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.

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.

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.

The Muse At The Seams. [poeTry]

by: amica paige


Perpetual disarray.
Discombobulated
and knotted hair.
A feet of floss
for an inch of green...
Broccoli...parsley,
all else in between.
You peered in the mirror,
so as not to be seen.
A fleet of Albatross!—
your flitting mind screamed.
You knelt down right
before you jumped in.
The morning shower
you now lingered in...
thoughts discomfiting
and late lunch sans cream.

A peek at thy thoughts show
the muse at the seams...

Home [poeTry]

by: amica paige


you're a bird,
guided by moonlight,
calling the wind

you're a bird,
perched on the crowns
of elms and evergreens

you're a bird,
riding with time,
spanning the seas

you're a bird,
soaring the heavens,
spreading your wings

you're a bird,
roaming the world,
but the air is your home.

LIFe...eARTh...heART...heARTh.

by amica paige




of joy, of pain
of home, of friends,
of fantasies and predicaments,
of heroes and victims,
at times these are
one and the same—
roses and thorns.

stars and dust,
the stuff of life is deemed
from without, come within,
and the world is seen
this is my subject,
my awed impressions
this is my art and soul’s expression.

Ode to Life (poeTry)

***In honor of National Poetry Day

by amica paige


Uplift us to your heights
We'll ride the winds of time
upon your eager wings.

Take us to your depths
Adrift, we only kiss
your face when lost at sea.

Pull us past your dirt
deep within your hearth.
We'll fan your dying heart.

Then shoot us out of here
Spring us up with fire
into the open haze...

where the clouds will cradle us
if only for a moment,
as in our mothers' wombs...

And through a hundred cycles,
we'll tread the sea again
until the end of time

when Earth decides to hurl
our silent ashes up,
spent as offerings.

Did God have joyful tears?
We're glorious winged specks,
creation's golden dust.

We'll shine it, all the light
we muster from the heavens,
reflect it to each other.

Because even the spineless worms
can see the senselessness
in your rampant absurdities...

So fill us with thy breadth.
We'll ride your fickle wind
and spread our hidden wings.

Ode to Nature (poeTry)

***In honor of National Poetry Day.

by amica paige


Nature, nature
Pensive stature
Reds, yellows, and oranges
Blues, greens, and violets.

We marvel at thy breadth
Mountain heights and ocean's depths
Morning dew on summer leaves
Icicles on winter trees.

Nature, nature
Golden stature
Dirt...hydrogen...oxygen...burns
Air...water...fire...and earth...

We marvel at thy breadth
Glorious heights and cosmos' stars
Moonlight shades of autumn wind
Early buds of April spring.

Beware, o youthful one. (poeTry)

by amica paige


Beware, o youthful mind.
Appease the test of time.
Gather a thought, a feather,
a page in an open book
a leaf, a stone
a twig, crossbones
a swig of might
a dose of delight
a pen, a cup
an overflow
a weathered friend
the light at the end
a spider's web
a strong desire
for the breadth of life,
through ice
and fire,
in ocean's depth
afloat on earth.
On earth.

Beware, o youthful one.
Withstand the test of time.
Gather a thought, a feather,
and ride the book of life.

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.