Category Archives: poetry

The untamed wilderness of heart-song…

Each heartbeat a longing for desire

Each step a call to the wild

The wind stirs up the dust of lust

Dancing in the moonlight

Circling your soul

Heat radiating from the Earth

Warming your thoughts

Power rising in the night

Simplicity and eternity

Woven into the galaxy

Stars twinkling with a mischievous grin

Sweet fragrant blossoms of the midnight hour

The scent of untamed beauty

The opening of a heart

The echo of a promise

The lure of a future

If you only step beyond the imaginary confines of your mind

And out into the wild

To wield your magic into the night

By Yours Truly a.k.a. Maria Montgomery 


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Filed under Love, night, Poem, poetry, Soul, Uncategorized

Living your truth + your dating profile = it’s about to get interesting…

The adventurer in me seeks the adventurer in you

For soulful journeys across oceans

And spiritual realms

For love induced delirium

And caffeine inspired moments

We’ll walk through the back alleys of cities

Getting lost in photographic moments

Of gritty dirt and beautiful arches

We’ll jump in the sea

Just to play with the ocean

We’ll sip tea in secret gardens

And have wine in hidden rooms

We’ll meet poets and playwrights,

Scientists and academics

We’ll have conversations

With lost souls and enlightened hearts

We’ll look for the meaning of life

Whilst getting high on the reality of the moment

We’ll seek answers we’ll never find

Whilst dancing on pavements

And giggling at raindrops

We’ll cry our hearts out at the pain we encounter

Then dry them with the beauty of life

And the occasional slice of chocolate

We’ll settle

But never be settled

We’ll have homes

But also places to roam

We’ll never be ordinary

And we’ll never be rude to the waiters

But maybe we’ll throw about our baggage

And stab each other from time to time

It’s OK because all wounds heal

So long as they aren’t mortal


We’ll know reality

But we’ll turn it to poetry

Because living is an art

And we’re the ones with the blank canvases

Waiting to be filled

With the paint of our hearts


You’ll need the heart of an explorer

And the eyes of an artist

The mind of an adventurer

And the courage of a bear

Love is the hardest journey

And the most beautiful of all

I realized that if I am to live the life of my dreams, I have to get real about who I am and what I want. I’ve written about taking responsibility for my choices. I’ve written about breaking down my life into manageable chunks and creating joy in the moment. I’ve written about facing my emotional fears. But this is me. This is the poet in me. This is me living the emotions I hide, yet the very same emotions I seek.

I won’t find them unless I dare live them.

Every day I feel a little bit happier as I let that poet shine through a little more. That hopeless romantic who prefers traveling the world without a map, just so as to be able to get lost in cities and encounter moments she never knew existed (OK, so I do like carrying a map, just occasionally not using it). 

To create your dream life, you have to dare to live it. You have to dare to be who you truly are. Otherwise, how can you create what you truly want? How can you create a living expression of your heart if you aren’t prepared to first show that heart?

Magique is about creating poetry in the moment for people. Magique is about wielding magic to create beautiful experiences that evoke all senses. 

The movies I have rattling around in my mind are about sharing poetic (and funny) moments with people; about showing people the poetry of life. 

And the life I want to live is a life filled with everyday poetry. Magic. Beauty. Truth. Freedom. And love. 

So here’s the vulnerable person in me, cheering the vulnerable person in you – let’s create poetry together. Because an arm of possibility is stretching across the ocean this morning, leaving a trail of mist and sparkling sunbeams. It’s a call to adventure and a promise of peace. It’s everything and nothing. It just is. But it’s all about how you view it. I view it as an ocean of opportunity and a moment of poetic bliss. 

By Yours Truly, a.k.a. Maria Montgomery 

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Filed under Artists, poetry, Soul, soul path, Thoughts, twin flames, Writing

The most beautiful story of all…

I don’t feel much like writing at all tonight. Unfortunately (fortunately that is) I follow my intuition as experience tells me that to doubt it is foolish. Hence, I’m writing.

Do you have a story that you come back to? A story that is your heart song? It’s not your life, it’s a metaphor for your life. It’s the life in you. This is my story. It’s called The Jester. You can read the other two chapters I’ve previously posted here. And here’s the next one…

The Jester…chapter unknown…

Rough winds were playing outside. She’d say they were cheeky winds. Playful with a bit of an edge – an edge strong enough to shake the house from time to time.

As usual remnants of her own life started to dance within her as the wind played. Old memories stirred, like leaves in the wind.

Today she was reminded of a man. He’d walked into her shop one day. He’d had a confident aura with a little bit of heartbreak shadowing its edges. Gray hair. Twinkling blue eyes. The lines in his face made him look weather worn in the right kind of way. He was the kind of man women would stop to look twice at, but he didn’t look back.

He was a wise man. He was a man who had seen and done what few ever would. He’d sinned in ways most would never imagine sinning and healed in ways most would never imagine healing. He was the kind of man who’d been through the sort of living hell that either make you die, or fight to reach a spiritual plane where life is no longer about pain.

Having the knowledge he had, he was also the kind of man who looked you in the eye and spoke the truth. Unfortunately the truth isn’t always pretty. Nor is it helpful if you don’t know what to do with it.

As a kid she’d been a bit like that man – she’d tell people the truth. Usually the truth she thought they most needed to hear; the truth about their wounds. As she grew older she learned that unless she offered a loving hand of help, the truth rarely set people free – instead it haunted them. They were as imprisoned by their fears and wounds as before she’d mentioned them. Just because someone else could see them and by seeing them make them tangible, it didn’t mean the person would do something about them. Instead the wounds started to bleed.

So she’d taken over her grandmother’s bakery and she now dished out the truth with a loving pat on the back and a suitable cake to go with it. People were charmed and charmed people are a lot more likely to go about making the changes you suggest they make.

In short, showing someone their wound without offering a way of healing it, is rather cruel unless the person is a healer in themselves. And even when you offer a way of healing a wound, it does the patient good to receive a dose of love too. After all, wounds are painful and love takes the edge of pain. And love, in one form or another, is usually the medicine needed to heal the wound.

The charismatic man who had stepped into her shop was prone to heal people with his wisdom, but he was no soothsayer. He did not wrap his truths up in nice little packages to diffuse the pain and he did not offer any love to go with his words. Instead he smirked and said the enlightened knew life is filled with pain and the only way to transcend it is to walk straight through it. Because that was his path, but it isn’t everyone’s path. Not everyone does well with bleeding wounds. In fact, quite a few of them faint and thereby render themselves useless.

The warmth of her shop had impressed him. He had liked what she’d done. How she camouflaged the truth in pretty little metaphors. He’d liked the cleverness of it all. He was wise enough to see that his way wasn’t everyone’s way. Of course he’d told her the truth though. He’d prodded and pushed till she bled.

At that stage she had thought she needed him. That she had needed his truth. She’d run after him like a lost puppy looking for advice. Her gran had just left the earthly realms. She was alone. She hadn’t found her feet yet. He wasn’t interested in friendship. He was a loner. And she wasn’t a chosen disciple.

The wind stirred up some sand that hit her windows as she stirred her tea. Sweet licorice and soft vanilla mingled with fruity notes of rooibos. Her tea gave her a level of comfort that man never could have. He only gave her a little piece of truth she was then left to battle herself. Ultimately those kind of pieces can set you free, but it’s often a long and harsh path. She knew because she’d taken it.

What struck her the most though as she remembered the man, was her need for friendship, for warmth, and his refusal to give it. For all his hearty laughs, heated spiritual discussions and twinkling blue eyes, he was always detached. Aloof. All he’d needed was his lover, his spirituality and his smoke. Everything else was earthly madness in his books. Yet, he was part of that madness because he was attached to the three things that diffused his pain. And he found it easier to say everyone had their path than taking responsibility for how he affected their path.

She wondered why she’d tried so hard to befriend him? Acceptance? Winning a true friend? She wasn’t sure, but she thought it had been to calm her own nerves. She wasn’t used to walking alone and believing her own truth. She wanted reassurance. He didn’t have the warmth of her gran, but he’d been wise and she’d wanted him to tell her that she was alright. That she could handle life on her own.

The wind did another little dance and she looked up and smiled at her dark window panes. She was certain that something fun filled and cheeky would happen soon. She could feel it in the air. Someone out there was stirring things up. She had the impression of two brothers playing, twirling around each other and laughing at the things they did as they flew by. Like scaring an old lady by pushing her door open and dancing through her living room. Or taking all the leaves old Monsieur Bardin had neatly raked into a heap and making them spin around him in a circle of unhindered delight. She liked this wind.

Her thoughts returned to the wise man. She’d sought confirmation from him; confirmation that she was wise. In the end she’d had to find that for herself though. It was funny and sad to see all the people looking for these kinds of things in the wrong places. Through the years she’d had women and men come into her shop crying over unrequited love. They’d been begging for crumbles from people who refused to give more. They could go elsewhere and be served cake, but for them crumbles were all they’d ever had. They didn’t expect more and held onto what little was given.

Others were merely confused by love. They felt attraction, on some level or other, and decided it was love.

Desire, she thought was a delirious thing. It would draw you to the mirror images of your soul and the best parts of you, but also the mirror images of your greatest wounds. Like the people searching for crumbles, because that’s what they were used to. Nursing those souls back to life was a particular pleasure of hers.

Other souls had been through too much pain. Like slaves they’d walk along with anyone who would ease it. Some chose the bottle, some chose pleasures of the flesh, others chose to devote themselves to a person, or to a spiritual path of no attachment.

To look beyond desire and at the same time enjoy the right kind of desire, so aptly provided by the world, was an art few mastered. She didn’t. Not yet. She looked beyond other people’s desires, but not her own. Not always. At least she provided the right kind of desire through her gifts; through her shop of delights. Healthy desire. Desire to stir the soul and enjoy the pleasures of the earth.

She thought about the man’s twinkling blue eyes. The gray streaks in his hair. How he’d laughed about life’s absurdities. And how those absurdities had caused the pain he’d so tried to overcome in his little spiritual bubble. Wise, yet foolish, but who was she to judge? He didn’t want friends, she wanted as many as possible. In the end one of his three desires had caused him pain – the desire for his lover. After that he’d left town and she’d never seen him again.

She sighed.

It was time to blow out her candle. The wind was still playing. She longed for bed and a night filled with dreams. In the morning she was fairly certain mischief would come knocking. With winds like these, it was bound to happen. And with that thought she blew out her candle, a smile playing on her lips.

By Yours Truly, a.k.a. Maria Montgomery. You can read the other two chapters I’ve previously posted here.


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Filed under Inspiration, Inspirational, poetry, Spirituality, Story, Storytelling, Uncategorized

Love and pigeons…

The Dance of Love

I want to tear the confines of my soul open

Dance across the shattered pieces of barb wired fences

Stand naked in the glory of the unknown

I want to sip the dew at dawn

Without consideration that this might be the last

Or the first

Of Everything

I want to sit surrounded by love

Knowing that the false pretense

Is all gone

I want to experience

Every nook and cranny of my soul

I want to dance

On the thorns of my past

And see myself melt into the nothingness

Which is Everything

I want to be free

Yet I scratch my back at the barb wired fence that I built round my soul

I tear at it

I scream in pain

And as blood rushes over me

I yell at others to make them open it

To set me free

I push them, hoping they’ll get so angry

They’ll tear me to pieces

So I can open

So I can be free

So I can love

I’m holding onto my fence

I tear at it

It hurts

I wonder why I can’t make it open?

Why it can’t go away?

Then I let go

I lick my bleeding hands

I take a step

Then another

I dance

I feel my body turned onto the steps

I awaken

I breathe

There’s freedom within my movement

There’s life in my steps

I love to dance

And love, love changes everything.


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Pigeon Thoughts 

The pigeon is looking at me

Impressions in ink

Thoughts sliding across the mountain

Like tiny dots of fluffy white

Waves crashing against the shore

Reminders of the wild

And the untamed

My Africa

Adventure pulls at my soul

My heartbeat quickens

A smile twinkles in the corner of my lips

I stand

I go to cook dinner

Maybe tomorrow.

We Are

We are all the ripple effects of each others’ consciousnesses

As we laugh

As we cry

As we reach for another cigarette

Or whatever our kind of poison

We touch a soul

Somewhere in the distant skies

So maybe

If I smile, just a little

I’ll tickle your soul

With a feather of delight.

old_9554Ralph Gibson; Leda

The Battle

Opportunities palpable

Breathing; whispering in the distance

Chances pulsating through the night

Giggles rising as your dreams chase them

You wake

Thoughts overpowering

Logic so illogical

Debates inside your mind

Pros and cons

Predicting the future with your head

Round and round

So many thoughts

So many roads to get there

So many things you could do to manipulate fate

Instead you slumber

You listen to your heart

It asks you to set it free

To let it roam

And trust that one day the thoughts will be silent

And your path revealed.

The Confines of Your Mind

I dance

Outside the confines of my mind

A choreography of lunacy

Illuminated by moonlit spells

Truth emerges

Until the confines no longer confine me.


I’ll be Rimbaud, you’ll be Verlaine

I’ll be Kahlo, you’ll be Trotsky

You’ll be Byron, I’ll be Lamb

You’ll be Shakespeare, I’ll have black wires on my head

You’ll be Da Vinci, we’ll be arrested for sodomy

The path of true love

Never did run smooth

And we’ll go down in history

Because lord what fools these mortals be.

Ludicrous Enlightenment

Between Jungian metaphors

And split consciousnesses

You’ll dance

I’ll play the fiddle

Dreams in waking hours

Sleep deprived nights of lucid moments

Echoes of truth

Amidst foolish thoughts

A wolf tooth for wild adventures

A dolphin’s call to play

Idiotic synchronicity

As the stars chase your name

And I knit the fabric of my soul.

By Yours Truly, a.k.a. Maria Montgomery 


Filed under dance, Dancing, Freedom, Love, poetry, Spirituality, Uncategorized

Clock, tik tok…

The clock was like a grand old lady – timeless, yet on time. Tik tok, tik tok. Steady, but frail, knowing it was living in a world so different from what it was born into. Knowing it was time. Little time. Left.

It was a foreigner in its own home. The times had changed. And it had measured it all. Tik tok, tik tok.

At first it had taken pleasure in the changes – in seeing children grow up and find love. In being there as times changed. But then, it had moved beyond its time.

Tik tok, tik tok.

It was time, but it did not want to go. Did not want to leave, because it did not know where it was going.

It had seen so much, explored the colors and textures of the world, and it wanted to do it all again. There had been hard times too. Wars. But it had come through and found the world beautiful once more. Births and laughter instead of deaths and sorrow. Happiness always returned, albeit in different forms. You lost one thing and found another.

It had all been different times though. The times it had belonged to. Now, time was slipping. Turning into a future the clock could not grasp, because it did not belong there. Time was up.

And as sleep would come a new adventure would start. And time, time would keep moving.


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Jesters and the night…

Night flutters by and leaves a blanket of comforting darkness to hide in. Sounds fade and the lonely feel lonelier, whilst those content find themselves listening to their own heart and the faded sounds of nature. They discover in the muted darkness what was hidden in the blurred technicolor events of the day. Strong winds are sometimes heard, blocking out all other noises. On such nights restless souls find themselves wondering, worrying, or maybe dreaming of possibilities to come. As dust is stirred imagination is awakened.

With dawn possibilities arise. The night feels far away, almost like a dream hidden in the clouds of consciousness. You aren’t really sure if the thoughts that were awakened were your true heart’s desire, or folly. It seems but a vague memory now, maybe with some bits of clarity attached to it. Other times you feel thankful for sunrise as what you faced was not your heart, but your demons. As morning arrive you feel cleansed. Reborn.

Daylight tugs at you. Pulling you to create what night whispered in your ear, or to create something new to avoid returning to that which you heard in the night. You move into action, heralded by the thunder of your heart and the promise of life. One more day. One more chance.

It is funny what night does to you.

Just another little piece of The Jester.


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I saw you on the carousel

Going round and round

Spinning freely through the clouds

I wanted to laugh and dance and cry with someone

I wanted to fly high with someone

I wanted to move that freely knowing my own worth

I wanted to laugh without worries

I wanted to sing in the morning sun

I wanted to feel a peace I’d never felt

I wanted you to bring that to me

So I stood up

I climbed the ladder to the sky

I decided it wasn’t you, it was I

Who needed to help myself

Past my fear of heights

Freedom is thrilling

But by its gates stands thy own sweet enemy

Slay the dragon that is thou

Then dance

Because Gods have all too little mercy

And soon our vacation on Earth is over

So whilst you can dance

By Maria Montgomery


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