing stones
under starry skies, Midsummer’s Night,
feel the magick in these marrowed bones
moving here in misty twilight.

Walk with me along the ocean shore,
where the Ancestors walked long ago,
we’re There again like we were before
standing in a blue-green meadow.

Wait with me where it all began,
we’ll sing up the sun’s birth, an ancient song,
the tune we’ll sing is of Manannan
and the Ancestors will sing along.

Be broken to be whole
Be empty to be full
Even darkness needs a candle to dance

Be silent to be thoughtful
Hide yourself to shine through
Eternal music lies behind the dissonance

Every end is a beginning
A well planted tree is not uprooted
Truth may be felt by it’s inner resonance

Love like there’s no tomorrow
Watch with the inner eye
See the whole with just a glance.