Where the wind blows.

“I just go where the wind blows.” I've heard it said before by someone who happens to fall under the sign of Aquarius.

The wind goes where it blows, of course. But true Aquarians follow their visions that not even the wind can direct them. Neither anything nor anyone can derail these visionaries from their goals, if they can help it. They would ride the wind, if they have to, even against it for a different perspective, and when there is no sign of wind at all, they stir the air themselves. Sure, Aquarians listen to which way the wind blows, but never to give it total reign over them. They call on the wind, if needed, to use as tools for life’s work, with the other elements on earth.

Falling under a certain sign does not a character make. I don’t think one is necessarily bestowed inherent strengths by her stars, moon, planets, or other cosmic things. Rather, true aquarians are sustained by passionate spirits that enrich their souls before they even come to know their names, and, in time, they make their sign known. This is the mark of those who bear the sign and realize their true nature. It isn’t their style nor inclination to merely wait. Not even for the wind.

The Dialogue. (poeTry)

by: a.paige

and the dialogue grows

the irreconcilable, uncontrollable creature knows

when another voice calls out

everyone screams out

for everyone else to tame

the beast that had awakened their fear

but who is left to hear?

the ongoing conversations leave me with

a funny feeling, hinting

all voices converge at some point. ’tis time

“we are here, we are here,” we chant till nine

then fly to the moon and back, wishing

that heaven listened, even as the stars glisten

but who is there to hear?

This Life. (poeTry)

by: a.paige

it isn’t black

or white.

or yellow.

or brown.

it is all of that.

it is gray.

it is pink.

and red.

and the sadness of a blue sky

on a cold winter day.

it is rich.

it is poor.

it is the comforting shade

in the scorching sun,

or the warmth of fire.

it is joy.

it is chaos.

it is the sparkle in a child’s eyes,

or the grief

behind your smile.

it is magic.

it is tragic.

creation and decay,

a cleansing rain,

or scorn.

it is birth pangs

it wakes,

and grows. and teaches.

or refuses

and walks asleep.

or plays dead.

or lies down dead.

or drops dead,

while consuming in between,

its appetite, keen.

it waxes and wanes.

it rises and falls.

a blessing and a curse.

an ebb and flow.

like the tide, this life.

Sardines.

*****
Copyright, Amicatonic. All rights
reserved. All content of this blog
are property of the artist, inc. all
writings, artworks, & photos,
unless otherwise noted.
Pls. be considerate & ask for
permission to use & give proper
credit to owner/creator,
Amica Paige.

*****

If you open a can of sardines, there are mothers and children there. But the phallic man is hungry and loves his fish and game. He forces his way through fame with his arms and jeans, and devours elephants and whales in his suit and tie. He sheds blood, except his, and lusts for the rush of adrenaline. His currency are folks and beasts dispensable and meek as fish. He craves the flesh of the young and the female, but her mind and heart are inseparable from her hips and much stronger than he could ever be—yet, she has suffered greatly. For if you look long enough in this ravaged land, half the children are men, and the other half—most of them are hunted, along with the unicorns and dolphins. Will the boys heed a mother’s call or only be sons to their Father? We wish all sons of earth would hear the cries of their daughters. But unlike dogs, most men are mere testosterones and phalli. Worse than the swine they savor, their savage hands slaughter lambs and bleed the land for glory. Still, we’d like to believe that the womb is later joined by her true lovers and reunited with her real sons and daughters at the sea beyond this. For now, she continues to fight for the fate of earth and weep for the rape of it.

A little bit of sunshine {poeTry}

by: a.paige

a little bit of sunshine–

is it all we need

to coax a flower down a muddy field?

does it make a difference

that a gem is hidden in a rotting heap,

or that a bowl of rice appear

in tiny hands that multiply, then drop, like flies–

has our world really become a better place for it? 

still, we try...

the kind words tossed 'tween me and you

like icing, are they enticing?–

that we'd treat each other nice this way around...

the genuine smiles and joys devoid of sound,

do they really resound

much louder than all the rounds

of applause and rubbing faces, or kissing asses?

or are we just beguiled and disoriented, as we switch our ups and downs...

but we rebound...

when we're soaked in piss, knee-deep in shit

does a bit of sunshine really lift

all the gook off our slimy pits?

a warm hello, a hug goodbye...

do these make up for what makes us cry?

a gentle kiss for all our griefs

to lighten up our load–

does it convince our leaden souls again to bleed,

despite our sins? and, yet, we breathe...

Forgive they say, at least, to dispel despair

i raise a toast, instead, and say, "inhale

the air and swish a wand... invisible...

magic is invincible... a quip, a cup

of wits... words intrigue, you know.

amuse a funny bone, create a song

cajole the mind, bewitch with poems

to right the wrongs... to tame the beast, 

this terrible and beautiful thing we live...

so what if a rose has thorns?

or if sticks and stones

should break our bones,

as we stagger without the swagger, all broken and bewildered–

must the spirit succumb?

lest it lingers and ingest the seas and drown...

but to span the time and survive its scorn! –no need to be reborn...

the tides, the full moon brings–

might wash ashore the filth, the lies, we'll see...

should we shine a bit of light then

to disarm our fears?

we can only try, we can only try

to convince our souls...

alight.

Rose Garden.

by: a.paige

Go on. It's okay. You are well now, though you are the sixth child. You have been healed. For whatever reason, life didn't deliver the child before you.

Your mother is reborn; you meant every word you said. The weeding was tough, as though you gutted yourself..., yanking at your heart, which you held even tighter. Oh, the thorns! Still you trusted your mind and did not let it close..., letting it be guided by which you tried so hard to protect..., strengthening their bond, even as you began to release them... The mind and the heart in perfect union now, yet still allowed full independence. To think..., to act..., to feel..., to shed tears... To live again. You watered the barren ground and created a garden. And in offering your heart, your mother has revived hers. You gave her a garden, and a rose has grown there since.

Go on. It is all right now. Grow a rose garden. Write. Paint. Create. There is no one way. But act on it, as with anything else. Go ahead. Plant your seeds. Dig... Water... Prune... Then watch your garden grow.

***For her name is Rose, dedicated to my mother.

This Is Our Song

 by: amica paige

Just because you’re caught

Doesn’t make things right

The people are hurt,

the children are dead

When you pulled that trigger

and lit that cooker.

Just because you’re dead
Doesn’t make things fine

Those who remained—a part of them died

When you pulled that trigger
and lit that cooker.

But because you‘re caught

There’s one less dirt

No one gets hurt,

no child will die...

until one of your kind

looses his mind...

And because you’re dead

There’s one less scum

Nobody gets hurt,

no child will die

Until one of your kind

looses his mind...

And because we’re here

All of US hear

The havoc you man,

the destruction we see

Yet for life,

we stand.

For Boston, we stand. For Newtown, we stand. For New York we stand.

For the children, we stand. For the women, we stand.

For the voiceless, the helpless, and the blood of the innocent, we stand.

Because despite all our differences, we stand. For life.

This is our song. Though our bodies may fail, our spirits prevail.

Life overcomes evil.

Wonder...wander... What's your story?

I'm a not a fatalist. I do believe in willpower and magic and hope...for a better place and justice. I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play...while we try to survive the best way we can—some of us in yachts and castles, and others beneath bridges...in tunnels...or on benches, and still others stuck between walls in the middle. And still others...the helpless ones imprisoned in silent rooms...who are silenced by those who are drunk and deluded with power, like God...

Hunger...

I just cannot think positive away the demons at play. But I can help keep human garbage at bay and pick up my share the best way I can, and maybe tune in and lend an ear to see the inaudible, invisible cries...that I, too, might understand their pain...that I might extend a hand or walk a mile...perhaps. And when that still isn't enough, I hope for a better place.

Will power's persistence in this befuddling existence—that is magic. And only because of love, without which what other means must we employ our ultimate will? Where did we get it from—this love?—who instilled it in us humans? I used to think I knew so well, but the wind changes course... Now I only think about it too, sometimes. But I, like you, won't know the end of the story until I get there. Until then, I must keep going and live this thing...this role...this play...on this stage, and not waste so much time thinking about the director...since the time given us is short.

Yet I just can't smile with happy people all the time and think positive away the demons at play. But don't hate me. I'm just a realist, not an enemy. I am not against you, just maybe your ideals sometimes. Meanwhile, I still smile and look up at the sky, whenever I'm not tripping on and picking up garbage.

J.R.R. Tolkien said: "Those who wander are not always lost".

And so, I wonder sometimes.