The Act

the magician stood silent,
waiting for quiet
before he began the show.

he sang and he danced,
he spoke of romance,
flashy smile, all bright lights and promises.

oh, he did quite well,
fooling crowds with his spells,
the illusions all formed from science.

but physics,
you see,
is no child's plaything.

and miscalculations
occur.

some say he planned it.
some say he fell.

those who were there, oh they said they could tell.

midway through the act,
he stepped on a tack,
caught himself on a lever,
which wasn't so clever,
and he hung from the rafters,
loose rope now tight round his neck.

The audience gasped,
then burst into claps,
thinking, of course, this was part of his act.

But their praise was cut short,
as they saw his effort,
ending, as his face amort

then

he hit the stage--limp body bowing as if controlled by an unseen puppeteer.

So they cut him down,
and all gathered 'round,
half expecting him to jump up alive.

The magician was silent,
for one final show,
a slow vanishing act.

heartbreak

For the loud, dangerous, beautiful world that is -- a world torn asunder.

For those who would like to donate: American Red Cross

Seeker.

I seek out knowledge,

like some old-world gypsy,

wandering within the confines of this earth. 

I am a seeker.

Unlocking secrets, cloaked in science 

               --my own alchemy overturning riches of a new kind.  

               --my own captivated curiosity an enchantment, 

                 enticing the most delicate creatures to divulge the intricate details of their existence.  

And I piece together the world, from the bottom up.

Fairy Fly (Mymaridae Wasp) Photo Credit: Mr. Spike Walker

Instinct: Old Forest

Old Forest

She knew, as she approached the clearing, what would happen next, some memories never fade.  Pausing at the edge of the forest Elisesofia braced herself, before stepping into the bright light that fell amid the wildflowers.  Still shrouded in her cloak, she slowly moved towards the center, head down, silent, listening. 

“What is your purpose?”  The voice came out from directly in front of her, smooth and flowing, like the music made by the flowing of an isolated brook, high in the mountains.  It was not threatening, but serious, with a slight inflection that gave away curiosity. 

“I must speak to Kitra.”  This was all she knew.  Kitra could help. 

“What is your name?” This voice, identical to the other, came slowly, on her right. 

“Elisesofia.”  This she whispered.  She had not spoken her own, true name in years. 

There was no response.

Elisesofia waited.  Then looking up for the first time since she had entered the clearing, began to speak, telling beginning of her story:

remnant of Love

dim light illuminates her,

standing naked once more, proud.

shivering as cool air

passes over pale skin

that now swells to reveal new growth

the last remnant of Love.

she shakes away the single tear and stands, strong.

to walks back into the deep comfort of the forest.

rain falls quietly in the night, again

and she runs, wildly in the dark

carrying the child born to destiny,

with spite following just behind

crossing through the waters
she hands the child to the trees
and turns, facing spite

from the trees emerge the few
who still believe in Love's remnant,

and without a word they stand to fight.

Upon these last words Elisesofia Petlykov sank to the ground where her mother fought, her legs unwilling to bear the burden.  Around her form stood the elves, tall and thin, like wisps of fog.  Their skin was pale, glowing delicately with a soft light.  Their heads bent low, long hair well past their hips, in pale shades of green, shrouding their faces.  In silence, the elves gathered her, carrying her through the forest, to Kitra.  

fungi

fungi.

miniscule.

drawing from the earth,

the bits and pieces we cast away.

a tiny world, 

under feet.

known 

to those 

attentive 

enough 

to notice

cautious
enough 

 to care.

Holding Magic (Finished)

here we are,
all pretendin
that love is not
our intention

but I can see
that underneath
we're only looking
for some peace

here we are,
in an era,
full of pain,
reigned by terror,

we each hold on
to what we can,
and those who know love
hold magic

in their hands

Those who fancy themselves magicians
must practice a careful art, one mistake,
one hint at the secret behind the illusions
and they suddenly lose their intrigue.

Those who master magic, those who know
 the hardship that sneaks into the moments
 before the curtain rises, understand that it
 can dazzle, but it can scar.

Yet, still, they continue, dazzling away, for those who just want to be entertained.

In the moments before the show the magician examines the scars on the palms of his hands.  He may hold magic within them, loving the world, but a spark like that can burn.

First Hike 2011

snow pushed across a frozen lake,
like sand across a desert,
bright white light blinds,
wind sends shivers down our spines,
and still we trek across this crystallized world,

all for the love of science.

We
set out to crack the ice,
used an ekman dredge device
and pulled up some cold macrophytes.

We
analyze samples and we may find,
with carbon dating, keep in mind,
this sediment may be quite senescent,
its history likely reminiscent
of slowly melting glaciers.

Kyle DeForrest: Let Me Break Your Heart

My incredible brother wrote this.

oh so happy, ukulele, oh so happy, ukulele me (Fragment)

pick up the ukulele and start to strum,
sing a song for happiness, sing a song for love,
smile with the memory, shed a silent tear,
toss back another shot, for courage,
and sing out with out fear.

love it aint so easy
life it aint so hard
just got to look for beauty
in each and every shard






There's more, in my head, still putting the pieces together.

Instinct- On the Run.

I'm still working on this, who knows, maybe it'll become something.  

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Elisesofia Petlykov stopped to splash cool water on her face, flush from running, streaked with mud, scratched from brambles.  She was three days of running, hiking and hiding, into the forest.  She paused to listen for a minute, hearing only the calls and scuffling of the critters in the forest.  Stepping into the cool water she waded into a small pool, about waist deep on her small frame.  Her dark hair hung in a tight braid over her shoulder, and she slowly untwisted it, laying back to rinse it in the calm, clear water.   This was the first time she had truly stopped in three days. 

The message had been simple and clear.  “Travel West.  Find Kitra.  She will help you.”  It was thrust into her hand as she was pushed onto a horse, pointed west and told, by one angry, serious Everest, “Run, child, RUN!”  Scribbled on a scrap of paper that was likely older than she was, torn from some ancient map, with the edge of a vast forest shown only in a hint of green along one of the torn edges. 

She had been in the forest for three days now, setting out each morning, away from the sun, and ending each day by following it.  At night she climbed high into the canopy, listening for those who hunted her and waiting for the first glimpse of light. 

Kitra.  She knew Kitra as Everest’s mother, who had helped her, and her parents long ago.  But Everest was an old, old man now, surely Kitra was no longer alive? Perhaps the name was passed down?  Or was this a glimpse of the magic she knew the forest held?