Monica Multer

The fence gate Guards the bell towers Where the pigeons wait Let the bells ring Let the bells toll It is time Let it go Let it go For so long You stood on The wrong side Of the white picket fence Cross over It is time now To leave behind What you were To become Who you really are Shut the gate behind you It won’t on it’s own Seal it tight Don’t let the demons in Here is a place of safety Welcome To the garden Where we are alone now But never alone Under the shadow Of the bell that tolls Waiting for the sign From no one To take up our arms And walk away To cross the threshold To become something new Come take my hand Walk with me We can cross it together And leave the gate Swinging shut behind us Don’t be afraid I have done this before All you have to do Is open your heart And sigh out your miseries Then fill your heart back up with the worlds gentle beauty It is there I promise It is just hard to see Just don’t get lost along the way In the shadow of the bell that tolls It can shallow you hole You wont come back the same To got o hell and back To look down upon You very own grave Come back with me I will guide you Back to the gate That stands guard Over the bell tower That watches us From the garden Don’t be afraid This is life This is who we are This is who we have become Eclipsed by the shadows Of the bell tower

I rather enjoy this photo that I took in Hawaii of my dad and brother inside of a lava tube. They are standing right below a hole to the surface which makes them look like aliens are about to beam them up or God sent down a light upon them.

Why is it that right before some plants die they become so beautiful? Like this one, it was so colorful yet so close to its death. Is it to remind us what we will be missing when it finally is gone? One last bang to always remain in our minds. It is like a person’s final bow as they look at the audience, with a wide grin that speaks miles. It says: ...

I saw you walking around in the crowd with your buddies and your skateboards. You joined the crowd to watch the waves crash on the rocks. The waves were huge the other day but you hopped over the railing anyway. You went out onto the edge even though it was dangerous. You just sat down on your skateboard and watched. You were interesting, why was it so important for you to be right out there next to the water when the waves were crashing so close. I bet you got water on you. I had to leave though so I never got to ask, maybe I will next time I see a skater-boy wave watching on a stormy day.

I saw you from the balcony at my hotel in Hawaii. I was actually quite concerned because I had been watching the empty stroller for a good ten minutes wondering where the baby was and why the stroller remained. I was glad to finally see you and your baby. I just have one question, why take the baby and leave the stroller outside? Why not take both?

The storm down here in Santa Cruz sure does stir up some gnarly waves. At the lighthouse the waves were bouncing off the rocks and making huge waves that crashed into each other. It was pretty epic. This photo doesn’t do it justice.

A little boy runs Through a crowded market place His arms held out As he weaves between all the people A little toy airplane Held tight in his outstretched hand He runs along With a smile plastered on his face Making airplane noises All around him is the sound Of a society Perpetually on the move Haggling, arguing Agreeing, thanking All the mouths moving As they converse amongst each other The boy hears a loud noise He slows as he runs It alone stands out One noise in a world of clatter It rings in his ears Finally he stops As the pounding noise Is right in front of him Looking at the market stall Placed before him A butcher stands A meat cleaver in one hand Humming happily As he chops into the meat Of an animals dead corpse The crack of bones As the metal crushes The animal’s dead body Crack crack crack It echoes in the boys ears As the butcher wedges the knife Out of the cutting board Out of the pile of pulverized meat The butcher wipes the blood On his white apron Laughing as he notices the boy Standing there motionless His arms dangling limp At his sides The butcher brings the cleaver down Again and again The boy flinches each time Following each little movement With eyes wide Hands gripping tightly onto The little toy airplane The butcher spits to the side And looks down his nose At the small innocent boy He snorts again You wanna try kid? It’s fun He holds out the cleaver Stained in blood The little boy drops the toy And steps forward Out of his old world And into a new one As he grabs onto the knife To big for his tiny hands The forgotten toy sits on the ground It is crushed beneath the crowd As it moves forward Always moving The boy doesn’t notice The crack of bones resounds Echoing into a crowd that doesn’t listen And doesn’t care Except for the little crushed airplane toy That lays broken and forgotten As a boy walks away from innocence Into a world of blood As the cleaver falls