A Fool Kisses The Blarney Stone

I follow the Blarney witch to the top of Blarney castle. I can’t help but be arrested by that coy smile beneath soft silver-pink curls. A smiled flash of freckles, with stories recounted of travels abroad: The Great Pyramids, Mayan ruins, Vietnam. I follow those long golden legs shouting kicks of bliss at eye level in front of me as they climb ever higher up narrow staircases, forcing my pursuit into even steeper passageways. 

I feel adrift. Perhaps from the height and elevated heart. But intuition tells me this witch has cast a spell. Perhaps not consciously. Perhaps it is the magnetism of inner lights. Or maybe I’m just crazy for some girl again. 

I run through the paralells of each of our realities. Different travels bringing us to the same place at the same time. A magnetism, where though she caught my eye much earlier in the gardens below, I soon forgot her until ending up in line behind her, as if it was perhaps a requisite test to earn Blarney’s gift of eloquence. Well, do I talk to her and if so, what do I say? 

Before the Blarney stone, we stand. The beautiful witch and a bumbling fool. And I wonder what the clown poet could ever receive from the gift of gab. Perhaps an award winning novel. Or the royalties from a subsequent film. Or maybe just the delight of a kiss with this gorgeous lass. 

But alas, she passes just out of reach. Up and over and under the brick wall to kiss the stone, and then back on her nimble feet rushing towards the exit. I lay down and do the same, and disoriented with my eyes closed, I start to kiss the wall.

“You’ve got the wrong stone,” the man holding my legs calls down. “No, not that one either. A little lower now. Yes, there you go. That’s the Blarney stone.”

So what does it mean, when a clown kisses the wrong Blarney stone and with his eyes closed. I start to wonder. I taste a mixture of earth and salt lick in my mouth. I’m still pondering this when I end up in line again behind the witch and her stepfather, this time heading down. 

“They should bring David Mitchell up here,” the step father says, making conversation.

“Oh, I think I read some of him. Not writing, so well lately?” I respond, still daft from my head upside down and letting the gab sink in.

“He’s a great writer. I got to see him speak in Houston once. I found his first few books a real treat. But the last two, he kind of lost it.”

Slowly, I recognize the subtle gift of the conversation. Minutes after kissing the Blarney stone, some one is telling me to read David Mitchell. A book by him with “Dreams” in the title. I have the foresight to write it down. But the girl is pulling him onwards, with that usual embarassment children hold for their parents striking up unusual conversations.

It takes me the whole flight down the stairs, still lost in a revelry, to realize that by being in line behind her and kissing the stone after her, I indirectly had my first kiss with the Blarney witch.

I go seeking her in the Druid ruins somewhere west in the castle gardens. There’s rock circles, rock piles, and all sorts of places to make wishes. I climb through a cave and out a hedge maze. Eventually, I find the Witch’s Stone. Here she’s represented more in her faery tale form. A stone formed to look like a much older witch with a long nose and severe eyes. The pink-silver hair has turned completely white. Upon her head is a pile of change, so there is where I leave my tithe. 

The blarney is still rushing through me, so there’s no wish I find to recite. I merely think “abundance” and go walking on into a garden labelled “The Faery Realm”. Through twists and turns I wander. Past golden flowers and fluttering streams. Eventually the maze has surrounded me. 

I come to a bend in the path and there lies upon a rock, the full wing of a magpie. The rest of the bird nowhere to be found. The blue, black, and white of the wing shining up under the sun. In my fingertips the feathers fall away naturally and I gather them up for a future dream catcher or some other craft. The witch sure has blessed me.

A kiss and some feathers. The gold in these Irish castles has my type of charm. I look back on my day of wonderment and laugh at the eloquence.

A Fool Kisses The Blarney Stone

Love for the Rio Grande

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Is it possible for a man to fall in love with a river? If so, how does he make love to her? Can he do more than swim in her ether? Does he clean and guard her shores from other human intrusion? Does he sit and listen to her endless soft ripples along a thousand eddies? Does he dream himself naked in her hotsprings? Does he weep with her at sunrise and at dusk follow the moon’s tide across her wavy reflection? If he really does love her, does he languish in her transperency all the way to the ocean? Does he climb her rock face cliffs to get a better view of her curves? Does he wade in her rapids even when she is boiling? Does he find her beautiful in all seasons? How can man ever even begin to express his love for a rio so grande? I ask because I think I may have fallen for her and the endless life she offers.

Love for the Rio Grande

Poetry Tour, update #2

  

I started out this trip with one of my haikus:


The sand turning pink 

like the desert sun 

setting into the mountains


tattooed on the back of my hand as a sigil in the form of an arrow pointing forward, though the artist’s intention was for it to point inward. Over the week it has served its purpose guiding me forward on the road with the necessary flow to get me there, and then it gradually faded leaving me to turn to my own personal magic and power to stay afloat. I typewrite poetry on the street for interested tourists and fellow travelers and read it at night to small gatherings in bars and living rooms, exchanging my dream labors for donated currency and couches to sleep upon. Without my feet tethered down to any one location I find myself adrift through a sea of various characters and personalities all revealing themselves to me through conversations on dreams and a sharing of self revelations. We examine the human mystery and aspire to the occult. Running in the same circles, it was only a matter of time before we stumbled into each other’s present moment. And here I am, I have gotten to the point in the trip where new faces appear familiar, reminding me sometimes of those I know from home, and we exchange dialogue as if we have known each other for a long time finding comfort in each other’s company. There is no end to this joy of meeting strangers I know. All this and I continue with the same resolve, a journey forward with the spring rain clouds pummeling the increasingly green southeastern terrain under my feet, thunder clapping at my back, a knapsack strung over my shoulders, and that beauty of the muse frequenting my conscious mind and perhaps awakening inside my heart the further out I go. Actually, I’ve caught glimpses of her now getting ever closer, hanging around the outer edge of each audience, smiling and nodding her head as I speak her dedication, snapping her fingers to my haikus, and laughing as the whole room fills with wild wolves howling out her icaros mantra, “Hoooowwww? Ow! Ow! Owww! Hoooowww!!!” 


I figure if I keep it going, it won’t be too long before she meets me on this country’s other side. And when I find her there, I will lie down a humble mountain perfectly glad to have the fortune to be here now and breathing alive.

Poetry Tour, update #2

Birthday Musings





Last year, I was in a foreign country for my birthday and all my lovers past, ex, future, and present found a way to call me up or reach me through email to wish me well. I thought the best of it that through it all, all of these beautiful people still loved me and they were still cheering me on as I moved forward. There was none of the old possessiveness in their greetings and surely none of the bad vibes where we had left off. But also in the back of my mind was this simple question of why now? what was so special about reaching out to me now? and why all of them seemingly in unison? were they all somehow talking to each other about me and devising a plan for me for when I returned back home? I think it’s also important to note, I was in this foreign country to retap my connection with the muse which I had found there several years before and one of the lessons she taught me on this trip was that, though she is extremely present for me in Europe and travel in general, there are all kinds of muses and she can become present in all sorts of close formed connections with others, especially in the case of love, both physical and emotional, but mostly in the bonds that are shared with two collaborators who spend time creating a world together.


My response to this theme of exes for my 27th was at first, of course happiness and even some ego-centric joy. All of these beautiful women had chosen to think of me collectively on the same day. But as more and more of them sent me texts and emails and Instagram comments and Facebook messages and telegrams and pidgeon-expresses and bike messengers and tv ads and dream manipulations, some I hadn’t spoken to in years and others who I didn’t even really know yet and hadn’t shared more than two words with, and as I became more aware of how far away I was from home and how foreign this land really was to me, my thoughts quickly turned to paranoia. Were all of these loves of my life now standing together at the edge of my funeral wishing me their happiest wishes, standing over my grave and tossing flowers into it? Were they all drawn to me unconsciously because I was about to die?


27 is a very vulnerable year for conspiracy theorists and people that notice patterns. If you are following a creative career, it is the year that you are meant to reach the top of your genius and then die a dramatic death. Usually a heroin overdose if you’re a pop star. Or something like sinking into the Mediterranean Sea on a small sailboat, if your pursuits are more poetic. I wasn’t looking forward to either options and as a result I had redirected my energy to slow down my success rate and make it more safe-feeling, not taking any leaps of faith or associating too much with the “bad” crowd, which had already made me feel as if I were slowly floating deeper down into the dregs as my own poetic voice got clearer. 


But did all these women know something, I didn’t? Add to that, that my birthday lands on the spring equinox and you got all sorts of beautiful poetry in the air during that time. Every year it’s chock full of a whole lot of death and rebirth energy as winter takes it’s leave and the birds begin again to chirp in the morning sun. It’s like a second new year for me, and if we had stuck to our pagan roots it’d be the new year for us all. Only my birthday would be the first day of that new cycle. People have actually told me I am an infant before, and I agree with them. But I was delivered through C-section, I think because my mind wasn’t ready to come out on the other end of the spectrum, that old soul just about at the end of it’s life stuck in an infinite loop of ending. I wanted to be that baby. I wanted to see the world through new juvenile eyes. And sometimes be naïve. And see magic and poetry where sometimes it’s just a coincidence.


So what about all these lost loves? Coincidence or not, what drew them all towards me at the same time? Well, currently I have made it through 27 and survived. Their intimate greetings were not a death sentence. Instead they worked as a further lesson that love can continue after all the shit, and the stormy weather, or the connection breaking and just not working anymore. It changes form many times and sometimes you just got to relax and let time heal its wounds. Sometimes it’s best to sit back and admire how beautiful a year can be.


Anyway, I have entered 28. The time-mapping for the year has fallen into place. Much more love awaits. Journeys and other opportunities. And I see myself climbing many more mountains awaiting the perfect sunset or even better, an immaculate sunrise. Oh and sure there will be loneliness, heart break, and sadness too. Many challenges for me to overcome. But my spring optimism has always served me well in the past. Good things and many wanderings. I have a sense of self that continues to grow more stable.


But again, what about all those women? This year, the phone calls and private messages and other good tidings were made up of mostly my friends and family from around the country (and some from around the world). Travel partners new and old. And my heart has certainly been in a different place, focused more on that inner muse, as well as working towards serving all and not just one, while still maintaining a healthy relationship with my own body as it quickly grows out. I have maybe lost my mind for the last time a long while ago. And my heart opens further as I listen to it with a better ear. Needless to say, I was happy that most of those women forgot me this year. Or if they remembered me, I wasn’t as alarmed by their greetings. It didn’t seem as pertinent. I still feel closer to them perhaps more so than when we spent our time together. I’ve seen them again and caught up or watched their lives grow from a comfortable distance or maybe I haven’t again heard from them at all, but this time it’s not out of fear but out of being mostly relaxed. It has been my turn for a long time to wish them well and encourage their journeys forward. And my desire for over a year now has been to become a muse to the muse, and make that energy cycle finally complete, all rebirth and all creative labors, no more destruction if it can be helped. And I do so now, as well as in all of my writing. To the muse, all of you, thank you. Friends and festivities now commence.

Birthday Musings

The Muse in Mystic

20140903-143450-52490993.jpgThe Muse and Her Poet, photo of Paige Osbourne and Willow Zef

I find the muse in Mystic
She tells me she is glad that I am following my heart
I hear in her words a slight sadness
The mystic sailor landlocked by this town the tourists call home
But bubbling up inside her
Is the joy to host some traveling visitors
To show them the willow tree in the graveyard
The one she has camped under
And climbed to the top of
A true rustic lady of the earth
Sublime in the way her smile ignites my inner fire
I feel humble to lay back
Twenty feet up
In the willow branches
My arm around her
With her head against my chest
Feeling her warm breath against my heart beat.

I realize from the tone of her voice
This powerful spell cast between us
That I first noticed
But she first spoke out loud
Works both ways
And right now,
My travels are opening her inner eyes
Much like her usual merry spirit has done to me in the past.

A muse to the muse
A subtle romance
A friend in life to share the road with
And to journey apart from
Meeting only to reflect upon
Life, love, and family
And the thousands of other pursuits in this memory

When we finally kiss
I hold my ground
Though my knees want to bend easy
And I think on how
I love a woman who makes me feel twelve years old again
Yet inspired like the mad men lost on top of mountains
If only to be here now
And remember
While holding her in my arms
What it was like
What it is like
To be in love
To be the muse’s lover.

The Muse in Mystic

To The Person Who Left Their Four-Leaf Clover In A Book Of Wordsworth I Found In The Thrift Store

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To the person who left their four-leaf clover in a book of Wordsworth I found in the thrift store,
First of all, thank you.
You have reminded me that today I am very lucky
To be able to breath
In and out
Intentionally
For to be alive is such a wonderful mystery
And so much a journey

I wonder if it was your intention to have the clover found
By me, a stranger
On page 254,
In the section of miscellaneous sonnets
Next to a poem to the poet John Dyer
“The Bard of the Fleece”
Or if you placed it there randomly
And let go of the book absent-mindedly.

I wonder who you were and where you were from
And how came you upon this noble treasure.
Was it during a hike up in the Appalachia?
Or a gift from a sweetheart in the city?
Currently the clover appears old
And the book appears much older.
Come to think of it
I can’t quite remember how long it is I who has owned it
Or where exactly I first acquired it
Without opening it to this very page until now.
I’m uncertain if I’ve ever even read from this volume
Or if I just carried it around for the aesthetic pleasure
Its leather-bound form placed upon my bookshelf.

You see, it was Thoreau, and then Whitman as well
Who just now made me think recently of retracing my own studies
To this master wordsmith that is Wordsworth
Their words and experiences so dictated by the romance of his language
Also his playful tongue in cheek
And this pleasant synchronicity
Only adds to my current enlightened state of mind
Transcendental and flowy
Like a breeze through tall grass
And summer dandelions
I thought I must write a poem immediately
And try to reach out to you somehow

And yet where are you now?
Or where have you been?
Are you old and withered like the clover
Worn and water-stained like these paginated musings
Or have you gone underground
To join Wordsworth in his romanticized heaven?

Oh, to be alive in this great fantasy
I can count the times I’ve found a four leaf clover
On a single hand
Having not searched for them outright
Since a young boy
But this is the first time I’ve found
Such a thing
In a book of poetry
And I can’t even begin to express how lucky
This must be
A joyful reminder from serendipity
It is a gift to be alive and awake in this dream!

To The Person Who Left Their Four-Leaf Clover In A Book Of Wordsworth I Found In The Thrift Store

And now, a love poem

Long golden locks
Collecting the sunlight in their amber
Curls I could get lost in
With my fingertips
Interweaving my life force with yours
Soft relaxed breath
Salutations of my heart
Beating against your backside
We drift to sleep
Complimenting each other’s personalities
Being impressed by what the other has done with their life
I dream the compliments continue empathetically
And through our skin so close we vibrate fondness
From the way your body rests wrapped up in mine
You say,
Thank you for being the being that you want to be
Your freshness emanates hope for the rest of us
And I hold you tighter to me saying,
Thank you for being the being that you are
Without you and all that you do
Things would fall apart
There being no hope to muse upon
We drift further into REM
Our bodies final ode
A simple chorus
Thank you for being.

And now, a love poem