The Weathering of Love!

You appeared out of the blue
like an event of weather
affecting whatever lies beneath your breath . . .
and all beholding the demons of you . . .
Are you the cloud that
covers the sun and flirts with the moon?
are you the tears of that mist
coming down in despairing floods. . .
or the lightning flashing bright
across the terrors of the night
are you afraid to see what you have done . . .
do you know what you have done
to me?
Who hears the echos in your hollow caves
do you know that they are the drums
of reveille - oh awake dreaming one
as you peruse new ways to haunt me . . .
and with your embraces,
a wind which whips by like a ghost
of a kiss,
one moment and then gone
one moment and then scorned . . . yes, even . . .
scorched by your hot suns bearing down
on my  melting heart
catching it drip by faltering drip
in the glories of your smile. . .
and I see your face on the lips of the
setting sun.
I stand stricken as the ice begins
to flow over my stone cold body . . .
and I stand alone.






##

Nowhere Near Eden

Dandelion ---
The most cheerful of creatures
is happy to flower wherever
                 and whenever he wishes . . .
he has the stamina and tenacity
to hang on whatever the situation
and if plucked by
a vengeful hand
or hungry teeth,
grows back with many
     more heads like a joyful hydra . . .
His sunny disposition
               reflects golden light
and draws a roving eye
which sees a bright disturbance
upon the kelly green
and preferring the flatness
          of such a place
is repulsed by this optimistic dreamer
and finds a means by which
to remove such an offense
for fear
that a view of perfection
will be impeached
by the endeavors
of this prolific lion-hearted beauty.
 
So, like a starless night . . .
a dandelion-less green,
something so unblemished and pure,
becomes a reflection of the unrealistic
dreams of humankind,
but is only a sullied and lost vision of perfection -
a perception of an Eden which never was.

 ##

The Heart of the Storm!

Sometimes . . . 
you are walking along
alone

and you suddenly realize
you don't know where you are
and you look again
and realize that, no,
you know where you are
but

you ask yourself,
"Is it supposed to look this beautiful?" 
This green?
This colorful? all the flowers
and the mossy trees . . .
what is this place
where it rains in misty silver and the
sun shines so golden
burning a hole through the faithless clouds,
and

touches your back with gentle fingers . . .
where suddenly out of the blue spaces
flocks of birds swoop down
to admire their images in
the puddles thickly
layered with golden pollen . . .
and 

the scents are serenely intoxicating
so you stagger through the next down-pour
to the sheltering arms of the nearest tree . . .
and 

you wait, reflective and pensive
as the storm swirls around you
splashing and slashing at your good will
but you persist 
and 

shortly
you have it all again . . .
storm washed tranquility.

##

                                          

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

So, this was all true . . .  very strange walk home, extra-ordinarily beautiful . . . the sunshine and warmth . . . the music . . . listening to Jamendo tunes on my mp3 . . . gorgeous colors and scents, etc . . .  then this incredible downpour of hail and cold, cold rain . . . my camera got soaked and so did I . . . and then it got lovely again! - !!??!!

Chaos Theory

Shoes on the un-socked feet
of a small boy . . .
untied shoelaces flopping
and slicing into the spaces
                   around his grimy ankles.

Shoes like oversized boats
carrying small but precious cargo . . .
The ties tethered,
but uncomplicated by knots,
lay like pointed lines when,
                    the boy was still.

Lines that linked
          to all humanity
          throughout all time and space . . .
Back to the beginning of human kind,
the unshod feet traveling
through the savannahs and forests
along the trails of a huge continent
to the feet walking on this earth
          now at this very moment . . .

Everyone connected by a thin line
          as elastic as a thread
          drawing tightly together
          into an interwoven tapestry
          of humanity
          each thread as significant
                                 as the others

         

          each leading back to a boy
          with untied shoelaces


This is a recurring theme in my thoughts . .
that all humanity throughout all time has a profound effect on all others including the world around them, throughout time, space, and even into the heavens in regards to every choice they make; every action they commit; and even to the breath of their mere existence.  I visualize the connections as nearly invisible threads connecting every human to every other human and on through the past - all connected ! Sounds like family - it is! 'Tis my own chaos theory . . .

This Very Moment!

In this very moment
in this very place
I have found
a perfect peace

In this perfect peace
warm sun above
I have found
eternal love

In this eternal love
I call my own
I have found
I am never alone . . .

##









In a tiny space I find the miniature things that fill my mind with memories and my lenses with color.
In my diminutive yard I look for the things I love . . . and find them there for the capture . . . and I preserve them - forever . . .

The vistas can wait:

PEACE

I flew with the geese this morning
in the still of the dew laden air,
the sky a lavender washed canvas
ready for whatever the day will bring.
We flew in long strings bending into v's
and as the geese chattered and honked
to one another I thought how nice it would be
not to own any objects under this sky
but to be owned by the earth Herself . . .
to have the earth move under my wings
and to be free to be whatever I am . . .
to fly beneath the moon
and over the trees, the cities and oceans . . .

and I remembered that people are
treasures, wrapped up . . .
like nesting dolls,
which I would pull apart until
I reached the last little one, so tiny and yet . . .
I was always disappointed
because in my heart I knew that there was more
- there just had to be more inside -
and that there was no end
to the surprises inside the person . . .
there was always more. . .

and the sun pushed light into the atmosphere
while the clouds came down to cover the rawness of the naked sky and
the call of the geese proceeded North . . .
while spread out in the city
was the sound of people busy at life
giving and getting the things that move them,
while deep in their hearts,
beneath the smallest of the last doll
is a tiny hollow called Peace
which calls its name
every now and then. . .

##

Through the Gate Slowly

A smallish creature alone . . .
a diminutive object on the harsh concrete,
hot and glaring golden in the sunlight,
a faint sheen of iridescence spelling
violet and red in the busy gray city . . .
vehicles passing by meaninglessly . .  .
a transformation oppresses the atmosphere,
an approaching storm restlessly pauses
on the top of the western hills,
like white stallions gathering
to race across the spaces of time
one chance in the pale
light of existence . . .
a last filament of sun tracing scattered molecules
across the brow of the sky is sectioned
by a flock of birds, distant and unheard . . .
and disappears as the storm races
quickly over the city
the fat raindrops plop and sizzle,
bounce and spread over the concrete . . .
while the smallish creature struggles through
the flood
to find refuge. . .

##

I know why the worn tree bends and moves
and twists and craves reprieve

I know why the old tree hollows out his bones
as he prepares to fly when next the wind blows

I know why the gray tree sighs
beneath the waning moon
the stars move fretfully amongst his boughs
he trembles wearily
and groans with a moan so low
the field mouse scrambles to her den
to tend her young . . .
I know why the mossy tree dies . . .
he lays himself down
along the ridge
of ground and grows still
as first the fern and then the others
who looked with longing at his length
move onto his bones
to feed on the depths of him
to open his wounds
to remove him piece by piece
and molecule by molecule . . .
he escapes his rooted
confines and explores the forest and beyond

and sees the mysterious Southlands  on the

 wings of the robin . . .

##

Another small experiment of mine using Gimp.    Not at all impressed with the red words on the green background - ouch it hurts to look at it . . .  But if I have to suffer. . . so do you!       OK OK

Once we walked
and then we ran
We flew through the grass
the seeds caught on our hair
Which dropped to earth
And grew somewhere
And gave us stars
To name and touch
Something to love
Something to watch 

##                                                               

                                                                                   

Stalking the Urban Color

The Echoes of Summer!

following the pathway 
through the Spring
pink confetti
small birds sing
scent of lilacs
in the breeze
the echoes of you
calling me
an endless sight
of flower gardens
mourning dove's
silent flight
solemn sunrise
from the night
the echoes of you
following me
along the pathway 
through the spring


##