Monday, September 27, 2010

Autumn's Dream

Autumn's dream . . .

is to be that child again . . .
walking down summer's long dusty road. . .
the billows of amber talcum follows,
like an army of hope
and a whisper of laughter,
in the melody. . .
in the song. . .
our dreams are never far
where adventure remains

Autumn's dream is

waiting for that child. . .
to return again  . ..
to that long ago summer day . . .
it lasted a thousand years
in a fantasy. . .
in a wish . . .
we followed our star
and were never alone
as the angels played along

Autumn's dream is

to be that child still. . .
climbing summer's mountain
where the eagle soars through the blue
and there we find the wings to fly
in the memories . . .
in the stories. . .
we had the promise of a long summer's day
and the mystery of a cool summer's night

and there
we laid down to dream

and there
we woke up
to the end of summer

and Autumn's dream . . .


When Spring returns
we will follow that trail
and we will find our soul's
in the sun's
climb toward Summer. . .

Sunday, September 26, 2010

La tĂȘte dans les nuages

by Libration100
also on Jamendo:
He is one of my favorite artists there:

Head in the Clouds

The sky is huge
half of our environment
it glows with expectations
and encouragement,
pregnant with potential,
Fires to warm your heart
and your eyes. . .
the blue is endless,
and the angels paint
in the heavens, beauty
the clouds,
the colors,
the shapes
. . .to fill our minds
our souls
with creativity
and the joy of a child . . .

and even through the darkness
there is light
as a promise
of the day to come


Saturday, September 25, 2010

The Last Day of Summer

TreeHouse in Portland

Tomorrow I break branches,
the green is going to go. . .
the summer has gone astray
I heard it sigh. . .
it sighed
as it slipped away
down the hill and to the right
and over the edge,
rainbow sheets in the cloud
next to the rays
of the dying sun. . .
the music of the edgy wind
has made me disconcerted
and I will pick up splinters
of unknown wood. . .
and the moss
over moss
is slippery
under my unwary feet . . .

but if you call me
I will come. . .
do you hear me in the wind ?
the edgy wind
as the dry leaves
cover the mystery of my bones
leaving me standing
fighting alone
against a passion
of a dynamic season. . .
a dying reason
to hang on to old branches
as the skies turn gray
and the waters begin to fall


I planted a field of sunflowers . . .
in anticipation of the beauty,
and the seeds
because I like to eat them. . .
when the flowers began to droop
from fatigue of old age
and very heavy heads
I harvested them . . .
and laid those big seeded wheels
out on my patio in the sun
to dry. . .
and in the morning I rose early
to hear a roar of birds. . .
my sunflowers were being devoured. . .
and I was so charmed by all the little birds
that I watched them all day long,
hundreds and hundreds eating those seeds
until they were all gone
the seeds,
and the birds

Friday, September 24, 2010

A Journey

Paris rain in July
I walk alone
in the center of my universe
and find small objects                                         
                            that clutter my way . ..
with open mouths                   
they cry at me
                                                        in unknown languages,
their hearts exposed                          
                 like a rainbow's sudden appearance
that surprises and puzzles me.                               

I walk alone
                                        and sometimes I run,
but I am always vulnerable                                      
       to the elemental storm
as it falls               
                    and the boulders
                                             which in time will halt
                                                       my flow as I stumble
on obstructions
as small as a molecule.                                               

I walk alone
                                       on the edges of time. . .
creating a symphony                         
that spills over the horizon
       and flows like tree sap
                                   around all my memories,
clutching them like dragonflies                     
forever in an amber gleam.

I walk alone
                                    amongst the stars
that glow like tiny beacons                                          
                          guiding me through the heavens,
                        calling my name . . .
lead me further                              
into an unknown universe
 littered with the
                                           fallen leaves of autumn's
debris . . .            
they drift before me like                                            
                 yesterday's sorrow
                                     running in the wind before me. . .
and the winter's white glow                               
soon covers me like a blanket of death.
I walk alone;
                                               I dream alone. . .
my dreams expand across my scope                             
                                    filling my box of soul
as they sift through                  
my grasping fingers.. .. ..                                                  
        like dust in the moonlight,
                                                soon disappearing
from that silver shine. . .                    
                         and become meaningless
flotsam in
the stillness of my life


I am the Lion in Paris

I am the lion in Paris
watching life
flow by like a stream,
their dancing spirits vibrate
the atmosphere
and disregard
my questing eyes.

I am the lion of all seasons
and I sink beneath the weight
of time,
I long for the open fields
of spring tides
and the warmth of honeyed sunshine

I am the lion of nature . . .
granite is so cold and hard,
the call of the wind
flows through my mane
and removes me
piece by piece

I am the stone in Paris
refined by moving streams of time
I am earth and wind and fire
and I dream I am
a blazing star . . . 

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Drums to Drive You!


    Ethnic Drums by Satori

    Ethnic Drums by Satori

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Encryption (A left handed poem)


The Angel of Death

Feathers flew
as I watched you
strike the pigeon,
from out of nowhere
            you came,
                   a streak from above. . .
your sharp talons
        piercing through to the heart,
        the meat like butter
                  beneath your toes,
and where there was breath
there is none. . .
warmth leaking out
like steam. . .
it parts the air,
rising up as if it were the soul departing
             for a better place . . .

and then there was whimsy,
a vision, 
as I watch the man walk by,
dressed in white
and carrying a white ironing board
across his shoulders
like wings

although he had a bounce in his steps . . .
he wasn't flying
        as he was weighted down
with his burden. . .
but you flew away
        without your catch,
hesitation in your movements
as you looked longingly behind you. . .
unnoticed by the man with the white metal wings.


the handbook of life

we are born naked and desperate into this world, vulnerable to the whims of fate. . .
we are rejected or held; we are starved or satiated . . .
we are born without emotions but learn them
through time . . . and experience
and our hearts describe these feelings
and our hearts recognize them in others

and some of us begin to wonder
why we don't feel real
as we think others do. . .
and we look into the mirrors
of daily living
within the eyes of others
we find ourselves reflected
and see passing thoughts
and there we see
perhaps rejection
perhaps acceptance. . .

and some of us begin to wonder
about love
and where to find it
in the rivers of living
and wonder if there can be hope
or if perhaps we are
not worthy
of such joy .  .

and some of us begin to wonder
about forgiveness,
and if forgiving ourselves
opens the hidden gates
of being forgiven . . .
and if by crossing that gate
we can find love . ..
would we then be worthy?

and some of us begin to wonder
where the instructions are
to guide us
in this place of awareness
of joy and despair. . . 

we wonder
where to find the truth
and if truth does indeed set us free
and free from what . . . 
we wonder.. .. ..
free from needing to be loved
or forgiven
we hope
the lacking of these
gives us anguish .. .. ..

And some of us grow old,
and we still wonder
for nothing has been written
where we can easily read. . .
so we try
to see the words written on
our beating hearts
between the throbs
of pain.


A tale is told, a faint, gentle female voice recounts the adventures of a young man who has a dream and hears a distant voice and must follow . . . must follow to his destiny . . . as we all must follow our siren song, whatever that may be and where ever it may lead us . . . The story is full of misty adventures, like in a dream, do they exist . . . is this real? We float along with the music and on this lovely mystical journey with the stars to guide us in this unknown and new creation.

Beauty in a "Breeze" the sound of angels singing through the flute and exquisite melody . . . "Arid" with music so nearly muted. and very quiet, wind and stringed instruments painting emptiness and loneliness through a vastness that transcends vision . . . and quietly describes bewilderment through the empty spaces of a journey, the desolate places we all find.

And then the "Silence" which comes before the effervescent "Storm" . . . progressing through to the "Rain" which drums solemnly . . . and profoundly on our psyche. The "Shores," of course, with ocean sound, the waves richly pounding on the beach and the music slowly coming closer, beautiful . . . the song of the "Siren", so beautiful that you can not help but be mesmerized and follow. "Voice" is so celestial as to destroy any doubt and pain . . .and the excellent piano melody of "Easing" sweetly guides the listener toward the more energized, almost rock genre styled "Waking" and then "Home" where though the journeyer felt happy. . . was lost.

This was an astonishingly good album . . . Gorgeous . . . can be viewed as music to relax with, or to stimulate the imagination, or for meditation, or can be listened to for the storyline of a Journey .

-PurpleOrca  review

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Creation and Disarray!

"Eyes" by:  Cv?vC

and all our mundane things
that we do
we try to fill the gaps in our days
we create
and we disarray
to our heart's content
like children in a sandbox

and we seek the highest ground
in case of flood
and we seek happiness
if we are sane,
and we understand
the temporal as an angry beast

and love is near the top
when we try to fill our bucket,
we listen to our heart
and we hear the music,
a soul song that reveals all
and heals the rawness
and wipes out the pain

and all is creation
and all is destruction
as we move through time,
and we build
and we destroy,
that is the trial and triumph
of our existence

and we are gods in our day
as we walk in our space
or swim in our rivers of dreams,
we fight the angry worm
as we head towards destruction,
the map of our destination
is laid out in the wind blown sand

and there is darkness
and there is light
and it is all explained
by the children
in the sandbox
in their creations
and their disarray


Monday, September 6, 2010

I Smell Autumn in the Air . . .

I smell fall. . .
the scent of smoke
and harvest. . .
a riot of colors contesting
for first place
in a display of stunning beauty. . .
the fruits are ripe
and all living things prepare for the winter,

and the cycle of life
in its everlasting march
through eternity. . .

it is our place only
to stand in awe
of the remarkable splendor
of creation,
for we are the audience,
and this glory
can only enhance
our appreciation
of this ephemeral moment.

Friday, September 3, 2010

The Loneliness of Dragons

My first dragon drawing .. .. 
sorry . . . 
those scales were a killer. ..  
so enjoy the laugh . . .

Being considered foul beasts,
and shunned by all,
they try desperately
to find love
by capturing the precious princess
from the castle's keep . . .

Which is considered a
wrong move
by most . . .
but designed as a desperate
cry for help
by the dragon.

The knights in shining armor
leave the safety of the city
to plunge swords of steel
into the sides of the lonely dragon

And though the shiny pinprick
of a sword
reaches and slices the heart
of the dragon. . .

It is nothing
in comparison to the ache
of loneliness
in the heart of the dragon.

For dragons do not die from the mere
touch of a metal weapon. . .
for they are able to heal from
physical injury . . .

but they do die
from loneliness
in the end . .

Thursday, September 2, 2010

The Morning's Walk

Floating in peach sky . . .

the man with his white scottie
walks ahead of me and
greets a man with a mutt . .
the dogs bark at me
a stranger to them . . .

The crows are flying toward
the rising sun
following one another
persistent . .. knowing.

I am thinking,
I have spent all my extra abundance on me . . .
greedy me;
instead of me . ..  I should give
out of all that extra:
t-shirts for the naked children . . .
food for the hungry ....
silence for the stressed . . .
Love for the barren . . . .
A home for the lonely . . .
A rainbow for the sightless. . .

I should spend the excesses
of my abundance to those who need
for .. .. ..

What do I need
a drop of dew.. .. ..
a song.. .. ..
Dreaming's misty wanderings

The feet of the runner
ahead of me sprays questions at me. . .

And we wonder while we wander,
Is this all there is?

We are never satisfied
We want more and in
          our confusion,
We cry and then
we move on . . .
looking for something
to fill that gaping hole
in our soul . . .

The crows are walking;
they have lost their feathers
and they look at me in shock
"Am I like you . . . I cannot fly . . .

Do you ever even try to
spread your wings
and let the wind just take you high?"

and the peach colors
in the amber sky
begins to fade
and slip silently
like everything else
in my life.. .. ..

I spread my wings. . .
and the wind takes me
over the mountain passes,
green valleys,
and the everlasting forest sweeps across broad
horizons. . .

What more do I need?

and yet I always want more
I am never satisfied . . .
foolish, foolish me.

Patterns of Amber
linger in the blue
. . .