Posts Tagged With: adventure

The Unknown King

The fields of auric cereals dance in the summer breeze. 
The skies are brimmed and teaming with undulating billowy blackness which gives way to grey and white and patches of blue. 
A prisoner could be I perceived, 

Or a corpse, in a steel casket meandering its way through this countryside, 

But though for the uninitiated this they see,

My voyage, rife with blessing and hardship, shall never I deride. 
I am not a prisoner, but a noble, borne upon the strength of fire breathing dragons which pull along my carriage. 
As in myth and whimsy a young Pendragon united the disparate kingdoms of the land,
Or our David, brave and belovèd of the Holy One, unified different clans within his hand,
So too am I a king in gestation, waiting for time and place to emerge,
My kingdom is the world and my banner is love,

My buckler the blessing which streams from above,

Which allows me to tap a well of strength

When the world chooses darkness and I the light,

And gives me the power to, at great length,

Continue to love and to lovingly fight.  

~N.S. Molino~

 

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Tibidabo 

The spire of luminaries beckoned to us and sparked our curiosity–what did it look like up close? So in we piled to two cabs and proceeded in our ascent of the mountain. Armed with the aperitif of the barley and the cactus, we charted our course for the unknown. 
It was already well past midnight when we arrived. The lights had been, to our dismay, extinguished upon the antique edifice. 
In a turnout of the meandering road we drank, talked, sang, and walked–we danced and joined our souls in a ballet of joyful, if inebriated, light, in an attempt to replace those which no longer shone from the church. 
Overhead in that tranquil vault, stars shot across the heavens, recalling to us the initiation of all that was and is. Upon the vegetated earth, was a stirring…into our field of view came a wild sow, startling us with her subtleness as well as reputation. 
The church itself was closed to visitors, so after inspecting the situation Ismael and Khalil heralded the way around so that we could go up atop the building, and from there gaze out upon the beauty of Barcelona at night. 
In a few hours, we would descend upon a playground and, afterward, into a private train carriage who’s sole purpose was to carry us down the hill to regain our habitations. For this brief window of time, however, we seven would find ourselves kings and queens of a night so uniquely ours that there could be no duplication.  

    
    
    
    
 

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Memory Stone

The nightclub was what you may expect: overcrowded, overpriced, overvalued, and unable to deliver. From the Apolo, however, to the beach was an easy issue on the skateboard. 
The early morning air was delightfully cooler than what had been in the previous day, and with the absence of sun there was no reproachment from nature–as if nature suggested the swapping of day and night for human activity. 
Along the promenade, I met four friends and we walked together, eventually resting with an Australian guitar player, as I sang to his accompaniment and we pulled more passersby in for an impromptu street party. 
Saying our goodbyes, we continued toward the beach. 
There in the great sea, I watched as the rising sun just peaked over the horizon, casting brush strokes of a brilliant crimson to contrast the blue-silver flicker of the waters surface. There, wearing not a stitch and floating in the primordial spirit of the water, no thoughts and all were united in grand synchronicity. 
This stone is what will recall this moment in time for the rest of my days.  

   

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Afternoon in Montpellier

Lunch was served on the piazza of a small restaurant, along an alley in a quiet section just away from the bustling tourist centre of Montpellier. 
The poet returned his pen and paper to his attaché, as he prepared his table once again to be eaten from. Nothing, however, could prepare him for the cacophony of flavour, the utter symphony of sumptuousness which awaited him. 
As he placed the first tender morsel of salmon and spinach in his mouth, he savoured it’s perfection with rapturous enjoyment. He closed his eyes as a choir of angels sang an aria to the Master of the Universe, the Endless One, the Holy One who had blessed him to be at this place, in this moment. 
Perhaps he could be fortunate to find again the same restaurant again, but the sustenance would never be the same, the singular moment of perfection having passed, and all others becoming simply a substitute, an interpretation, or a poorly drafted and misshapen twin of that impossibly delectable moment plucked from the sea of creation, for which no compliment could suffice. 
So, eyes closed and recording every jot and tittle of inscription into the book of life that he had thus far been fortunate to view, he for once held a vast appreciation for the artist who had created such an incomprehensible perfection, with the simple name of “lasagna,” as if it were sufficient enough to describe its qualities, and he basked in the glory that was the moment–that single second within time which marked the breath between that which was and that which had been or will be.  

 

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