A Braid of Frost and Felt

A previously joint project in experimental conjoined creativity...perhaps it will wander back there someday..right now it is what it is, somewhat solo...mostly poems and pictures...occasionally wandering into my interests in Houdini, Lewis Carroll, keys, time, birth and many more of the odd explorations that make me, well me

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layers upon layers

i am born from out the ground
from out her body
her legs, her mind
his want to continue
their persons combined
birthed and formed and further grown
through the world and words, discovered on my own
this story, this author, that moment, that word, this character, this subject
sometimes i fall into sentences, read or heard
fall into them, fall in love with them
write them into my lungs, into my mind
onto papers, so i can carry them with me
where they inspire and define
and they stay, they stay
the way that magician, who caught my eye
in a long-ago library book, is still right here
making my heart race, making my mind race
helping me escape
helping me define the borders, the edges, the leftover locks
because, he resonates and reminds
of who i remain, of who i can be
of how life combines in layers
upon layers, upon me
that are me
even as i stand here now
so far out from that ground, from her body, from their home
in this body that they made
that i made my own
composed of words and sentences that i read, that i speak, that have become a part of me
of people met, in books or reality or in my mind
when i find the ones who help me feel grounded or connected or clear or whole
like magic, like a spark
and you just know they are there, even if they are not
because there are marks or words
that stay, they stay
even if they don’t, even if they go or never were
the changes remain
they create and reframe
in layers, in living layers
and inside and underneath and all between, is still this me
learning how to live in this body
on this ground, with all these words and people i have found

by, earthboundpixie

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and you didn’t even ask, i just told you my name

i hear myself saying this
i hear it through the pages
the past, the tales, told and retold
and spoken through time
the gentle remind of things repeated because they have needs
repeated because they are true
warnings and rules, declarations and truths
i hear myself saying
magical things house more than one name
and they do
because they are too much to be contained
within the small frame of a single word
too vast for a single name
and names change across cultures, across borders
within the space of a heartbeat
within the connection of a mind
over the expanse of an hour or a night
a minute or a mile
or more than can be counted or understood
or filed away like fact or fiction
like i can say we met in a moment some twenty years ago
drinking pine trees, far away
but is that true?
true like i dream of dandelions and dancing at midnight, at daybreak
at now
like your name has always been in my mouth
and it feels familiar, yet never sounds the same
because magic things can change
to meet the situation, to match the mood
to scramble, tangle and confuse
or to give the gift of the familiar
from out of the blue, out of the air
out of a you or a me, just passing through
though to gain the privilege of names
some courtesies must be exchanged
and we do
and i give you a name, and you give me a few
and i give you one more, and we trade or switch
back to before
and it is easy and silly, and more than introductions usually are
because we are playing at being magical things
so tell me mine and i will tell you yours
then reverse
and there will be more, in lovely layers
and it is simple and wild
and true
it is true
and so we are

by, earthboundpixie

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my pockets full of small stories

the trees are heavy with the future
all that potential packed into small spaces
acorns and chestnuts and maple spins
dark and heavy under the flame-falling crowns
as they rustle, laugh and speak of letting go, of falling down
of worlds beneath
of barren beauty, of restless release
there is time before all that still
we have just begun and we will have our fill
of senses, of senses, of cycles
flowing through paths, through orbits, through time
we are here to remind
there is no final completeness
for we are continuous
gifts to grow change, to grow chance
to inspire, to implant
an abundance above and down
here, upon the earthy grounds
these seeds like stars, this earth like sky
and here i stumble into constellations
with their stories spread before my eyes
scattering, fall-pattering, around my feet
this is a moment of memory, of never and always
and all ways
where i can meander-meet the possible in the now
the stories that reveal the hidden and the how
like maps, like miracles
these grains of growth, these paths of potential
so small that i can fill my shaking hands with their steady shapes
for a moment, for a moment
complete
my hands full of generations, of gems and trembling
before release
before placing them down, into patterns differently found
different paths, different voices
still speaking of the story, of the possible, of the now
spelling out the paths, in shapes and whispers
the curve, the cycle, the spiral
turn and turn upon the ground, feel the air as you spin round
this is the invitation, this is the way
so the seeds spoke, so the seeds say
and i feel small like a seed
and so step back, suddenly
to city, to city, to street
to an apartment lifted from the ground
where the chill-turned air reaches in
through still-cracked windows, carrying music
where the crickets sing the sun to sleep, for just a few more days
for just a few more days
for just these moments, just these moments
then stop
and i stand in stillness, within walls, within glass
i stand on the lifted floor and listen for everything to last
for the grounding growing seeds
still beneath
still here, with me
for what my fingers brush there, i’ll let you guess
within the pockets of my dress
like stars, like sky, like gems, like stories
and i listen
so, tell me
as i fill my shaking hands
from my pockets, from your words
from all the cycles of the world

by, earthboundpixie

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a smile just shy of surreal

the cat was smiling
can they do that?
i had never seen her smile before
and yet could not think what she looked like without the smile
an odd point, a stepping spot of memory, and not
a crossroads, into who knows
where all is the same and yet all is change
though that cannot be, nor can the cat
and time moves and i move
no time for reflection in this myriad of mind-tricks
welcome to the unreal, the dream world
with its logic, its unruly rules, its realm specifics
so hurry and choose
the way, the road, the path
the time is turning fast
or slow, it’s impossible to know
the duration, the pacing
it all keeps changing
or stays the same and waits for me
to make the step, to rearrange
step, run, fall, turn, dance through it all
to the left, to the shade, to the ivy arches made
through to what, over under what, no moment spared to mind the way
a gloved hand grabs the lead, my feet concede the turn
and with a spin, we march and meet
into the dance of a pocket-watch beat
the time kept carefully, in a proper place
behind glass, about the waist
upon a chain, like a pet
though the turning face does not smile
and i look up to my hands, to your gloves
to catch a charming smile between our teeth
and the warmth beneath
there is no hiding here, nothing remains surface deep
so i can sink into that shared smile
as the suspended reality reins, for just awhile
in this space set apart, beyond the crossroads
beyond what we think we know
yet the dance is still set to confuse
and you must not forget the rules
here names are given like gifts
so, we exchange, the syllables falling from our lips
as i lean further in, the weight of my cheek upon your shoulder
the blush beneath, the heat
of me burning through your gloves, your properly pinned attire
and i am underdressed for this underworld
the cat didn’t tell me how things could be
i did not bring a clock of my own or shoes, i think
my eyes sinking to your feet, with socks and buttoned boots
then to my toes, and i feel exposed
here, on the ivy path in the arms of this dance
i think you feel it too
the heat or retreat
and all pauses, the time, the tick, the pocket patterned into silence
to sink to soft leaves, bare feet drawn beneath
and you offer me a cup of math to drink
how sweet
pencil-soft touches upon paper, upon me
i asked for help and you led my hand
over geometry, over lines, over Euclid
i said numbers never tasted so good
and i smiled
and you did

by, earthboundpixie

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