Noor's Super Awesome Cloud Adventure

The following is dedicated to a fellow lover of love, liver of life, and dreamer of things far below what will be the least of her accomplishments:

This is a story,
The story.
Of a girl.
Noor.
Noor=girl.
In the middle of her sandwich,
When It called,
It
It
It called.
Time to go,
They all said "no!"
But It said "go!"

She went.

Above the sky,
She took care of the foster children there,
The stars and planets,
They were very appreciative,
Even the sun,
No longer the brightest,
Was content to foil this girl,
But It said "go!"

She went.

To the natural nature,
The green stuff,
Dirty Earth.
She put out forest fires,
Told the rest of the wildlife that in fact many people could prevent forest fires,
Revolutionizing the preservation effort,
But It said "go!"

She went.

"Under the Sea",
Gave that lobster to a Maine fisherman,
Then went under the Oceans,
Renewed the Great Barrier Reef,
Tamed the Stingray menace now friend,
But It said "go!"

She went.

To another world,
Would they like her?
Would there be a they?
There was.
A They.
They liked her and,
As before,
They loved her,
And she healed them too,
Without doing a thing,
But It said "go!"
She said "no!"
And the echo,
The chorus from behind,
Was unanimous.
All the love,
From two whole worlds,
Now lay focused onto this one girl,
Noor=girl.
She stopped listening to It,
It stopped asking,
It stopped.
Sans It.
And her wings,
Bright robin's egg blue wings,
Took her where she wanted,
To the Clouds
To the trusted,
Where there were no loud noises,
Only the sound,
That glorious sound,
Of muffins,
And their enjoyment.
And her,
And friends,
There.

~!Fin!~

Painting the Chief's Daughter

You with your ancient face,
Your artistic bent tightens your brow,
This is your element,
You are working.

And I am working,
Working this out with my eyes,
If I could paint I would paint you painting,
But God knew I could not cage birds.

You sit by the window every time,
Don't even sit but let the paint fill the stool,
And me my head rests on our old couch,
The one we willed up together when I said you really shouldn't.

I pour the last of the red wine for you,
Wrap my other hand around your waist,
Your skirt waves in the swift air,
Quietly you continue.

I love the Indian that shows in your skin,
Your mother's necklace and your sense of surrounding,
It's amazing we're together,
That the god of this world would accept that.

This one is done,
Your gentle release back to me is how I know,
I transfer the wine to your seasoned touch,
Watch the other birds on their wires.

Take up another canvas,
And I will return to my perch in the middle of the room,
You have so many ideas to get out,
So many lives to live through other means.

So.

What is this?

It's Kinda Chilly

It's so fucking cold. That is the main thought circulating around his head as he sits at the edge of the dock. He kicks his legs back and forth in an effort to keep warm, and the water has gone down too far to even worry about skimming it. He thinks about jumping down the side and walking along the newly exposed coast, but opts against it. Because it's so fucking cold. He studys the light of the moon on the water, but he never was sure what this kind of studying really entailed. He thinks he's studying the water. He wishes he could draw, but that is sadly filed under the emmense list of things he cannot do. But he has a good memory, and feels that he could recall the water quite vividly for at least a month, so he doesn't feel so bad for not being able to draw. He lays back to study the stars, and wonders what he's going to do this weekend. Adolescence is always a 5 day struggle for a 2 day pass to a fair where half the rides aren't half as impressive as the flyer hinted. But still he hopes he has something fun to do. If it were warmer he would just sleep where he was, but it's so fucking cold he thinks he should get inside while he still can. He staggers up and heads back in, taking in the night one last time. There are times when it's good to be alone. It makes him feel younger, more childlike. But as old as he was, and as old as he would get, there were things waiting to be worried about, and he would get to them. But it's so fucking cold tonight, he needs the warmth in ignoring the unimportant things.

Needy Aren't We?

I hope eventually I'm needed,
Required in even a minimal capacity,
I think that is the single greatest thing someone can be,
But maybe that's only because I haven't been yet.

I don't know how many of you I need,
I don't count because it makes me feel weak,
Knowing I depend on so much,
(it doesn't go well with the loner mentality.)

I don't know if I'm all that excited for Heaven,
What could you possibly dream for there?
And I think I hold too much onto all those lives,
I have lived so much more outside of this.

So what does that make me here?
I guess that explains the innate isolation,
But I really do want to help,
I really do love.

You.

And I always have.

It sounded more ironic in my head

This past week I have felt so worthless it verges on being written in the skyline of my mind by one of those planes normally used for cropdusting but hired for skywriting by some engaged suitor. And yet I still love every single one of you, in that pseudo-chivalrous, die-for-you kind of way. So at the heart at least there's that.