Butterflies at the Hummingbird Pond by Cat VibertWatercolor Mixed Media
Upside down places
Where songs of butterflies glide
On wings and mirrors.
©2010 Catherine Vibert
Butterflies at the Hummingbird Pond by Cat VibertWatercolor Mixed Media
Three Graces Night and Day by Cat Vibert
20X24 oil on canvasDawn pierces through the dead of night
where light becomes shadow
then shadow to light
as pain sees beauty
when sorrow finds sight
seeking refuge in the deep.
See mountains beyond so steeped in blue
but when I climb them
there is only You
for that is the path
we climb anew
in spirals of our sleep.
Awake then friend, and see the dawn
for dark becomes light
when night has gone
The Graces will sing
their siren song
forever yours to keep.
@2010 Catherine Vibert
Dear friends, perhaps you remember a poetry contest a few months back in which Sarah Hina, Tom Hirons and Rachel Westfall were the winners? That contest featured the photo that inspired this painting. This painting represents a new turn for me in my painting, as I’ve just started in with a teacher and I’m loving the results. Can’t wait to get started on the newest effort!
“Please sir, may I have some more?” asked Oliver.
More
A simple thing, we’ll take a drill
And bore it through the earth, we will
Five miles ‘neath the ocean floor
Because in there, we heard there’s more
More of what we want in life
A kind of ease that’s free from strife
To help with chores we hate to do
And ease of flight for me and you
We’ll take the ease and make it such
That in our lives, we’ll find it much
Indeed we’ll see that when we look
It’s even in the things we cook
It’s on our hair and in our clothes
It wraps the water in the hose
And all around the house we see
The benefits that make us free
The bags we bring home from the store
The stuff in closets, more and more
Until we can not see the sky
For all the stuff we’ve piled so high
And when it breaks, it matters not
That it will never come to rot
Because that’s just the way things are
Just throw it out, away and far
Because it seems we can get more
By drilling through the ocean floor
But know this now and know it well
We’ve opened up the gates to hell
©2010 Catherine Vibert
A great big thank you to all who entered the contest. There were so many excellent poems, and so many poems that touched me deeply that I decided midway to enlist the help of an impartial judge who has nothing to do with my online world. My father, C. Stuart Vibert. Highly qualified both as a lifetime student of literature and the arts, and a talented writer in his own right. He has the distinction of having two stories published in the first edition of City Lights Magazine.
My criteria was the poem that moved me the most. For me, a poem needs to encapsulate an emotion, and so many of them did. I had physical reactions upon reading many of them, feeling immediately moved.
An area of concern that made judging difficult for me: I have long term relationships with many of the poets who submitted poems. I didn’t want the relationships with the writers to interfere with my choices. I printed out all of the poems but without the names attached. Of course, I did remember some of the authors of each poem, but not all of them. I then read each poem out loud. I put aside poems that didn’t read well. I put aside poems that were written in rhyme and meter but the meter tripped up in places. It came down to about 10 poems which I starred as promising. From those poems I had three potential winners in my mind. I then gave the poems to my father and with no knowledge of any of the writers whatsoever, he picked the same three. The decision was so close I’ve decided the runners up will also receive a print!
My top three choices and how they moved me:
3rd Runner Up: Rachel Westfall of The Waxing Moon
The moon’s slow grace runs golden through
the apple fields as though it knows
those amber honey words she’d lapped
in slow and patient strokes from her
sweet lover’s tongue before they slipped
away so fleetingly, and now
each night she haunts the fields in search
of something lost that precious night
of belfire, bower, hair entwined
with ribbons bright, spring blossoms strewn–
her youth, perhaps, or maiden’s charm
spilled carelessly on meadow loam–
yet morning finds her, endlessly
still older, worn, creased paper-thin
feet moss-dew bathed, brow blessed by night,
kissed by the newborn sun
__
Exquisite imagery and wording, this poem moved me far back into the past, into the days of youth that are forever gone. I admit that when I got to the end, I completely choked up. A tear for past dreams. Thank you Rachel.
2nd Runner Up: Blake aka Tom Hirons of Coyopa
All Winter,
Three stark trees
Watched me.
In fire and snow;
In the grip of
Ice and longing;
I looked up from
Blood and stone
And saw them
Watching.
I thought that Spring
Would never come
And the trees would
Not green again.
I thought that Life
Would never start
And my heart would
Not beat again.
All Winter,
Three stark trees
Watched me.
I watched back
And waited,
Though it felt like
Dying to wait.
And Spring came.
Three green trees
Watch me.
I climb over the gate
And go towards them.
Three green trees
Watch me run.
___
This poem was a reenactment of the recent events of Winter turning into Spring as seen from my painting window. In the poem, Tom takes me from the stillness and the stark cold *in* of Winter: the sitting and staring, hoping, waiting, longing and lounging too much into the head and endless sense of cocooning, to running toward the joyous return of Spring and all that it brings. Simple words, beautiful flow of grace, this poem makes me want to dance.
1st Place: Sarah Hina of Murmurs
I can hear
the nightingale
waltzing with indigo
when swaddled
within a gauze
of light
Yet the lark
will half me
a wafer of dawn
if I should
sink these knees
in some honeyed
blight
Wherever I pause,
life jumps across,
as I chase
and laugh
the waves
with a loon
as my albatross
____
This poem moved me in layers. When I first read it I knew it was among my top choices, but then it began to haunt me. It woke me up in the middle of the night in fact. This poem moves me connection by connection. Anyone who knows me well, knows that my mind works by connecting metaphors and codes, one to the other. Sarah has done that here like a master. I will try to decipher for you. First, it brings into the field the sound of birds. An image can’t capture the sound of birds, so only the imagination can bring that into the forefront, but I assure you, in reality, the birds are there.
But not just any birds. As the image would suggest, these are the birds of night and day, the nightingale and the lark. The same nightingale and lark, I presume, that confused Romeo and Juliet, those star crossed lovers who were hoping for a little more darkness to be able to revel in their light (before they were separated forever by fate).
Star crossed lovers. A mythology that can plague those who believe in it, and make them behave completely insane. And so the nightingale dances with the indigo when even a little golden light might shine on him, getting more and more covered in blue. And so the lark who may sing in the glorious rays of dawn will sink in the hidden darkness of the honeyed blight. And these beliefs that any of that star crossed lover mythology is real, all the actions that we do to chase it, that is our insanity. For those of us who experience this over and over again, even though we know better, the loon (the tendency toward fantasy), is the albatross.
In my opinion, the pure genius of this poem took it over the top on wings.
Sarah’s novel Plum Blossoms in Paris is being published in August. You can preorder her book here
The winner of the drawing was Sandie Rhodes!
Congratulations Sarah, ‘Blake’ aka Tom, Rachel and Sandie!
Thank you all for entering, it was an absolute joy to read your submissions. I plan to make these contests a regular feature on my blog. Stay tuned!
Three Graces in the Morning Fields of Gold
Available in Art Store
Win a 6.5″ X 9″ print of this image.
CONTEST RULES:
Enter a short poem in the comment section inspired by the above photo. There will be two winners.
The first winner will be chosen by a drawing, all you have to do is enter your poem and you will automatically have an opportunity to win.
The second winner I will choose based on the poetry. I am the sole judge of this and admit outright that my choice will be subjective based on how the words move me emotionally. Any form is acceptable, the only rule is that the image inspired it.
The contest is open until midnight EST on May 15th, 2010.
Have fun!
*Addendum added May 13, 10:10 a.m. EST
Due to the extremely high quality of poetry entered so far on this contest, the judge has enlisted the help of an impartial co-judge who will help me select the winner. Since my criteria of judging was based on how the poetry moved me, I am finding myself so moved by these entries that already in my heart there are several winners. What’s a judge to do?
Keep them coming friends!
* Update 6:23 a.m. Sunday May 16th: The contest entry period is now closed. Stay tuned for the winner’s announcement. Thank you all for your wonderful entries. It will be a very difficult decision I assure you!
Light from Bleeding Hearts by Cat Vibert
She formed out of the black and deep abyss
The place where stony shadows hid in dark
Extending out her hand she blew a kiss
Thus casting hidden seeds contained in sparks
For life! she cried as tears then carved through stone
They forged their way ahead and formed a sea
The seeds on breezes gently finding homes
In her enchanted place of majesty
Fine clothed in Earth, the blue and green brocade
She wears with grace as sunlight warms her skin
As we upon her knee like children play
And children like, proceed by blundering
For Mother Earth today in offering
A song of hope that only hearts can sing
©2010 Catherine Vibert
The First Crocus of Spring, by Cat Vibert
Available in Art Store
As winter lifts her blanket from the earth
The faeries stir in caves beneath the ground
Amidst the yawns are greetings filled with mirth
As laughter melts the ice in joyous sounds
There’s Oberon awake and standing tall
He stretches to shake off the last of sleep
To Titania, still cold, he lends his shawl
Then turns to build a fire in the keep
The other faeries start to sing and dance
They whirl and swirl inside that stinking cave
Until one peeps her head out to advance
No longer to be chained as winter’s slave
Her magic tricks to please in offering
The opening of hearts to wild Spring
©2010 Catherine Vibert
St. Claire meets the Dark Mother by Cat Vibert
Visions of Sister Moon Pt. 3
Click here to view series on one page.
Interlude
In solitude she walks under the moon
Yet prays to Francis’ God as she steps forth
She veils herself to keep from wanton swoon
And keeps her eyes downcast to avert mirth
Her visions have gone black as raven’s night
She sees but naught an answer to her prayers
She’s taken to the hills on dreams of flight
For to escape the mills of town nay-sayers
Yet there, upon the bluff, a woman sits
No face has she, but shines as dark as night
A child she holds to suckle at her teets
No doubt but sure this child is pure as light
The darkened mother’s mask disputes despair
Or so her light, as moon, appeared to Claire
@2010 Catherine Vibert
Moonlight on Snow by Cat Vibert
Oil on Canvas
Twas in the snowy moon I heard your call
As silent footsteps wandered down the path
I heard you and upon my knees did fall
And cried to you my heart’s unending wrath
I raised my arms as branches to the moon
And called to you to save me from this pain
The fairy stories woven in my looms
Have shrouded me in skeins of ices plain
But there in silent fields of snowy white
A sudden warmth came flooding through my soul
As seeds of Love will fly on wings of night
The mysteries of longing take their toll
As sure as night will rend its snowy hand
Love’s touch will melt the hour in the sand
©2010 Catherine Vibert
Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! I apologize for not getting around to blogs. Besides painting this week, I overdid the computer thing and have the dread computer arm thing going on, but I’ve been resting and am on the mend. I will be around soon to catch up.
Congratulations to Jozien for winning the print of the Golden Buddha. 
Thank you so much to all who participated. There are many excellent poems in the bunch, if you haven’t read through them, I recommend you take the time. Many of them left me in tears (of joy of course). Here is the link.
Finally, a reminder to vote for me today and everyday until 2/22 at the WNC On the Verge emerging artist competition.
Ice on Branches by Cat Vibert
wrapped in a sea of ice,
landscapes of solitude
prisons of thought
Love, universal, absolute
always flowing
m e l t s
armored cocoons
d r i p p i n g
nothing remains solid
in Love’s river©2010 Catherine Vibert
(Don’t forget to enter the drawing on the previous post! You have until February 13th at midnight to enter.)
Dancing Buddhas by Cat Vibert
From Headless Buddha Series available in Art Store
Oh they do come and go Dancing in Swirling out In Out Come Go Like my heart beating blood It comes in blue It goes out red You rush in red I come out blue Because I can’t hold blood You walked in silently Through layers of fog Touched the triangle Reaching clarity Touched the triangle Instant opening Touched the triangle With quiet revelations The dam is broken I bleed The doctor exposes the wound And is gone I stumble, I feel, I ache I don’t feel, I am numb The fog is thick The triangle bleeds It bleeds I don’t know how much It doesn’t matter Blood comes and goes It comes and goes Nothing stays the same
©2010 Catherine Vibert
(PS, I’d love to know your thoughts on this image. I had fun ‘doctoring’ it recently as I’m entering the Headless Buddha Photography series into a juried exhibition. To see the original unedited version click here. Thanks! ~ Cat)
Three Graces under the Air Streaked Sky by Cat VibertPhotography This image is available for sale in the Art Store.
Color blazes in from the East
Waking me from a black and white
Night of the forgotten
One who touches me
Where fire is not allowed
And the cold blue dawn
Ignites in rainbow visions
That have no home
In this reality
Of forgotten dreaming
Air streaks cross the sky
Arcing from North to South
As fallout dusts
The sunset West
©2010 Catherine Vibert
Sunrise Buddha by Cat Vibert
A Photo Collage from Headless Buddha Series
Available in Art StoreOh how you’ve got my thoughts derailed
“My lover, my secret, my one,”
Dancing and swirling on neuron tails
Far away from the light of the sun.
Just watch the stage from here above
The passion play of fire,
An artist painting flames of love
With cauldrons of desire.
Oh yes this play, this stage within
Leaves swaths of ash behind,
And still I would invite you in,
(As if your heart were mine).
But find me in another realm
A place where love flows kind,
Where we can dance and sing as One
Yet free from chains of mind.
Just follow
Me Here
Not there,
Yes, Here
Where hearts
Beat slow
At peace
With God
The Water
Our Secret
My Love
©2010 Catherine Vibert
Mirrored Buddha by Cat Vibert.
Photography Collage.
From Headless Buddha Series available in Art Store.
If I sit
Long enough
With enough quiet
My mind might disappear
Then maybe
Just maybe
When the characters in my mind
Step off the stage,
I will hear You
I will hear You in the wind
In the song of the bird
Or the purr of my cat
In the voice of my lover
Or the cackle of the witch
Just maybe
And just maybe
When the sea behind my eyes
Is no longer drowning me,
I will see You
I will see You in the sky
On the starlit horizon
Or there in the ground
The crystal held in rock
Just maybe
And just maybe
When needy thoughts have fled
Because I am not listening,
I will feel You
I will feel You,
In the beating of my heart
As the world decays around me
My heart would beat for You
I would follow the rhythm
Dancing to Your song
Just maybe…
Orchid Angel from Light Paintings Series. by Cat Vibert. (Not yet available for purchase). Light paintings are distorted photographs of objects shot using a strong but natural light source such as fire or candle, and then using the palette available from the image to paint out the images I see in the distortions.
Becoming the Ice Queen
She watches,
Shawl wrapped on cold shoulders,
Eves that once carried life
Remains of a nest
From some warmer season
Reminding her of days
Of freedom and wings
Of unabashed laughter
And holy connections
All gone now,
Hidden in the other realm
Banished, as pasts are,
From anything but thought.
She watches,
Stalactites drip, lengthen, curl
Daggers forming,
She plays with her breath
Exhaling warmth onto ice thoughts
As they slowly drip and freeze
A spiral Fibonacci perfection
The perfect cleaver
(For what? Thoughts?)
The temperature drops
Like fading laughter.
She watches,
Breathing,
Arms open
As if in some ritual
(Embrace the pain
Embrace the pain
Embrace the pain)
Her thoughts,
Fibonacci thoughts
Dripping down in spirals of ice.
She watches,
Heaving,
As a dagger breaks off
From the eves of past hope
Impaling her chest
Straight through her heart
The ice blade freezing rivers.
Once blood tsunamis
Pumped from the gates,
Now this heart,
This broken heart of ice
Breaks into pieces
And falls away.
She watches,
She breaks,
She steps on all that is holy,
No longer does she bleed.
©2010 Catherine Vibert ( PS. No, I have no intention of becoming the ice queen, thank you! 
I’m just really cold right now so it felt appropriate.)
Trapped Buddha by Cat Vibert. From Headless Buddha Series. Available in Art Store
Hidden in shadowsAnd tangled webs of light are
Stairways to heaven © 2010 Catherine Vibert
Three Graces in the Apricot Dawn, by Cat Vibert. Watercolor Digital Mixed Media.
Three Graces Series available in the Art Store
An Apricot dawn Graces greet the morning sun Their shadows dancing ©2009 Catherine Vibert
Girl in the Window, by Cat Vibert
From ‘Light Paintings’ series, (Coming to the Art Store in January)
*****
You pass, looking up at the window, as you usually do, noticing her eyes ev every e v e r y where. Today, she sees you looking at her looking at her eyes her eyes which are swords swords that pierce swords piercing through your encasement stabbing at your heart. Her eyes her green piercing eyes haunt you and you see her you see her everywhere ev every e v e r y where in your mind you bring her orchids orchids that never die color that goes on forever forever for e v e r In your mind you rescue her from her dingy apartment under the L train putting her in a penthouse looking over the lake where you can see her green eyes her piercing piercing green eyes every time ev every e v e r y time you wish.You beckon, she appears and she loves you and she wants you and no other for she is yours all yours and you touch her and you need her and you enter her again and again
while you stare stare into those eyes those piercing green eyes green eyes
that will not quiet
will
not
quiet
in your mind her eyes live
every where piercing
every time green eyes looking at you
you will make them your eyes
and you will hide her away the girl in the window
so no one else is pierced by her eyes only meant for you
who would keep her locked away if you could forever forever for
e v e r a n d e v e r ©2009 Catherine Vibert
Gates in Reflection. A memorial for Jeanne Claude. With sympathy to Christo, her soulmate.
My heart stirred and I knew you And my heart longed for that love
An ideal pairing of two
From a nearby rooftop I saw Rivers of flame That could not be tamed
Rivers that burst
Inside your head
A flame extinguished
In the park I saw Rivers of your hair Reflected in the lake Reflections of a love That will always stir my soul
Fairwell Jeanne Claude I walked once through your saffron dream And will never forget the vision Of your hair, Swinging freely in the breezes From 7503 Gates To love
Hello everyone! If you were thinking of purchasing art from my Art Store, please take this opportunity to purchase two Giclee Fine Art prints for the price of one! The second print is my gift to you for helping me get started with my new store.
And because this is also a creative writing blog (and I will be getting back to that regularly very soon for all you poem hungry friends), let me leave you with a sonnet of pure doggerel.
I never had a mercenary heart
I never had a mercenary heart
Just spent my hours running to the muse
And chasing after her in fits and starts
So many things to learn and arts to choose.
She’s taken me away to foreign lands
She’s taken me through tunnels deep within
She’s landed me on shores with shifting sands
It’s she that saved my heart from caving in.
I’d like to share my muse with all of you,
I don’t think she would mind, and so I will,
Continually creating something new,
From gathered dreams upon the window sill.
But still a merchant I must needs become
I thank you in advance for buying some!
PS: And if you can’t I love you still, dear ones.
Three Graces hold an Autumn Ball
Oil on Canvas
Wear your finest gold
Winter is tomorrow’s game
Today, we shall dance!
Gaze of Fire Woman
From Headless Buddha Series
Digitally Altered Watercolor
She stares at the stillness as her dreams fall away into the clouds of desert sand and pools of darkness somehow connect the colors of its countries rendering death and forever into a complex tapestry that she lives purging all perceived self definitions into the fire of wholly sacrificing every scrap from past destinations and stepping off the cliffs of nothing into love invisible and omnipresent reality.
Note: Nod to ee cummings; ‘the colors of its countries rendering death and forever’ borrowed from Somewhere I have Never Traveled
Headless Buddha with Birthday OrchidDigitally altered watercolor If only I were a statue
I would sit all day and watch the clouds
Until my head fell away.
Then, still, I would sit
With my hand in my lap
Knowing it is not me
That makes the orchid grow.
The water flows so perfectly
While I am still.
Moonlight on River
Oil on Canvas
If we could have a moment spent alone
Where I could whisper soft into your ear
Of forces that it seems we both have known
And yet can never speak of these, for fear
That speaking thus will cause the river’s edge
To overflow with secrets best submerged
The voicing of such thoughts would cause a wedge
A confluence of unity diverged
The loves we’ve wed would shatter with my voice
As if my whisper were to be a shout
And they would be the victims of our choice
The pain of this we can not bring about.
Oh waters, wash me clean of this despair
Let me not, of you, presume to care.
A note: This is not autobiographical, but is dedicated to a friend. Also, I apologize again for not being out there blogging so much. I’m really trying to focus on painting, and I can’t paint and be on the computer at the same time. I have to admit that painting has kind of taken over my life, and I’m really grateful for the consumption!
We crumble, we can not help this
Our dreams, thoughts and loves will all fade in time,
As beauty grows from the dust.
Blue Moon with Buddha and Orchid
From Headless Buddha series
Digitally altered watercolor collage
Where shards of moon spill
Over night dreams gone astray,
Echoes sing your name.
____
Over night dreams gone astray,
Echoes sing your name.
____
Full Moon on Night Pond
Oil on canvas (3′ x 5′)
Dedicated to the memory of Senator Teddy Kennedy
“Health Care is a right, not a privilege”
Trinkets from my former days
Collected through the years
Remind me of the friends I’ve known
The laughter and the tears
Collected through the years
Remind me of the friends I’ve known
The laughter and the tears
Elephants for wisdom
My wise grandma gave to me
Silver relics from Tibet
Remind of tyranny
Kwan Yin for compassion
Yin and Yang are hard to be
Somehow balance comes askew
When life’s in front of me
Orchids then for Beauty’s grace
Around me every day
In every single thing I see
Her magic light will play
The cloth once wrapped the head of she
Who made the thing by hand
Dyed and blocked in fruits she grew
In India’s native land
The whole thing sits upon a frame
An instrument to play
The harpsichord my father built
In distant younger days
I’ve many altars through the house
I pass throughout the day
My heart and soul, my family
For whom I love and pray
And I, romantic soul I am
With reminiscent mind
Am wrapped in love from all of them
Who treated me so kind
***
Hi folks, I’m still on a break because my kids are visiting and I’m still deeply steeped in Jason’s contest. I hope you enjoy this sentimental tribute to my family and friends. It’s not quite the dark and mysterious poetry I usually write, and I’m not apologizing by any means! But I’m just feeling the love and wanted to share. I hope you are all enjoying summer.
I stood at the sea,
Looking skyward at bridges,
Unfinished, empty
Looking skyward at bridges,
Unfinished, empty
No permit issued
To put supports in the sand,
They rusted away
Sand backfilled the holes,
Somehow this is a good thing,
A new day, fresh start
Strung above me now
An engineering wonder
Has started anew
How far must I dig
Beneath the unstable sands
To find bedrock?
How strong are the strands?
Cars might fall into the sea!
Paralyzing fears
Before I build it
I kneel down and pray to You,
Help me find the rock!
I see the city
Shining there across the sea,
And now I must build.
This Senryu cycle was inspired by a dream I had last night.
Spring rolls into summer
On thunderheads that wear your face
You appear,
Wrapped in paper candy,
A ray of opiate dreams in distant lands
I long,
To touch your skin
I cry,
Torrents, as the rain cries,
Washing a promise of you
Into yesterday
On the battlefield
Neutron explosions
Of planted mines
In neuron tunnels
Leave gaping holes
Where roses and lilies
Once grew, and thrived.
Alas, even icy waters
Of a glacier stream
Will not cool the fire.
Neutron explosions
Of planted mines
In neuron tunnels
Leave gaping holes
Where roses and lilies
Once grew, and thrived.
Alas, even icy waters
Of a glacier stream
Will not cool the fire.
On the shore,
I stared, facing west
As you erased the sand
Away from under my heals
And I lost my balance
Falling backwards
To the ground
I jumped rope
With seaweed grass
You spat out to dry upon
The shore, and yelled, yee hah!
Whipping and whirling the strand
Snapping in the air, it wrapped
My ankle, black and blue
Bruised, I fell, laughing,
Your mouth cooled
For an eternity
You came and went
Raging against the rocks
Sending your frothing spittle
High into the air, mist covering
My face, I smiled as the sun
Burned colors in clouds
Pink, orange, golden
Sunk away now
I’d take you
Willingly watch your
Rages, comings and goings
If you’d soften my hard edges
Make me forget the ground
Winds caressing once
Rocks now sand
I’d take you
Lazy Summer dreams,
Pillow tufted heads of pink
Ice cream licked slowly
Pillow tufted heads of pink
Ice cream licked slowly
Crystal candy tongue
You stand and salute me
Liquid languid lilt
This marks my 100th post.
Yesterday my friend Daniel Martini posted his latest round of photos on his blog DMartini’s Photoblog. Daniel shoots in black and white film, an art that is almost lost to this world. Since I first started visiting his blogs last October, I have been touched deeply by his ability to capture the light and soul of his subjects. He is currently living and working near Mumbai, India. I highly recommend a thorough viewing of the photoblog, and also of his other blog, Faces, Lives, where he writes in depth stories about his amazing experiences and the people he has had the fortune to connect with. The following photo really affected me, and Daniel has graciously allowed me to repost it here, along with this poem:
Run, child, run
Run into your life,
Your playground
Is the stuff of yesterday’s dreams
Now crumbled and turned to dust
In the heat of a melting earth.
You will dance to the music
Banged on tin cans left
In rotting heaps,
You will find the jewels
On the mounds of forgotten hope,
In the smile of a mother’s love
You will dance into tomorrow.
You painted my face
In shining beams
I dressed you in silks
of schemes and dreams,
In shining beams
I dressed you in silks
of schemes and dreams,
(And not just any kind of dreams,
Forever, ever, always, dreams).
Unraveling now
In shades upon shades
Tendrils have ripped
The garden gates,
Facades have crumbled
The rain’s washed clean
You stand there, naked
(In a pile of dreams).
You disappear into the mist
A glance behind,
A silken kiss,
The single thread
Left in my grasp
Leaves shadows of
A wily Asp.
(It seems I’ve dreamed
This dream before
Must I dream it o’r?
And o’r and o’r?)
(Double click to see in full widescreen).
A Tapestry of Spring, an anthology
Narrated by Catherine Vibert
Voices of:
James A Murrell
Cindy Gruenwald
Catherine Vibert (pitch shifted!)
and special guest
Sarah Hina
Poems from the blog:
1) Little Girl by Amritorupa Kanjilal aka Little Girl Lost of Rivers I have known
2) All Fall Down by Rachel Westfall of The Waxing Moon
3) Jonquil Time by Karen Nowviskie of Keeping Secrets
4) Ides by Joaquin Carvel of Lyrics and Maladies
5) Promise by Aniket Thakkar of Melody of Dissonance
6) Resumption by K. Lawson Gilbert of Old Mossy Moon
7) Fly Little Bird by Steve Elsaesser of Another Sober Alcoholic
Eden by Sarah Hina of Murmurs
T’was on the distant mountain
Past the gate of The Three Graces
Where the wild forsythia blooms,
An old crone sat
On a green mossy stone
Contemplating the phase of the moon.
“Tis the time”, thought the crone,
As she reached for her spade,
“I will turn the ground now to prepare.”
And she went to the field
Sprouting green with new grass
And dug three holes with great care.
“In the hole to the North,”
Said the crone with much glee,
“The seeds of Earth’s Joy I shall plant”,
And she sang and she danced
As she banged on her drum
Thus infusing the seeds with intent.
In the holes to the South
She put seedlings of Charm
And next to that Beauty, you see?
The seedlings would grow
To be great spreading trees
Guarding gates of creativity.
The Three Graces are they,
A siren’s song
Three ships on a bonnie green sea,
Dancing bare in the snow
Or on moonlit bright nights
Unbridled they swing, they are free.
I can hear the crone’s laugh
Whistling up the through the hills
By the light of the Beltane Moon,
As The Graces they dance
To the May breeze call
And the peacock’s song echos the tune.
Thanks everyone for your wonderful creations!
Haiku
Not alone anymore,
Winter bids goodbye,
Springtime of youth.
–Aniket
Life is a secret
no longer, now that you have
found its true essence.
–Christopher
The three muses dance
when your eyes are turned away
twists and turns for you
–Sarah Hina
light passes over
cyclic slide north of center
making all things new
–Qualcosa di Bello
Lines From Underground Streams
I stood
On your decimated ground
And touched
The twisted plants
Where your rivers of lava
Cooled
–Jason
As she drew her pain
emerged in jagged lines
roughly stabbing ‘round
into the naked air
and so the ground lay bruised
and bled its deep torment
beneath a winter sky
which wailed a slow lament
a keening, barren wind
forgetful of the dawn
–RachelW
They danced in
rings of apostasy
until their breath bled
and cut through crust
and mantle and core.
The earth sponged up
a sea of crimson truth,
stain set,
and granted a
weary asylum
in a barren valley
once called Kalam.
–Jennifer
All things being equal,
I’ll take the spring,
leaving you the barren branches
and the melting into mud.
I’ll take the verdant mountains
and the fleece of clouds above
and leave you with a winter
for your cold and wanting love.
–Karen
Sunset falls on the last day of winter’s calling
The blue belly of the earth rumbles
Calling the blood of Spring forth
To feed the hungry roots of trees.
Naked and decimated, yes
But as surely as night becomes day
They will feed again,
They will breathe with their lungs
And they will dance with their verdant tresses flowing.
Like a whirling dervish twirls,
They will dance again and again
In the circle of life’s turning.
–Moi, your host.
And one final entry from my very own mother. It gave me a hearty laugh and she has allowed me to post it:
To the right the creeping, insidious, vegetative attack.
Beware oh leafless ones.
Our time has returned. If you don’t re-leaf we will cut you down and burn you in a great May Day celebration! –Ruth Sander
Thanks Mom! You know I love you much much much.
In the Spring when the weather warms
Kamela is wandering naked again
Amongst the tea plants
Grown on steep slopes
Under the shadow of Kanchenjuenga.
The sisters surround her
With bright red shawls
And together they inch down
The steep muddy goat trail
Past the broom reeds and cardamom shoots
Onto a small terrace
Where the rain collects
And a tethered goat
Stands guard on a rock
Bleating its hungered cry.
Kamela and the sisters
Enter a ramshackle hut
With no windows or doors
And three coughing babies
Tended by the oldest boy
Who will leave school at 10
If she can find him a job.
They look to see if Kamela
Brought a package of biscuits
To satiate the gnawing empty pit
“Not now my babies, maybe tomorrow.”
Her heart is filled with shame.
The sisters know they will be punished
And lose their daily wage
For half empty baskets
They must get back to the plants.
Quickly they help slip on
Kamela’s flower print skirt
Her apron
Her bright red sweater
They wrap the scarf around her head
Help her pull on rubber boots
Attach her basket to her back,
And together ascend the steep trail
Returning to the fields
To pick the first Darjeeling flush,
The finest cup in the world.
__
Plants groomed to perfect round,
Buds picked by crafty fingers
Thrown deftly over the shoulder
Into braided reed baskets
The throngs of giggling women
Pose in smiles for passing tourists
In Maruti vans. The smiles turn to curses
As the drive by shootings
Take the souls of the women
Leaving nothing to offer
To drip into empty coffers.
Kamela coughs and spits up blood
The fever is high today
But there will be no pay
If she goes home to rest.
Kamela is Brahmin, highest caste
Early the next morning,
She asks at the temple
What karma this?
As she takes the blessing,
At least I am not Adivasi, she thinks
Not dark skinned, like the sisters.
She smears red powder on her hair part
The sign of marriage,
Of a husband, yes, who can’t find work
He takes her meager wage
And drinks it away
Leaving bruises on her
Fair Brahmin skin
Now dark and leathered
From years in the sun.
She returns to the garden
To pick the first flush of Spring
One pound of which will bring from
Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly
Enough to pay Kamela
For the rest of her life.
Swirling, twirling
Thrumming, drumming
Thrusting, grinding
Skirts are flying
Beads of sweat
Are dripping, slipping
Down my neck
Shirt sticking, wicking
There you are across the room
Your eyes are closed,
You’re praying, swaying
Things that bind
Are fast unfurling
Opened eyes
Now calling, pulling
In my chest
Heart’s beating, heating
Singing, luring, weaving, laughing
Drawn from far across the space
We’re inching, stepping, leaping, flying
Finally we’re face to face and
Flowing, rocking, holding, falling
Trusting, catching, joy unmatching
Rolling, riding, fast unlatching
Locks that formed from rigid stance
Have found their keys inside the dance
This photo has nothing to do with the story. And yet, in an abstract and metaphorical way, it really does. This week a dear friend from my first days of traveling the world two years ago found me on Facebook. I met her at the hotel bar where I was staying in Bangkok, she was a bar girl. aka-Thai hooker. We became close and she confided much in me. Although this poem is partially about her, it is also about many of the girls I met there, often sent by their parents into the city to do this work in order to feed their families. Many of them have children, but not husbands. You would never know this unless you asked. Instead you will sit and feel loved and pampered and caressed and cared for. You can pretend that it is all about you when you are in Bangkok, the land of smiles, because these girls and their massage shop counterparts will make you feel amazing. And yet, they are real, with real souls, and real needs. I am happy that my friend is now working as a secretary and is no longer a bar girl. One up, thousands more to go… In the interest of protecting her identity, I am not using her real name, nor her picture.
This is for you, my MIA. Thank you for your words today. You are right, we can’t change the past, so why dwell in it?
Daw walks down Soi 18
Skirting between the changing shifts
Of food cart and hill tribe vendors
A white bag of offerings in her hand.
Arriving at The Rain Hut
She offers two rolls and a flower
Placing them lovingly
Into the birdhouse temple
She bows her head and says a prayer
Then kisses the golden Buddha
Hanging from her neck
Tomorrow, she thinks, will be better
If not this life then next.
She sits with the other girls
Combing mascara onto
Long dark lashes. An hour spent
Adept as Toulouse-Lautrec, they
Transform into their reputation
From village farm girl, to city bar girl
Ready for the long Bangkok night.
The evening shadows grow
As the city starts to cool
The sun and sweat have burned
Holes in the souls of those
Who come and fill the seats.
It’s the 50 baht per Chiang price tag
The cheapest on the Soi
That gets the crowd.
“Sohee, get me a Chiang.”
She brings him a cold beer.
Daw has another treat in store
POP. She slams her hands together
Extracting a cold wet towel
From the plastic enclosure
She dabs it lovingly over
His smelly sweating neck.
“Chokee!” He said, raising his bottle to the sky.
“Chokee!” Said the crowd in response.
They tip back their heads
Draining their bottles
“Another Chiang!” They cry in unison
Sohee doles them out and turns on the stereo
Blasting Thai rap out into the Soi
The crowd starts to dance.
A leering man twirls his fingers
In Daw’s straight black hair.
“Sohee, short time with Daw.”
Sohee puts the cup on the table
The man deposits 500 baht
Taking Daw by the arm
They walk through glass doors
Up the stairs, and into a room
Filled with the scent of mold
And screaming with the songs
Of Malaria and the Dengue Fever
He pushes her onto the bed
And lives his fantasies
For half an hour,
Pretending she is there.
Grasping the Buddha between
Long painted nails
Daw closes her eyes
And thinks about the future.
Hours away in a small village
A little girl looks into her
Grandmother’s eyes
And doesn’t question
Why she gets to eat tonight.
The catalyst’s eye
Forges a burning cleft
As the raptor feeds
On carrion lies
Forges a burning cleft
As the raptor feeds
On carrion lies
The crystalline gaze
Breaks placid serenity
Sinking through the battlegrounds
And blood stained festering scars
It falls
And falls
And falls
And lands
Smack into the middle of everything
The dam cannot keep the crows back
Rippling
From the center
Gentle waves become a tsunami
Forging rivers
In the long dried
Ancient cracks
That lie
Beneath the stone
(Image of Eagle Nebula from Hubble Space Telescope)
Adrift
A moon in a nebulae sea
A moon in a nebulae sea
Cast off
From a thousand suns
Revolves
No more around dark matter forces
Pulled
To the black hole’s edge
Vacuumed
Into a field of opposing gravitations
Reduced
To elemental atoms
Ejected
Into vast ethers of undefined space
Carried
By the waves
Of a massive
Galactic radio
Jet
Far
Into
The
F
l
o
a
t
i
n
g
l
o
a
t
i
n
g
N
o
t
h
i
n
g
Fission
Ignition of a virgin
Protosun glows in soft brown
Eyes of an almost stranger
Vision of unseen magnetic
Forces captive a binary system
Of glowing singularities
In a random universe
That doesn’t know
What orbit
Is
Ignition of a virgin
Protosun glows in soft brown
Eyes of an almost stranger
Vision of unseen magnetic
Forces captive a binary system
Of glowing singularities
In a random universe
That doesn’t know
What orbit
Is
When Muses Laughed
A Cycle of Poems
1. Sonnet: The Invitation
What muse has touched the lash upon your eye?
What tender thoughts has she provoked within?
A deeper ocean there within resides,
Where muses bathe in waters warm as sin.
It’s there I saw a ghost of you swim by,
T’was just a glimpse, a play within a play,
I asked the muses then if they would lie?
And with a laugh, “Indeed we do!” said they.
With this, mistrusting everything alike,
As muses fraught with arrows leap and bound,
I’ll set the veil upon a pointy spike,
And utter hence to you in gentle sounds;
If whispered soft my pleas could warm your skin,
Let tender fingers touch where muses reign.
2. Limerick: The Answer
I sent a poor man a love sonnet
And let him set down there upon it.
He struggled for hours,
To say his not nowers,
For there on his head was a bonnet.
3. Senryu: The Resolve
Therein lies the cat,
Revealing the knead, a claw
Soft purring soothes heart
Notes on inspiration: a thank you to master sonnet writer Scott Ennis, (and let us not forget The Bard himself) for the tutelage on sonnet writing, to the memory of Dorothy Parker for the humor in cynical response, and to my cat, Marlow, with whom I am passionately in love.
I hear the murder calling as I paint
They’re mocking me from high upon their perch
Accusing me of my misguided fate
They warn me, “Watch, you haven’t got the merch!”
I tell you now to flee from my great trees
To fly and find some other place to chat
But leave the goldfinch here for me to see
And learn to paint as delicate as that.
Ah now, I keep The Graces in my gaze
The fog beyond with subtleties of breath
On softly shifting colors do I graze
My brush in varied hues of shadowed depth.
With patience then The Graces do appear
Soft paint on paper, wetted with a tear.
They’re mocking me from high upon their perch
Accusing me of my misguided fate
They warn me, “Watch, you haven’t got the merch!”
I tell you now to flee from my great trees
To fly and find some other place to chat
But leave the goldfinch here for me to see
And learn to paint as delicate as that.
Ah now, I keep The Graces in my gaze
The fog beyond with subtleties of breath
On softly shifting colors do I graze
My brush in varied hues of shadowed depth.
With patience then The Graces do appear
Soft paint on paper, wetted with a tear.
To K. and Sarah, It’s crow season! Thanks for the inspiration!
Photo: ‘The Witness’
For disembodied people that I love
Who wrap yourselves around me every day
That send yourselves upon the wings of doves
Into this magic place in which we play
You’ve catapulted me to higher spheres
To places I had no idea were there
Have challenged me in ways to face my fears
And look into the mirror if I dare
Your voices touching somber notes untrue
And softly coaxing honesty within
A transformation, seeing something new
New eyes and ears, a higher kind of yen.
My heart is open now in gratitude
For grace and beauty your hearts have imbued.
Who wrap yourselves around me every day
That send yourselves upon the wings of doves
Into this magic place in which we play
You’ve catapulted me to higher spheres
To places I had no idea were there
Have challenged me in ways to face my fears
And look into the mirror if I dare
Your voices touching somber notes untrue
And softly coaxing honesty within
A transformation, seeing something new
New eyes and ears, a higher kind of yen.
My heart is open now in gratitude
For grace and beauty your hearts have imbued.
With steps of a bear
I enter
Arboreal gates open
I walk, honored
By mycelium carpets
Laid under my feet
You breathe in my darkness
Through fallen leaves and branches
I rise upon your breath
And emerge
On the wings of a bird
____
Note on the painting: I have been trying out different techniques to mask out the trees while I paint the background. On the last painting, I used tape, whereas in this painting I used masking fluid. The result is different, and I’m not yet sure which effect I like better.
I found a cracked uncertain place
And watered seedlings there, with grace
A forest grew, with flowers fair
Upon inspection, nothing there!
And watered seedlings there, with grace
A forest grew, with flowers fair
Upon inspection, nothing there!
The crack since sealed, and now shuts tight
Tho forest tries with all its might
To grow in that unholy place
But without water, only waste.
And hear the forest creak and moan
With sigh and rustle, cry and groan
Where nothing but the wind seeps through
The vines that twist my heart askew.
I’ll walk beyond that crack one day
And laugh upon that sordid play
But now it seems there is no chart
To bridge the cracks upon my heart.
From the bottom of the glass
The bubbles surround you in a sea of illusion,
And then you see the contents,
Joy! Connection!
And reach out to touch them.
But from within their world, there is only pain
And yet,
Hands push against the barrier,
And give you hope!
But the weave of the cloth is thick
And black,
It reeks of smoke and ash.
In fear, their hands retreat,
Only their eyes are visible now,
Empty and lost, they do not seek to find you.
The bubbles surround you in a sea of illusion,
And then you see the contents,
Joy! Connection!
And reach out to touch them.
But from within their world, there is only pain
And yet,
Hands push against the barrier,
And give you hope!
But the weave of the cloth is thick
And black,
It reeks of smoke and ash.
In fear, their hands retreat,
Only their eyes are visible now,
Empty and lost, they do not seek to find you.
Artwork “New Places” by Christopher Lem, www.jankywino.blogspot.com
In the Boneyard
Come dance with me in the boneyard,
On a wild and stormy night.
The wind will be our song
As we dance with the dead,
The trees will swirl,
The stars will twinkle,
And the full moon and passing clouds,
Will be our ball and strobe.
Come dance with me in the boneyard,
Where the world is stripped away
With your memory of flesh.
Take this boney hand, and follow,
Step into the yard with boney toe,
And with our boney faces we will laugh
As we sing with our fleshless throats,
Becoming the whistling wind.
Come dance with me in the boneyard
We’ll paint walls of shimmering light,
With a timeless portal into anywhere.
We’ll come and go as we please,
Zipping skin on as we leave,
And only we will know,
In our magical realm,
Where we dance,
and why.
This poem is dedicated to Bunni S, an even older friend than Face who just happened to pop into my life for the first time in 35 years, just a couple of days ago. Bunni is another friend who could create magical worlds with me in childhood. Divine timing?
For Laura Ann Miller Wilson
October 30th 1959-November 26th, 2008
Every once in a while a rare soul enters your life and becomes your inseparable twin and soul mate. That in itself is so rare and so great that the rest of your relationships pale in comparison. It might take half a lifetime before you realize that you may only reach that kind of union with that one person, and only at that one time in your life and that time happened 30 years ago. I’m not talking about romance here, I’m talking about friendship. The kind of friendship where you and that friend are all alone in your little imaginary world, and only the two of you understand it. In that world you two are free, you laugh, you cry, you sing, you shout, you can’t imagine a day spent without the other, everything that happens to you outside the friendship is fodder to talk about, laugh about, and make you closer. You called her ‘Face’ because looking at her, you saw in her face, the very mirror to your soul.
Every relationship since then that you tried to form holding that friendship as an ideal had the other person running away screaming because they could not take the intensity, and for you it was so normal. After a while you acquiesce to a compromise because you realize that you aren’t going to have that friendship ever again with anyone else, and you want friends, even if they exist outside of your private little world. In fact, you begin to realize that pretty much all healthy relationships exist outside that private little world. And yet you and that twin are still friends all these years later, although you see each other very rarely, living several states away. And still, after all of those years of separation, there are things about the two of you that are eerily similar, even though your lives took completely different turns.
“You guys are exactly the same.” Her daughter accused us as she took our photograph only a short year and a half ago.
I was driving through the state of Washington where Laura lived, and planned to come by for a visit. It just so happened that the day I arrived was the day she found out that she had cancer. I sat on the sofa with the family as she told her four daughters, who all seemed to take the news quite well, as if they were completely covered in cotton gauze. It’s a strange kind of news, Laura didn’t seem sick at all, and she was imbued with a sense of optimism as she felt she could cure the growing creature in her breast with positive thinking and raw food. I could tell that her daughters carried that positive sense of optimism with them, and rightfully so! I wanted to support her choices but I also wanted to carry her down to the operating room right then and tell them to cut it out. I knew in my bones that she was going to die, as her mother did before her, and yet I could not speak of this.
I left after the photo shoot, and I never saw her again. She had the surgery and went through chemo, and nothing could save her from her genetic fate. She died two weeks ago. I did not go to her and hold her hand as she died, I did not call her and get every last detail of her dying activities. I knew she was dying and something, my own fear of losing my twin perhaps, kept me from talking to her more. I did talk to her the week before she passed away, and she fell asleep on the phone. This caused one final laugh between us as her favorite memory from our youth was the one where I fell asleep on the phone and she came to my house and found me lying asleep on my bed with the phone cradled between the pillow and my ear. I woke her up from her drug induced sleep and we giggled for a minute as I teased her about finally getting me back for that. We exchanged love and I told her I would call every week.
She died before I called her back. God rest her soul, and God bless her beautiful daughters. My twin is gone from this life.
Face,
Always laughing
Always loving,
Always singing,
Me and you, one in two
Strength together
Finding tunnels through
Horrific youth
Burdened, abused
A child stepmother
Raising in ignorance
A vibrant you,
Navigating boys
Beaches, classes, friends
Together, like a one
That was two
We were a song
In Harmony
I will miss you Laura Ann Miller -Wilson, my precious Face. Please save a spot for me on the bus. I’ll see you at the other end and we can dance away eternity together.
I wander for water in no-man’s land
But searching there gains none,
Instead I find the dragon’s breath
My cheek licked by his tongue.
With slap and sting the tongue’s fork scorched
The hollow in my face,
Now branded there, my voice shrieks out,
“My shame, my life’s disgrace!”
The dragon speaks, voice low and deep
With rumblings all around,
Yet voice upon voice, with echoes, lost,
I can not hear a sound.
In fear I tremble as I seek
Approval in his eye,
I hope therefore, by pleasing him
He’ll spare me this goodbye.
With furrowed brow, his eyes bore deep
I know that I have lost,
He squints them tight as jaw grows wide,
Demanding by fire, my cost.
My flesh begins to melt away
From skin on down to bone,
I scream in pain as flames expose
All hurt I’ve ever known.
…
I wander naked through the woods
I do not know my name,
For all that was before is gone
And only bones remain.
________
In gratitude, this poem was inspired by many blogs I’ve been reading lately: Thanks to Rick from The Writer and The White Cat for the dragon inspiration. Thanks to Jason, from The Clarity of Night on getting in touch with your pain, and thanks to K from Old Mossy Moon for reminding me how much I love rhyming and how fun it is to read. All the links are on the right side of my page under the heading “Blogs in my community”.
Poetic form: Dr. Suessian
The poet leaves cyberspace momentarily to participate in creating order in the real world.
Where is the poet?
Is she here or there?
I don’t see her anywhere!
Why she is AWOL can’t you see?
Back in the real world being busy!
She’s painting her walls, one two and three.
This will make the poet wax so happy.
One wall is rust red, to warm her with heat,
One wall spun in gold to stay light on her feet,
The blue wall inspires creativity
Look watch her dance! She is filled with such glee!
Please be patient oh readers,
She will return soon
With a mind full of color
And perhaps with a tune…
From the roots began
The quest to thrive
Long fingers reached down
searching in vein for a place to drink
But all was dry, no water could be found
Wilted, defeated, dying…
In her final hours she cried out!
Her face beaming red in the heated blood of passion
Her shout so loud the whole world stopped,
Becoming utterly still…
Slowly, a leaf fell from its branch and fluttered to the ground.
One by one the tears began to fall
And the oceans rose
And the streams rose
And everything that was living drank from the waters
And returned to the depleted Earth
Nourishing her soils to receive
The seeds of tomorrow’s children
The roots of my ground,
the blood of my veins.
Good Night! I say to the setting sun
Adieu to the seasons gone by.
With you, oh past, deep wrinkles have formed
Hairs are grayed, Bones swelled,
And even the wind aches with pain,
Yes age has drawn its etchings
As we watched helplessly with furrowed brow,
The transgressions of yesterday.
Adieu to the seasons gone by.
With you, oh past, deep wrinkles have formed
Hairs are grayed, Bones swelled,
And even the wind aches with pain,
Yes age has drawn its etchings
As we watched helplessly with furrowed brow,
The transgressions of yesterday.
Perhaps a part of the natural order,
or so a wise sage would speak.
And how can I speak ill of you, oh wretched past
For you have brought profound meaning to the music
Which shall ring out in the new morn
As a thousand million peacocks trumpeting across the desert
“Behold! A Brand New Day”
On the historic win of President Elect Barack Obama.
Somewhere,I heard the thought
That from the highest plane
The confusion becomes undistorted
And is all a part of the perfect order
I would like to dedicate this poem to Madelyn Dunham, Barack Obama’s grandmother. I’m sure she is up there now on that highest plane helping to put order into things down here.
I am calling you to this plane
Naga Kanya, guardian of the gates
The twisting of the serpents
Has wrung dry the waters of your ocean
It is time for you to return
And bring the moisture of compassion
To this parched dry land
Your protection is needed at this time
To return us to the intended path
With your sacred offering,
Let the tides wash clean our shores
And usher in the winds of change
To heed our collective call
Naga Kanya, guardian of the gates
The twisting of the serpents
Has wrung dry the waters of your ocean
It is time for you to return
And bring the moisture of compassion
To this parched dry land
Your protection is needed at this time
To return us to the intended path
With your sacred offering,
Let the tides wash clean our shores
And usher in the winds of change
To heed our collective call
To Judith, I thank you for the inspiration…
It is hard to fathom their extinction
There are so many
They are so free!
There are so many
They are so free!
Will we choose wisely
A leader who would see the smallest beauty
And realize its importance to the infinite?
From high atop the mountain peak
It was an impossible miracle
The way you rose from the earth
The way you rose from the earth
Defying gravity, you came,
beginning an endless journey
to merge with your kind
And who will you touch as you roam?
Who will you feed in your endless quest?
What fires will you quench before you finally find the sea?
As summer has fled, and chill sets in,
Gone with the warm lazy days, my languid moods,
My bones, they ache, I need to move.
My spirit longs for you and I obey
Wandering through your stately groves.
Gone with the warm lazy days, my languid moods,
My bones, they ache, I need to move.
My spirit longs for you and I obey
Wandering through your stately groves.
Once, in a moment not too long ago
You were young, green, and your leaves airy and bright
Now, fire has crept into your veins
Growing darker by day, yet rich in splendor
Your blood rescinds, back into the earth
Shedding your colors to the forest floor
To feed your feet in the coming storm.
It is natural, this death,Our pillars are not immune,
The illusion of power
In the image of gold
Is sure to crumble, is crumbling
Will turn to dust again.
Where will we find our happiness
When the last golden leaf is gone?
We dance the steps of the living
And for each step, we are grateful, we are joy.
Moving through each reality
With mindful paces
We are fleeting
Turning away, we are gone
And for each step, we are grateful, we are joy.
Moving through each reality
With mindful paces
We are fleeting
Turning away, we are gone
Thank you to the monks of the Rambok Monastery, Sikkim, India.
Because we truly are dying
And have spent so many seasons
Hiding behind a cape of shade,
Perhaps that is why we have chosen this time
To let passion touch our faces
Without running from what we are.
Knowing that next month
The season will have changed
And we will once again be asleep.
And have spent so many seasons
Hiding behind a cape of shade,
Perhaps that is why we have chosen this time
To let passion touch our faces
Without running from what we are.
Knowing that next month
The season will have changed
And we will once again be asleep.
Each morning as the dawn arrives, my cat, Marlow, jumps off the foot of the bed and goes to stare out the window at the dawn and the first birds of the day. I pretend to sleep a while longer, staying huddled under warm covers. Finally he can’t stand my slothful inattentiveness anymore and he jumps back onto the bed, walks up toward my face and then jumps off the bed as I reach out to pet him. He sits just below the bed and stares up at me, occasionally calling out to me as if to say “Get up! The day has arrived!” Suddenly the light hits the window and I am charged with energy in a way no animal can inspire. I run up the stairs with my camera, to see how The Graces across the field will look today. I am in awe of their stature and beauty as they are struck by the first rays of the morning sun.
Solidly rooted, you remain unchanged,
as the world around you swirls.
Every day you remain unchanged,
but through my varied lenses,
I perceive you differently.
In the fenced in field in which we live,
we presume to be free.
We will run quickly and kick our heels high,
and though the late shadows chase us,
we will not see them.
we presume to be free.
We will run quickly and kick our heels high,
and though the late shadows chase us,
we will not see them.
In the end, the night will fall,
and we will sleep deeply,
even through the howling wind,
we will not awaken.
The thunder crashes down every afternoon where the roots have just been planted.
Ticks run to bite and copperheads lurk in the fields but no twisters here.
A kitty that once was free now roams his North Carolina prison, purring happily.
The bedroom has been painted where Green Tara and Quan Yin will rule the nest.
The nameless shapely goddess with no face spreads her arms to the world.
With the twist of a wire the music fills the floors with sound.
Mahler’s fourth with an echo of tears wanders up the stairs.
Friends and family so precious and dear are far away now.
I gaze out at the mountain, the soft and rolling mountain,
My eyes wander to the plant outside the window.
And wonder if the leaves will survive the plight of the Japanese Beetle.
FEBRUARY
Orange covered sky
Winter’s rising from the bay
Warming hints of blue
MARCH
Dawn, the rising sun
On the Vernal Equinox
Vallejo Stonehenge
Moon follows sun’s path
Full face smiles on Spring’s first eve
Crane points to Aries
APRIL
Rising moon looms full
Shades of pink and grey tint sky
Where has the month gone?
Moon lantern through lace
Cable car flies up the tracks
Am I to sprout wings?
A bitter wind blew through the land
And screams of rage could be heard
From every corner of the sky,
Echoing throughout all of the Earth.
The ground was red from the battle, the long and endless battle,
Where neither one side, nor the other
Was heard to profess an element of understanding,
And pleas screamed would only break on ears of stone,
As each claimed that their god would reign victorious.
And there were those who loved and simply watched,
Who could see beyond the shades of skin,
And the acclamations of divine intent,
And would weep helplessly,
As they watched the ebb and flow of the bleeding tides,
Cursing the shades and pointing to the color that all beings shared,
Spilled relentlessly on fields of intolerance and greed.
And the reddened brown mud dried and cracked over the earth,
And the land was parched with flame and ash,
And the waters became putrid so no one could drink,
And the air thickened, and was brown with smoke and dust,
And the food would not grow because the rains would not fall,
And all of the Earth settled into a deep despair.
Then, just when all of the world agreed that the end was near,
And that nothing could be done to reverse the turn,
A man with skin the color of coffee and milk
Stepped out onto the battlefield,
And with his eyes, ears and heart open wide,
He listened.
And he heard the cries of the people,
And he spoke to them of Hope,
And the hearts of the many who heard his words
Chose him above all others to be their voice,
And to speak the truth for them.
A fuse was ignited and all around the world,
Tall columns built on worm ridden pedestals
Began to crumble and collapse,
As the age of plenty built on shards of illusion
And the backs of slaves
Could not stand tall,
And cowered in the brilliant light of Hope
And words of Truth.
And all of the people fighting
In all of the lands,
Increased their battles,
Reaching farther into the darkness,
Looting whatever remained of anything precious.
They waged on in their wars, in the names of their gods,
Utilizing women and children, in the crimes of their greed,
And causing a great wave of grief throughout the world.
Then on the eve of the day before the man was to become
The voice of the people,
A great cloud filled the heavens and settled over the land,
And a long and quiet snow fell throughout the night,
Covering the fields stained red in the blood of slaves and soldiers
With a soft blanket of redemption.
And in the morning light,
As the sun shown on the fields of ice and snow,
The man the color of coffee and milk
Stood in front of all the world,
And spoke of Peace and the Promise of Humanity.
And all of the people from all four corners of the earth,
Heard the words,
And wept,
For the broken hearts of the many,
That had finally been redeemed.
And the trees, that had stood guard in watch of their fields,
Who witnessed the toils of the pickers and planters,
Those unlucky, who as children
Had been stolen from the arms of their mothers
And sent in the bottoms of ships, in sickness and shackles
To toil in the fields,
The trees who watched helplessly,
Bearing silent witness to the rape of young girls,
Who thought the dream was a fool’s folly
As the weight of somebody’s child
Swung heavily from their branches,
Though try as they might,
They could not release them,
The very trees whose limbs hung heavy in frozen tears,
Suddenly stood tall and reaching their naked branches to the sky,
They danced with their shadows in the fields of snowy white.
Filled with the blood of the ages they sounded in words heard clearly
In the hearts of the crying spirits of mothers and children of Africa,
“Hallelujah!” They sang.
“Behold, a brand new day!“
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