They say: “Time flies.”
 
They lie.

 
Time tarried and flew and froze and fled and fibbed with interweaving wickedness, leaving me always aware, sometimes-adrift, at-times afraid … affirming there was “nought” I could do but BE.
 
In that place.
 
In a crowd.
 
Inspired.
 
Isolated.
 
In that Moment, Indivisible.
 
Insufficient.
 
Damn.
 
 
That conjuring curse? No lament of poverty but that Time allowed no … time. To sizzle with Summer’s sunsets. Savor gardens’ scents and sensibilities. Drink in vistas. Flit with linnets. enJOY evensongs. Experience every existential post-rain promise in weather more changeable than Chicago’s ‘Four-Seasons-in-a-Day’ and America’s corporate (and our world’s political) leadership.
 
 
Authors!!!
 
Architects!!!
 
Anarchists?!?
 
Archivists consummate, Clarkes unconventional, and clerks (nobby’n’not) nattered, regaled narratives, rewrote history, fostered fairy tales, proffered mouth-watering proposals, empowered me to finally affirm: three decades’ searching; a lifetime of wandering; beckoning echoes; inexplicable longing; the ancestral land of both my Dad’s Parents.
 
Heaven.
 
Mine.
 
 
Aristocrats.
 
I met a Duke.
 
!?!?!?!
 
Actually, His Grace chatted away after smilingly approaching me, shake outstretched. His “Hello. Welcome!” begged wonderment but disbursed my wondering: “I’m American. Do I curtsy?!”
 
Kings and Queens who rule respective domains in Yorkshire and Derbyshire and Dublin and “The Wesht” … and, some, only in fleeting memories and, too-many, with memories only. They sent screaming my brain.
 
Time!
 
I want more with them. For them. In ‘windows’ of bright Light during which they shine with sanity and encounter their Loved Ones’ Presence. Confidence. Accompaniment. Comfort. Hope.
 
 
Plots.
 
Peaks.
 
Poets.
 
Priests.
 
Pagans.
 
Pirates!!!
 
Heroes Immemorial.
 
Family lost long and, alas, lost anew. Muther and Soul Siblings, Cousins and Concierges, Neighbors and The Friends tendered Hospitality and Healing and Help and Hearth. Memories warm me. Even sans the sensorial splendor (and sartorial reminder) of burning turf.
 
Especially Beloved.
 
A Prince of a gallant and gentle giant who encourages my creativities, withstands my whacking (and body-wracking weeping), and moves me to imagine I am a singularly fortunate sister of brilliant brothers two.
 
Princesses, too.
 
Princely Kindnesses incalculable whose effects will affect me always and have altered my Life. Profoundly. Perpetually. Sans hyperbole. Legally. Leaving me – even me! – without words* to illustrate my travels or articulate the Marvel therein.
 
 
*Or Time.
 
Shyte!
 
 
“Aunt Máirín, when you swear in Irish, you’re still swearing.”
 
Said she, whose Voice inside, beside my head Inspires me. Always. Then “My Girl” of nine (and six days and 27 years …) now “Mommy” to Hers.
Time?
 
Life!
 
It’s a BLINK.
 
 
Blinking gratefully….
 
Thank you for Thoughts-fullness. Birthday Blessings. Actions. All you’ve done – here, there, reading too-many words! – to journey with and, Prayer-fully, deliver me safely.
 
Home again.
 
Here.
 
Now.
 
 
And so I Am.
 
 
Present.
 
Grateful.
 
Just BEing.
 
Wildly insufficient.
 
Whelmed by privileged stress
 
but/AND
 
writing again….
 
 
Blessings, indeed.
 
 
God IS.
 
 
You Are.
 
 
Love!
 
 
 
WICKED. BLINKING. TIME.
Inspired in spite of Time.
Penned upon waking 11 July 2016.
Sent in Gratitude for events still unfolding
..ever
calling me
Home.
 
And yes, each line is a story unto itself!
 
 
POETRY ©MMG – WICKED.BLINKING.TIME.
 
PHOTOGRAPHY ©MMG – HEAVEN