That 3AM Moment

Anyone who wakes at 3 am understands what that moment is all about.

What the silence brings.

 

I recall the many nights then.

I’d stand by the window and stare into darkness.

 

I was told that’s when the gates of heaven are open.

So ask, and so shall you receive.

 

It’s God time and he hears clearly.

So do your best and ask.

 

For many dark nights at dawn

I woke to the stillness of things around me.

 

Gently whispering to the breeze.

One’s deepest thoughts and desires that life could bring.

 

Suddenly I find myself awake once again this same moment then

Only this time I hear myself asking slightly different.

 

I know you hear me dear Angels in Heaven.

And I know God is present in all things.

 

So dare shall I ask in utmost silence.

Please, grant my desire that my fragile heart holds dear.

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Lovebirds

b2ap3_thumbnail_homeboaboa-envsrcboawebsitesite_medialove-birds_1.jpg

 

A desire births, unfurls as heady jasmine lusting on a balmy evening.

 

Tender in touch, it grips into my core as a hand of spirit extending from a mist into my plume of orange and green and snatches my heart. A flick of a twist and it locks in. The stronghold is immovable, a monolith rooted from sky to earth.

 

A piquant potion drip feeds to nourish a bed of barren. It grows to a lush rainforest of moss and thick bonding roots where compassion and honour oozes in a soothing stream of silver, shaded under flourishing, pooling umbrellas of shelter.

 

Yet a starkness lingers, a tugging at my strings. Perched among the flock where loneliness reverberates, I wallow and flutter and chortle and fluff … a forest of fertility, a savanna of vast, harsh dry, I’m desolate and confused in the staccato of dark and light. Fatigued.

 

In rickety poise, I fight against the strain of damning knots and whirring winds until I succumb to an orchestral string of sweet magnetic harmonies balanced between the poles, serene … yet jarring in the shadows.

 

It opens. And snaps shuts. It draws near. Then runs. The cries begin as a rain shower and gather to a downpour of screeching squawks.

 

There’s no consoling. Equilibrium is lost.

 

Only a crescendo that ebbs and peaks as a million African lovebirds startled in a frenzy chaos of flight … erratic and manic.

 

To dance into your shoulder among the forests and savannas, to snuggle and preen under dappled light of sprinkling sprays.

 

To frolic free, to cosy in our cavities of trees and cacti, as the lovebirds we are.

On every bough the birds heard I sing,
With voice of angels in their harmony;
Some busied themselves birds forth to bring;
The little coneys to here play did hie. ~
‘The Parliament of Fowls’, Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1343-1400)

 

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Crooked

Life is the crooked mirror 

of the heart.

Not broken.

Crooked. Tilted

to show

what almost is

desired.

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Thanks, Chris. ?
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