Watching the Clock for St. Patrick

"Hi there, beautiful." He sidled up to her. The band was playing the nearing end of night songs, and the music had slowed down some.

There was a tired sway to the quiet dancers on the floor.

There was a curious detachment which drew him to her. She turned to him, and their eyes locked for an instant of electric current. He stepped back, a half step. The green flashed out of them, just before he smiled, and he cleared his throat.

"Ah, the sweetness of a hopeful liar." Her eyes were kind, and so was her voice, which sounded like a curious kind of honey in the dark. They smiled at each other.

"The thought of a smile so real made me sad to think that the body attached to it was not dancing," he said, smoothly, in a voice that did not belong to his heart. He felt both a liar, and an alien. She was quite disconcerting.

She laughed a low purr, with her head tilted back to stare up at him, unafraid. He had better not step on her foot, he thought, rapidly, not used to an absence of being impressed with stature. She stood her ground, cocking her head to one side.
Then she winked.

"A dance, Oh Tall One?", she said, quietly, the grin flashing out beyond the removed quietness he had seen in a private space, just a moment ago, as she sat silently, listening to the music. What an unusal woman: he had better not blow this.

"Ah, of course." He held out his hands, smoothly, grinning a boyish grin which he had not expected from himself. He had been about to buy her a drink. They stepped out on to the floor.

As the music began, he drew her towards him. She seemed a comfortable warmth, there, keeping step with him, leaning against him gently in the darkness. Her hair smelled of freesia, cropped close against her head in a kind of curling cap defying both tomboyishness and enforced girliness. She did not force banal conversation; just glided around the floor with him, breathing...comfortable.

He rested his mouth against her temple, and felt the pulse beating there, steadily, as if they had done it for years.

"You smell lovely", he said against her temple, ridiculously.

"Freesia", she said, quietly. "Quite out of date." She chuckled, not moving her head. She liked the way his voice made her ear buzz. She sighed, unapologetically.

He smiled, breathing in her hair. He had not stepped on her foot, as they twirled that last bit, despite talking to him at the same time. He found that rather attractive, in an oddly provocative way, and he was proud of himself for not trodding upon her instep, despite feeling very silly, all of a sudden.

She began to hum to the music. It was quite endearing, since he knew she wasn't hammered. Always so nice when someone knew the actual song, and didn't ruin it by yowling drunkenly, while cavorting about the floor like an idiot. She just hummed, and swirled, like rum.

He breathed, relaxed. They moved about the floor, silently. He raised her palm in his hand, moving his head back to look down at her face. She met his gaze, tilting her head back, and gave a laugh, stepping back, so he had to follow her. She took a quick step to one side, and then the other, not letting go of his hand.

She smiled at him.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day", she said, gently, swaying and stepping gently, as the music crooned quietly around them. " I got my wish."

"And what was that?" he said, gently.

"I wanted to dance with Love", she said, quietly. She touched the side of his face, stepped forward, kissed his nose, laughed.....

and walked briskly from the room.

There were, thankfully, still some women who knew that Time was Precious.

Zorb and Onk on St. Patrick's Day

An observatory conversation between Zorb and Onk, from the planet Abconchcall, on St. Patrick's Day. Unfortunately, they have focused their observations on a bar.

-------------------------------------------------------

Onk: Observe, Zorb, the strange gyrations of this humanoid. I feel deep empathy for their illness, and wish to intervene. Pehaps if I stroke him out, he can be still, and at peace.

Zorb: No, Onk. This is forbidden. Besides, based on his diet, this is certainly imminent anyway. Besides, if you are careful, in your caring observation, you will note that this provides probably the only exercise that this human unit gets, in addition to the pleasurable feeling which he receives, as he moves with the count of the beats coming from the sustained sound of that piece of wood in the mouth of the nearby humanoid. This is a "pan pipe." Do you see it, Onk? It is not an unpleasant sound - although the pattern need not be repeated again, and again, as if we would forget it, without constant drilling. Perhaps they are stupid, and this instrument holder knows of this weakness, and seeks to address it by means of gyration pattern installation in its listener. I must observe more closely.

Also, this, I have noted, is sometimes a mating ritual. Why have you not noted this in your log?

Onk: Zorb, forgive my laziness. I am weak with respect to sustained focus. It requires such patience, I fear I fail repeatedly at this task. Might I sigh with resignation, with your permission?

Zorb: Must you, Onk? This is rather selfindulgent. Have you tried the gyrations yourself? We might learn from these Beings.

Onk: I prefer to run repeatedly on this metal device, with no real destination in mind, Zorb. In harnessing the energy it creates, I have contributed to the Greater Good, and I will provide energy for our sustenance garden. This illogical pan pipe gyration movement seems much like a kind of liquid, and I am uncomfortable with the elemental comparison, with respect to my outer shell. Cannot you compare me to barium? It, at least, has a clearer purpose.

Zorb: As you wish, Onk. This is not openminded, for an explorer. You are closeminded. This is often unhelpful, as far as being judgemental, and Superior.

Onk: Zorb, I feel you are drawing away from me, speaking as your completion unit, and this scares me. You are too influenced beyond our insular circle of completeness. I protest that I wish you to return and meld with me, immediately, as a comfort and assurance.

It is because I am insecure. However, this is required.

Zorb: I will not, Onk. This is most inconvenient timing for your personal needs. You are here for a greater mission than your own reassurance. Prostrate yourself among the flowers of the space garden immediately, and contemplate your place in the Greater Nature. I am ashamed of you. I will continue this affectionate and nonjudgemental support of this strange, yet loving, and seriously retarded, species.

Please go to our growing area. I do not wish to view you or engage in discourse any longer.


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St. Patrick's Day

In honour of St. Patrick's Day, I have prepared the following pieces, for my own sanity (since I need a break from considering the project in which I am currently embroiled), and also because I think it's necessary. Each will be prefaced by a creative explanation.

-----------------------
Grouping One: Hitler's letters to his mistress, Eva Braun.

(Only two have been discovered, and many say that that is really enough to understand the man. Many then say they now know, for certain, why they wouldn't want to, anyway.)

---------------------------


Letter 1

Mein liebchien, I wish you were a man....I am so passionate, I am venting inappropriately, and feel ashamed of my urges. Please don't poison me. I'll take it out on everyone else, instead, since I also just suck as an administrator. No one listens to me, poopsikins. I will steal from them.

Love, your Rolfie.

----------------------


Letter 2

Eva, I have made them salute your sacrifice my darling, by showing me their clean hand. If I was weak, they could lower it to work, before they experienced massive pain in their shoulder area, but I will not: your love is tantamount, and I am a horse to your love. They must jump this high.

That you love me, I know, now. I am sorry I am such an asshole that I cannot give you my name, but you are still imperfect. That I am weak in this way means I must screw you repeatedly. We must tell no one, however. You may dream of me, though, if you wish. You must tell me if you do, however, so I may absolve you of these illusions you have about me, so that I remain pure.

If you continue to pleasure me, I will torment you lovingly with my love stache. In later years, imperfect men who grow things will mistakenly interpret this gift I make to you, and grow noxious substances out of various leaves, which they will, (because they're lazy and unclean), make you smoke, so that you can only envision these experiences in history between us.

They will envy us, my darling snowshoot, but simply sink into a chasm of sleep and then experience ravenous hunger which will then revolt them later, like a bird discovering how it has fed its young. They will never experience our purity, my love chub.

This is not to be mistaken for Peyote, which is different. Those guys are just crazy motherfuckers.

I have taken aspirin, again. I am weak.

Forgive me.

The headache of your love is a testament to the concussion of our minds, being one within the Greater Reality which I will create in my own artificial image. I must hurry and repeatedly continue to smash my head against the wall for inspiration....perhaps, until I am dead.

Oh!

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Nearer to Buds and Green

There is such small breath between us, I feel ashamed that I steal your air.

Only move here - a smallbreath further - and you shall collide with my lips.
They wait there for you, having spoken so many words of worry and wonder
That the poets of old - and of new, shudder......
See! Ah.....I think I see a tremor course through thee, reminding thy eyes to awaken;
That thou art still, (with breath moving around and within), yet with me,
And my hand, outstretched, might touch those trembling lips, fingers fumbling,
To seek the earth in them that is yet ours awhile, Dear One; tracing all the storied hours of roar and remember, there, with
the wide-eyed newness of it all, washing over me like the
Watering suddenness of
Warmed Oak Age, and Flowers of Spring, in an
Instant of
Carbon Spark.

Personal Flight

Whenever clouds abound amidst the highest peaks,
Blotting out the azure glow of sky,
And circling wings of keen-eyed eagles seek
The treasured blink and small-winged cry,
But find it not, take heart;
All soon will fade away, like misted days
Long past:
Then greater journeys, and better notes,
Will ring.

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Interesting Times

We live in interesting times. Whether or not this is viewed as curse or continuing challenge, perhaps, is in the eye of the observer, but passivity is likely the harbinger of nothing but itself, even in surmise.





Progressive, or pensive? Like all artists, observing by what means, and just how, we reflect our own "growth" is often the best, and most accurate, gauge of our opinion of ourselves, and just what it is we are "seeking" as human beings. And politics is often the modern arena by which we measure skill in the management of a nation, and its peoples.





In the United States, fresh from the smarting wounds of a still-protected-deep-within-itself Camelot wish buffeted by the viciousness of extreme, a hopeful nation has drawn in on itself, somewhat, its genuine and ardent wishes deeply scarred by the manipulation of a political extreme that thinks nothing of robbing pensioners on a fixed income, and treating the need for a basic surety of care like a luxury, trumpeting "proper spending", while the highest echelons mock the determination of a helmsman to fix the economic ills of a country by trusting first in corporate ethics as a fulcrum of democratic stability, even as it skims from the very people it was charged to help, by awarding million dollar bonuses to itself, after moaning about the implosion of its own systemic bulwarks. Alas, they could not be fired. They can, however, be monitored by the financial watchdog in place on every board where bailout moneys stabilized an industry, and will answer to them, on behalf of the voice of a nation which hammered the stones in place, and aim to keep them there - million dollar bonuses be damned.





The helmsman? What is sniffed at as "cool, aloof demeanour" is something the rag-like oafs straggling just out of reach of actual journalistic debate abhor: dignity, and an absence of the penchant to be manipulated like a performing seal, or taking more than a passing politicial interest in the interestedly detached "Al Jolson" perspective of a man of intelligence: a family man, with the contemplative nature that speaks of policy, and one who is learning very quickly about the vacuous nature of a sometimes vicious need for "newsotainment". Having been schooled in the ways of political and financial political extremes, the picture is very clear, indeed:their agenda has always been, and will always be, the same. Cultivating a culture of xenophobia and fear of the unknown, it taps into the very political extremism and culture of disparity it has created, erasing any legacy of international diplomacy - excepting a very few, who see beyond, and have always known, and comforted, in the midst of the devastation always caused by its reactionary, volatile, obsessed extremes. It sees enemies everywhere, and where there are none, any voice which speaks of concern and debate becomes one. It self-perpetuates.





There are comments of "massive ego", where there is only the discipline always required of leadership, and the drawing in, measured response, and intelligent solutions which also involve compassion - or, at least, a quiet demand for respect for earned trust, in spite of the inculcating culture of fear, and a refusal to be sucked into the gaping vortex of "finding the latest scapegoat" which, by default, is anyone who might wish to actually SUCCEED at something. Like Hitler, misery must find, and punish, someone - as long as it isn't one's self, and the more convenient, and visible, the supposed perpetrator, the more likely the real culprits - the same ones who insisted upon, offered up, and then gouged out the proffered repairs to the foundation - then resume their snickering positions in the safe confines of the latest run for the "eye of newt, perfect hair" image of itself.





The rest of us struggle with bedhead, staying ahead of the machinations, and a somewhat grim, but wiser, surety that these bastards will stop at nothing to widen the gap, stepping over the latest homeless with the easy stride of someone used to kicking things out of the way - even if it's the guy who taught you about stealing from the local candy store, by marching you back there and returning it to the merchant, who then made you shovel his front walk for a week, in reparation. You sure showed those little peons! They won't even get a nurse, when the day is done....unless she's volunteer, or some other person you don't have to "waste" money paying. .....One can only hope you get them as caregivers, one day, so you understand that working double shifts somewhere else can sometimes cause...yes....ERRORS. Meanwhile, they continue to do their best, equally determined that you won't kill their actual concern, and they won't kill you.....much as they might like to, as an easy solution, frankly. That would be too much like you.





Fresh from the "101" of extremist financial marksmanship, shining moments possibilities safely armoured against all manner of ills, including the penchant for behavioural antics and, some say, actual personality that suggests leadership - scoundrel and all - which we hate to love, and love to hate, simaltaneously, because it suggests that we can all, be, sometimes imperfect, as long as we can "still do the job", we are reminded that to be human is to learn, sometimes, about what is always a reliable roadmarker: the surety of greed.





And Canada? Canada has, at its helm, , it's true, a Tory....but it has, too, amidst the sea of blue, a conscience, and a consideration, and a steadiness carefully coached in "just the right touch" of Stones-playing piano to titillate the bluehairs, and, at least, a willingness to consult and discuss which speaks of a shift AWAY from extremism, and a quiet, very genuine, desire to consider the blatant, awkward, arrogant cultural errors of its past interactions with itself, towards a different, albeit, cautious sense of curiousity about the morrow.....





Unfortunately, it looks a lot like today, and for those needing a promise of betterment, after earnest striving, and the shouldering of financial woes imposed by its extremes, even as the opportunity to remove it through effort is removed, (along with working class democracy"), it does nothing to improve, or provide, anything to discuss, other than "Change. "

Moneypenny would be proud....at least before they ditch her, too. All those jars, grubby hands, and rolling papers.....sigh. And you have to COUNT them....!

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King Making

I used to dream about being an Ambassador,
So that one day, like Madeline Albright, I could look at all of my pins,
And think of all the miles, and all the smiles, and all the earnest words,
And regard them as the very finest of jewels, in my mind and memory, like the
Lives of the people whose gentle clasps, affixed like hands over my heart,
Spurred me on to a new day.

Alas, mine was a humbler task, earnest though I was, in making those
Greater Moments more flawless, and void of concern or alarm.
Each brief hour of peacefilled word was a ribbon of Comfort in the
Cabinet of races won, and I, blowing hard, ignoring the
Performance opportunities for the
Greatest Stars, enjoyed my secret treasures,
Though the rest days of rollicking notes, when the work week was done
Presented a different Face - a more mischievious one -
Singing our troubled thoughts away.

And yet, those Dear Faces, to me,
are still the Crown for
Every King I may have
Made.

Beloved Christmas

It is Come! It is Come!
The Eve of the Possible; the Day of the New:
The forgets and forgives, the now and the Known,
When Aged and Young reap the carefully Sown.

Ah, Christmas, thou sweetest of Days;
Thou harbinger of memories, thou present of Sage,
Remind us Again, of those Dearest of Faces
Gone and Near, Cared and Caring -

Oh, Maker of Miracles, speak of Wild and Wonderful Moments,
When even all the World, for just a little while,
Ceased its Hate, in defiant Love,
And Stilled even the Order of the Day
to Whisper....
Peace, thou Brother and Sister Mine;
Only see the Babe, and
Rejoice!

The Ghosts of a Chance.....

amongst the ruins of tinsel and tower...
breath arises,
and on its vapid cloud, within the frigid timbre of note and nothing
so awash amidst the want and wishes,
The Word
emerges,
Speaking of Moment, and Meaning, and
More.
Often, manners are forgot, amidst the frozen moisture of tiny
drops, at Sir, and Sire, and Such, the Madames are not so tidy,
and This old flicker, nuzzling still, its egged-on Young,
Glows Green and
Brazen, and Oh, so
Bold among the
Shadows....
Which move, even as we Speak.

Tulip bulbs and Fall Preserves

I feel the chill as the wind whistles about in the evening, sweeping leaves
Away absently. It is a time for Before Winter
Repairs, patched warmth, and preserving all the
Gratefulness of work and Harvest.

In those reminder moments, as I gather my satchels about me,
I imagine the myriad bulbs in them bursting forth in spring for you -
A thousand colours of the rainbow, Rembrandt splashed, and brilliant;
Myriad-hued sighs
lighting up your eyes, at my wildly scattered paintbrush smiles,
As they twinkle, with the sunshine in mine.
Spring, and my heart, will light
again the Green and Newness of Heart and Hands after
Gentle
Winter's Sleep, and the glow and Noel mind of Rest and Giving.

It is an apart collection, this, in thought; traveling gently across time and space
In kind comfort, its continued Quest still in the striving to try, and in the
Quiet, Considered, Humbled, Hope
for Better, in
The Best of
The Heart's Knights.

Almost Apostolic

Betwixt light and shadow, glimmer and darkling plain,
Amidst orb, and shape, and glow,
Therein, the movement is within and without,
And all the sudden shudder that is "know" and "now"
Reminds us of everything, and nothing,
Shifting endlessly.
Quick! The flicker of "aye" is Evermore,
Joined, and joining,
Continuing, and Continuance;
flicker, and flame, and
Fierce.
We are Ourselves, Together;
Dust, Filled with
Momentary Kindness of
Shared Breath,
Sculpting....supported, Supporting,
Melded and Welded, like
Shielded Versions of Each Other,
Mirrored.
Oh! If only the Angels know how fierce my prayers are...
then I should be at Peace,
Even though your gaze is
Politely
Bewildered, and I shall calm your trembling lips with
Trembling, invisible/visible
Fingers...
Precursor to the Cursory profanity of my
Mouth.