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?

Some Breathe Through Songs (poeTry)

by: a.paige

Some see with their ears.

With eyes closed, they strum their strings

or run their fingers along some keys...

Others feel with their eyes

and glide over their canvas to hear...

Then there are those who tread the page...
for life.

How do you quench your soul?

Some breathe through songs.

The rest tirelessly seek the water from which to drink.

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.

Back To The Day (poeTry)

by: a.paige

I can toss up some metaphors over sushi for dinner. Still, my heart’s no match for thee, for your candied words are always free. The sky’s too proud, but I've learned to teach. So why do you preach as you sip your tea? Just grow a peach. But I’d rather crawl and take a trip. To the moon and back, since the stars are out of reach. Back to the day when my freedom reigned. You didn’t know me then, and you still don’t know me well.

what is Love?

***I wrote this last month but don't think it's too late to post.

I know of it. I have seen it, and tasted bits and pieces, chewed and swallowed what might be considered love.

Love is enclosed in a love letter, or consumed in a box of chocolates or a valentine poem. It has the scent of a spring bouquet and morning coffee, shared. It is imbibed with wine, or champagne, at special events. Or taken with veggie, or what have you, over company at a summer barbecue. It tastes salty at times, in tears and sweat, and sweet in joy.

Love is the family by the hospital bed; the dad in awe of his newborn. The womb that cradles her baby, the butterfly kisses and raspberries... From dawn to dusk to the late night hours spent over milk and cookies, and stories.

Love is a story. Of humanity. The good and broken parts.

Love is a seed held by tiny hands... Immense it grows when planted, and the elders sit by its tree. Seasons come and seasons go. Love grows.

Love is wisdom, both silent and loud. She walks her child and guides her through the night.

Love is a mystery. It evades systems and ignores time. It holds and warms; it quenches our thirst for life. Like water, like air—it feeds life—it is life. For without love, life is but mere shadow.

Love is a color—all the colors of the rainbow, and the grays in between... It is the silver in the lining... Our hopes and dreams and well wishes for one another. The rain showers. It is the dews that glisten and the leaves that autumn christens. The wonder bestowed by a winter snowflake.

Love is a doctor that takes away the poison... The apple everyday. The tight embrace and soft whispers. Your silent words and knowing smile. The time we held each other and the stars illuminated the sky. The moonlight when the sun is at rest... Love is a stronghold in a storm. Love is the light in the dark. Love is hope. They were right—I agree this time: hope springs eternal isn't just a cliche. Because hope is love. They are one and the same, and in its absence is despair.

Love is a circle; it returns where it starts, back to its giver. If not, it is the risk taken, unrequited. Love is an arc, from one to another. Love is a shared umbrella.

Love is magic at work all the while. It injects the mind with reason and bleeds the heart...

Love is you ripped apart when someone you love leaves... It is a piece of you taken by the person. Love is your broken heart. But love frees you from your prison.

Love is the crimson running through your veins... The tears shed over the death of someone loved; love moistens the barren ground, and the same tears shed waters a new beginning. Love is where you start again...

Love moves. Love continues. It always watches, if in silence sometimes, but laughs loudly and unrestrained at happy times. Forgetting is irrelevant, for love forgives and lets go. Love lets you spread yours wings, and if not, love will walk with you, crawl with you... Carry you. Love is with you, if you let it.

Love is seen in action. It is lived, though love takes a lifetime to learn. Love is your mission, regardless of your passion. Love is your breath, each of which counts. 

If there was god, then Love is God. If for nothing else, then I choose to worship Love.

For you and me. From me to you. Because if there was a hole in your sock, I would mend it for you, if you ask me to. But don't ask me to, I might not have the time. I might even laugh at you and/or buy you red socks. Because love is real like that. But I'd try to help mend your broken heart. If you ask me to. Because love is not imposed but offered. Yet it is always present. Only it will take a lifetime to metabolize it. Can you do it—Love?