Star Dust

The act of writing forces me to slow down, concentrate, focus and center myself, a stranger to myself.

The old Zen fool was a writer, an artist. He loved making a mess, cleaning it up and making another mess. A big bright beautiful mess.

He was also a Lone Wolf. Free. Content. And so it was decided with pleasure. The play's the thing. This amazing risk taking adventure, all extravagant, emergency dancing word art artifact of joy, traveling along pages of mystery and delight is winding down.

A poem begins in wisdom and ends in delight.

Visions of mystical potentials. Allowing the blossoming beauty to open, unfold without purpose or product. Radiant.

Water, leaf, stone. 

Wear a star on your forehead. 

It was a gift from the night, from the ink sky when small powerful stars sang their songs, created smoke signals and one particularly curious star came down for a visit, how it was wondering, "What is Earth like?"

"How are the people there? Are they kind, friendly, rude, perhaps or do they share their time, their space, their toys - do they create amazing beautiful art full of magic using multi-colored pigments on cream colored paper where, should they dream with their eyes open, spill star colors, letting them bleed, letting them run away with their friends, feeling this joy inside the silence?"

Peace.