Monday, August 30, 2010

Your Song

Top - Grout Elementary School's  Entryway Ceiling Glass Art

There are
kisses of cool rain on up-lifted cheeks
before the clouds race away
                to meet the day
I reach up to touch the stars
in the still black sky.. .. ..

a bird drifts by on silent wings
you hum a lovely melody;
            a lullaby to me.. .. ..
a trifle of honeysuckle scent floats in
        on the breath of a breeze;
a sigh.. .. ..

a moment of solitude to calm my troubled soul;
a heavy drumbeat gives strength to
        my step as I walk .. .. ..

You lift me up with your song
and set me down where the meadows gleam
          beneath the rising sun.. .. ..
          and the arms of the world
          reach up in welcome to that beloved orb.. .. ..

as heaven touches you
and brightens your face
through that golden light;
you give me strength
with your song. . . .
while I walk
on down my long and troublesome road. . .

and my burden is lightened
by the dream
of a friend
singing to me.


This poem is dedicated to all the musicians on Jamendo who offer their music to us all . . . for nothing .. ..  except to give us solace, rest, joy, peace, energy, dance, song, love, happiness, comfort, beauty, contemplation, and more . . . .
I thank them .. . . even the ones who are quietly listened to
and never receive a word, a review or a thank-you; 

Saturday, August 28, 2010

What am I to You?


small square sheet of paper
to fold this way
crease tightly
bend and score
to make a shape
something yet to be
what am i

what am i to you. . .
that small scrap of paper
to fold as you please?

a crane
a small crane, perhaps
then dropped

by the side of the road
useless. . .

I never got to fly

Friday, August 27, 2010

White Wolf Waits

The heady scent of pine 
drops like heavy incense in the heat of the day,
falling with the cones and
mingling with the hot
spicy scent of crushed greens,
as White Wolf
moves swiftly through
pathways tunneled under the shrubs
lining the hillside. . .

Raven swoops down between
the tall trees searching. . .
his wing tips stretch out
like fingers,
as if feeling the dry air for clues,

the pitch black of his feathers
leave trails against the stark blue,
an insoluble and depth-less sky 

frozen over the hot forest. . .
a few lazy flies buzz around 

odoriferous offerings
a feather drifts
down from a silent tree. . .
then song,
a crystal melody
and Wolf, her silver
eyes gaze upward,
halts on her path for a moment. . .
she contemplates this song
as if listening for the wisdom
of the ages,
a wisp of air lifts a tuft of fur
from her shoulders,
for a moment she has wings . . .
her ears twitch back
and she climbs to her
ridge above the watering hole
where the stream was damed up
after the earth moved . . .
she flops down with a sigh
under her favorite tree,
her eyes focus on the water rippling
and sparkling with brilliant gold flashes
where it filters over the dam . . .
hearing a rustle in the woods
she watches as a doe
with her child descends
from the opposite ridge to drink. . .

and Wolf remembers her own
tribe, her pack, her children
hunting in the fields by the river bank.
The doe locks eyes with the wolf
and momentarily startled
freezes and then calm descends
on her tense shoulders
when she sees that White Wolf
is not hunting ..  ..

Instead, White Wolf closes her eyes
and lays her head between her paws,
and waits quietly
for the tiny singing bird
to join her
with its song of healing and rest
as she does every day
since the earth moved.


Continued from:

Long ago, I had a spirit guide, a white wolf. When I was at my lowest, my very lowest . . . I would often see this white wolf walk by my side. I could reach out and touch her, feel her fur . . . see her silver eyes look into mine. I always remember this wolf and she is very powerful in my mind, not a day goes by but that I think of her . . .  I always know that she has my best interests in mind and I have learned so much from the wolf.

I have decided to learn how to draw. It comes from boredom . . . this need to learn stuff . . . but I am also frustrated because I am not able to capture wolves, dragons and angels with wings on my camera. Thus I am going to learn how to draw these items along with a few others. Please forgive my poor skills but I hope to come out of this with a better ability to please the eye.


Thursday, August 26, 2010

Waiting to Die

For you, life became flat
like a picture of nothing. . .
                no dimension
                                  no joy
only the darkness ahead
and there were never any choices          
         no way out of your tunnel

its deep and dark
               and lonely in there. . .
                                                          you have no tale to tell           
     to convince the earth to move. . .                
it lays on you like a heavy blanket
smothering you. . . and there is
                                                 no way to dig
to find your way out of your prison
except with your bare and bloodied hands
you use them
                                    to scrape against
the biting earth . . . its acids burn deep
                                            deep holes into your being

what are you doing -- peeling away the dirt
grain by grain
with that fine feather?
you have plucked it from
your very own wings
                       can't                       fly …………..

why then don't
you just wait to die?

buried in your very own hell
you followed yourself there
you know where you are

           your shroud . . .
wrap around yourself                  
those useless wings. . .
                                    furl them
around your bones
and someday                      
when they find you                     
they will see that you once flew. . .

                        Save your tears. . .
                  they will water
                          a thousand gardens
                          for a thousand years
don't waste them on yourself

save your voice
for if you cry
they will not come
                                             instead. . .
they will turn to flee
they will run                           
as your pain grows
                                 like a flame
it burns whole worlds

and know this
that the people flee from you

for you have become a monster
in their eyes
do you see yourself?
in their eyes ...........?

you are no angel. . .
you are but a lost soul
       like they,
you have wings

yet you cannot fly . . .


Just a quick explanation about this poem: The angel represents the USA .. . . and the feather represents the pitiful attempts this country makes at helping the environment and the world in general. As a powerful country we owe the world a lot more and as a people, who are basically takers and users . . .. we owe it to our children and future generations who will reside on this home planet to take better care of it and respond to its needs . . . and stop being so greedy.  OK .. .. I am about to get on a soapbox here and I don't have the time. So this is the gist of the poem . . . please understand it wasn't a depressed poem about me . . .. it was an angry poem about a country.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Wings in the Dark Valley

When you walk in the dark valley
and the shadow-wings follow you
looping down over you, hiding you
from the light
with their tarnished feathers . . .
and you sense that coppery scent of blood as
you bite your lips to staunch the cry of fear. . .

you feel alone
and bereft of hope;
deep cries, deep cries wrench your soul . . .
and your tears quench your thirst.

No one will find you when you stumble or

when the talons dig deep through your hunched back,
and the ropes bind you . ..
the wings, the powerful wings wrap around your face
blinding you,
smothering you,
taking away your voice . . .
like a silent snake
they wrap tighter . . . tighter than the
vines around that lonesome pine . . .
leaning close above your head,

leaning over that dark valley floor.. .

yet in the stillness around you

your ears hear a whistle,
a simple warble, a query,
and then an arietta .. ..

a slight touch 
like a tingle of electricity.. .. ..
the song of the morning drifts in 
on the wispy wings of melody
and finds its home in your heart
and with its tremulous whisperings
has the magic of music
to break your bounds . ..
and lift your wings with the wind of a song
and give you the grace and strength
to fly out of your shadows
and away from your fear.


"Wings in the Dark Valley" was written with my left-hand as part of an experimental inquisitiveness (noted in an earlier posting)  regarding what type of poems would come from my right brain .  .. .. but it was a poem I struggled with for days and finally improved with my right-hand .. .
"Tossed" is a picture I took on the way to work . . .. as I walked down the street, near my school, I saw this thing laying over a hedge, just tossed there, like some sort of offering to the gods . .. It gave me conflicting feelings, sorrow, fear and amusement . . . I took several pictures of this deserted, tattooed, headless manikin . . .

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Today, Rejoice in the Treasures .. ..

Today, rejoice in the treasures
refined in infinite glory,
existing in wonder
beyond the understanding of our finite minds . . .
a living being no bigger than a pearl
having powers beyond 
what is in our hands.. .. ..
lives in structured simplicity . . .
and beauty, existing
beyond the creativity of our small gifts . . .
From the spiral of the galaxies
mirrored in the web of the spider,
and the dance of the honey bee,
down to the smallest atom . . .
there are mysteries,
there are secrets,
never fully revealed . . .
to any but the angels . . .
so today, rejoice in the treasures
for tomorrow they may be gone . . .

The Souls of Trees

Twisted tree in Kenilworth Park (above)

Trees have no souls,
people say.. .. ..
and yet I see
twist and dance,
sing and rejoice.. .. ..
I see them weep,
give birth,
give shelter,
hope, and die

they live
they become


I was talking with my son about trees, and my fascination with their existence, their story , their lives . .. . and how one day when I was walking through one of the local forests, I could see them coming to life out of the corners of my eyes and I heard them breathing and talking . . .. moving, a tree is always moving. I wondered how they got so bent and twisted and how they got their unique forms. My son remarked that there was a particularly interesting twisted tree near the school where I teach, and I knew exactly who he was talking about. This morning as I walked in to work I finally took a picture of that tree . . . the twisted tree at the top of this posting . . . I am always  admiring her posture as I walk by.

The Rules of the Game

I dug too deep
looking for that buried cache
of promises to myself.... ..
yielding more than I could handle,
memories of pain. . .
joy.. .. ..
all knowledge and barriers
to my meandering journey
is a web that confines and restrains. . .
anguish.. .. ..
Those straits that give peace
as I am confirmed
within my bounds,
I have begun to have an understanding
regarding the rules of the game
and where they lurk
deep inside my heart.. .. ..
and while the gate to the pathway
of my life
shuts quietly behind me,

I will return no more
to where I lost my way . . .

My favorite time of life
is when I am safely dreaming
whether sleeping or awake
and music like this puts me there:

I follow the notes of the piano
like stair steps to the unknown
created in heavenly grace
and filled with ease.. .. ..
endowed with love and expectations
I rise higher and higher
until I realize
I have wings.

and I am loosed to fly
in freedom and contentment
and I dream . . .

Thursday, August 19, 2010


Today . . .

                           as I was walking home I captured this moment:

and I thought . . . yes . . . me too . . . and I thought of all the pictures I have taken, for free, leaving all the jars, in peace . . . and I want to share my flowers with you:

    Spring Time     memories

Dainty daisies in the grass

This one, in memory of Shane, who drowned near my house this past Spring. The children have put up quite a nice memorial for him here at their favorite swimming hole. May you have peace in your resting place, Shane . ..

 This one in memory of all the bees and other insects which work so hard in our environment . . .  watch them . . . you will be amazed at the diversity and necessity of these small creatures.





This one in memory and awe of Nature's return . . . it never fails us . ..  if we let it be . . .

This one is for awe .  .  .

We are always so delighted
 and amazed

            And we are always so
to have the flowers . . .

And thus we know that we have Love!     PEACE - JOY - LOVE . . . . may it never end for you!

photo editing by: S.R.

I felt, as summer came to a close; and I saw the leaves begin to fall and the smoke from the fireplaces rise; a reluctance to let the carefree days of summer leave me with no place to go . .. so I wandered through the sunset and into the full moon . .. thinking of all the summers' past . .. and I thought of the promise of Autumn, like the promise of the sunset, that the circle of life is complete and continues . . . and someday, Summer will return . .. that is the promise in these waning days, that life goes on, through the gray days and the bright days.


Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Stars - The Stone - The Sand

I know why you loved me.. .. ..
I was the colors
in a space you once longed for,
and you heard me
on my mountain far away,
singing of you,
and you felt loved
and complete . . .
for you are the music of the
stars and I am the sand that
drifts into their bones. . .
and gives them dance as they
wobble in their arcs
around the melodies of time,
leaving light trails through the dark. . .
drifting, drifting

and once a stone, unbalancing
fell to the feet of a mountain;
and was carried away
by a running brook,
tumbling and turning,
chaffing away into sand
becoming a part of
the stream of time . . .
and the sands drift
and they drift
like a river
into the endless sea,
and dispersed as children
of a tribulation,
they sank through the narrows
into the heavy heart of the earth
where again they become mountain stone

I am the sand
and I am the stone mountain;
the song that sifts through your soul
as you write the melodies
that fly through the spaces between
the stars as they dance. . .
and I am the colors of your dreams,
the banners of light that flash
in the wake of each star.

the stars, like stone sand drifting,
drifting through endless space
becoming a part of eternal time . ..

you and I
drifting together
through the colors of time . . .


Grace and elegance - we dance by the sea
the music so stately . . . dynamic
gently leads us to the edge of the whispering sands . . .
lightly it gives us wings as the bells of evening ring
we marvel at the beauty we hear
and the joy it gives us within . . .


Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Wings to Fly

  Today, I want wings to fly.. .. ..
a gentle touch to my heart.. .. ..
a sweet whisper to give a smile .. .. ..
and an eternal rainbow bridge to heaven.. .. ..
a place to take my spirit for golden moments
where I can collect JOY,
like flowers from a celestial garden,
profuse with the most beautiful melodies. . .
and a place to find PEACE
to light up the shadows of my memories.. .. ..
where I can go again and again
and fill all of my moments with the precious
LOVE from these songs
and from
the generous and creative spirit of the musician . . .


yes . . . like that!


I hear songs coming from a tiny fragile planet,
shining bright against the open shadowed mouth
of a distant universe. . .
I hear a distant melody. . .

a harvest rich and ripe,
a harbinger of hope . . .
the sky an ever-changing
array of color, windows into heaven.

a song from the rustle of a feather,
and the yawn of a wolf cub,
warm love gliding, like aromatic oil,
down the rays of the sun

the passionate beating
heart of the earth . . .
reflected in the rhythmic waves
of the ocean

the wind presses melodies
from the dancing trees . . .
and the heart is uplifted
singing to the waiting soul

yes, those are the songs
I hear .. .
Those are the songs
of the planet.


Sunday, August 15, 2010

Music to give you peace or make you cry . . .

Beauty is in the lines of this music .. .. ..
fluttering up like a butterfly,
a flower on winds that blow through the heart
leaving a gentle perfume . . .
to drift in the atmosphere on the notes of a piano . . .
a peaceful gentle tide,
a glowing sunset across the brow
of a drifting cloud-scape,
a sigh, while the notes flow over and around
and heavy burdens melt away
and disappear into the sands of time
leaving nothing but the footprints
of freedom from care, where we waltz
as we listen to the graceful song of this piano
and we share this wonderful peace.


We are lifted up as the music plays
it moves us through our dreams . . .
and touches our hearts as we hear
beauty expressed on the piano . . .
and as something comes alive
in our souls,
the joy withering demons leave
and we are lightened and something
in us dances to the symmetrical melodies
as they ride on angels' wings
and flow around us like crystal lights . ..
in the colors of the rainbow . . .

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Too Many Goodbyes

Love and life has its changing
shadows and light
and as things disappear
from our grasp and those we love
walk away . ..  the heat from our beating hearts
will cast
sparks from which
new flames will ignite
and some new adventures:

Love, Peace and War will be found
populating the depths of the soul as it
embarks anew  . . .  making a voyage
of regret and pleasure
which no one can foresee or foretell,
as, we also, will all soon
pass by and eventually over that far hill,
a future completed, a life finished,

along that rough road traveled . . .
by the end of which
many treasures have been gathered.

  As I traverse along
the pathways of life
I find that I tend
to hang onto the thought
that I may have lost
things, and people along

the way; but instead
I have accumulated
those things, and people, as treasures
through the having of them for a time,
whether for a short or long time, but

to be contented with my life, I must allow
my memories to mark these riches
as "Something Precious" on the map
of "Somewhere in My Heart" .  .  .

I was standing at the bus-stop listening to music when I heard this song and was inspired with a thought - so I wrote this poem . . . and as it was the music that inspired me I wanted to share that also: Van Syla's "Requiem" from her "Goodbye" album. 

Time Traveling

Left AND right hand poem . . . (Working so well Together)

I escaped from advice a long time ago
when people had it in buckets to give,
like water for the thirsty,
or a panacea to those who suffer,
and it seemed
as if camping in my life,
they were able to pitch their tents
and stay, by giving me the gift
of their knowledge and experience.

but here is where I am
on the opposite side of time,
and here I seem to find myself
more often then not
and where
I find regrets for those things
I neglected to do
I wish that I had remembered
to breath more deeply. . .
on that other side,
when I was there . . .
smile more and slow down,
speak more kindly and
love more.

I regret that I didn't take
more pictures of you before
we said goodbye . . .
I regret that I didn't hold you closer
or say the words that you needed to hear . . .
so much to regret
that it is hard to find . . .  the . . .

of what I did find there on the other side of that abyss
or what I did do
to put a smile on your face . . .
why don't I remember those things?
They seem to be lost behind the shadow of my regrets,

on the opposite side of time
are all the shining possibilities,
visible on the distant cliffs
as golden cities, with open doorways
clearly and with
glorious visions of. . .  hopes and dreams . .  .
so often unrealized . . .

and there follows that growing collection
of regrets. . .
and yes
there is no going back over the pathways of time and returning
to do the things so longed for
or re-sing the song . . .  or take back the words .. ..
or capture that moment in time . . . lost forever.

those regrets of time
from the opposite side . . . as a time traveler
I find I am
lost and confused sometimes
must sit down
in the campgrounds of the advice givers
and seek solace from. . .
the words,
"I told you so . . . but I still love you"


Thursday, August 12, 2010

The Day's Song!

 (A left handed poem)
That moment when the blue meets
the shifting shapes of dawn,
a few angels left to drift
excuse themselves as pink clouds
above the seasoned mountains where
the sleepy birds awaken
and cast their thin shadows in flight
while a song, a familiar melody,
a heartbeat arises from the earth.. .. ..
a coolness from that predawn moment
before the sun ascends
and brings all the warmth
of dragons' breath
to scorch the unmown earth.. .. ..
the dew collected on bended blade
sparkles like crystal
with colors so intense
that it offers a momentary glimpse
into heaven that only the deft and the few
with the courage to try
may enter those reaches
through those portals as seen
by the gazing eye.. .. ..
and the music of the day comes in to play
when the insects drink their fill of that dew
and fly into the lifting atmosphere
and follow the earth's beating heart
and the birds swoop down to join them.


 "I am dreaming" (A Right Hand Song)

melodies living in my memories
giving visions as the sun begins to set
I see the gleaming rose
slowly growing by my windowsill
where once you planted it
and there I love it still
watered by my salty tears

I am dreaming
in the sunlight  dreaming
cloud tops lift me
sunshine gifts me
I am dreaming

pictures in the windows of my mind
I open doorways to yesterday
and I see you standing there
waving goodbye
I see through misted eyes
and as I slowly lift my hands
to brush away my salty tears

you are gone
you are gone
you are gone

Little Fish and Little Bird: A Cautionary Tale

she looked into the waters of the island where she lived
the waters of the wind tossed sea
the great  waters surrounding her prison
as she knew she would never leave.. .. ..
her life was sadly reshaped
by circumstances following
a tragedy regarding a meeting with a predator
which caused her
heart to be broken and scarred . . .
and she could only fly for short and temporary moments
and so she could never leave for home
to where the fruit was always ripe
upon the great and emerald  trees
and the sunlight always warmed the feathers
of her kin and other souls.

now she stood alone on shores deserted
and sadly awaited her fate
thinking of the end of life
for there was nothing on this gray bouldered mound
and she only heard the bitter sounds
of rocks being churned in an angry surf.

she didn't see a sign of life
or one green leaf or blade
the sun had deserted her behind a gray wall
and she stood alone, hunched against the bitter cold
and harsh sandy wind
which never stopped but seemed to grow with time . . .

She nearly missed the silvery eye that watched
as she sighed a tiny breath so lost in that vicious wind
but just beneath a pool of water cast between two
large imposing boulders
swam a lively and lovely fish
just as lost as she . . .
somehow tossed by a large and solitary wave
to land in this puddle away from the sea . . .

These two, little bird and little fish began to talk,
of many things . . .
of life and love
and joy and pain . . .
and being trapped  . . .
for many days
they shared their lives and fantasies. . .
their music and poetry,
and like artists everywhere, they shared their dreams . . .
and loved each others' art,
and longed to become part of the others' dreams.

Little fish began to love this bird . . .and tell her in many ways.
And bird?
she finally began to love also . . . and her loneliness began
to disappear . . . and her heart became full of hope,
of possibilities and dreams. . .

Together the two of them talked about bird coming into
the clear waters which enclosed fish . . .
and how that was possible
with bubbles of air and how
the two could become entwined
and close . . . for a time . . .
but only for a very short time . . .

and little bird did not hear that message
about a "short time" nor did she want to,
so the two of them made the bubble of
life giving air for little bird . . .
and she flew down into the distant reaches
of this puddle made by the huge and violent sea.

Down she went, her bubble intact, and she flew
down to the bottom where peace reigned
and beauty existed
so much to see,
of coral and starfish and beauty
never before seen by her eyes.
And her lover .. .. was there
to greet her.

little fish showed little bird this new world,
and together they made love
and enjoyed each other
and all was bliss until
little fish reminded little bird
that it was time to go.

but little bird would not believe
that this joy was only temporary
and not designed to last forever . . .
she could not accept that,
not in her heart . . .
and she refused to leave.

So she stayed, hanging on to the last
vestiges of air in her fragile bubble,
and little fish became more agitated
telling her .  .  . "you must leave.
you cannot remain here.
this is not the place for you."
but little bird did not listen.
she couldn't hear for her heart
was too full of love . . .

and down at the bottom of this beautiful
where the water was so crystal clear
as to almost appear not to exist,
and where the beautiful colors of the
coral and starfish and all of the lovely
flowers of the sea converged to make
something that appeared for a moment
to look like heaven . . .
and where love had once existed,
little bird's bubble shattered . . . .

Little fish was able to save little bird
and the two of them invent
many ways to come together
in their distant yet so-close worlds
 . . . . the struggle continues .. . .


Tuesday, August 10, 2010


I wonder why you think that I would get angry
over a dirty mug left on a table?
Would you hate me if I left my towel on the floor?
I am always too distracted to care
about house-keeping . . .
if it wants to get done . . .. it will .. .. someone
will do it . . .
and in my home its usually me . . .  if I wish . . .
or it doesn't get done . . . and if it doesn't
I guess I don't really care.

You should see me brushing the kitty litter off
of my bedding before going to sleep at night,
my cats seem to think that my bed is theirs .  ..
and it is hard to get them to roll over
so I can crawl in  to sleep.
But they are always so warm and cuddly
that I like it that way . . .
So I don't care about perfection . . .
It frightens me . . . the thought of it
taking over - for if perfection moves in -
then there's no room left for me
for I am so far from perfect.

And its like letting the wildflowers move
into my garden;
they don't yell at me in refined voices,
"Feed me, pull my weeds . . . ow ow the sun
is hurting me and those bugs are biting me . . ."

No - my wildflowers are so strong
and self sufficient that they
barely give me a glance when I walk through,
and the insects are cooperative
with them in every way - so

. . . . no one gets hurt
and I have no back-breaking yard work and I have found that
its all designed for my joy anyway so
I never-more worry about perfect gardens
because what ever perfection is . . .
is in the eyes of the beholder after all.

or is that beauty in the eyes of the beholder?

Regarding Aliens

Aliens have all the fun! And perhaps I am one . . . because I heard this music
and the music gave me visions
and the music gave me safety . . . a place to go . . . to hide.

Perhaps it is the music, and our daily humdrum fades away,
and gravity becomes less insistent,
and we have opportunity to float away, as far as we wish,
into places yet unseen by mortal eyes,
where we can find
the spaces between planets,  where the unfamiliar
gives us cessation of strife and . . .
a tensionless voice . . . a song that gives us wings . . .
our thoughts become refined
and each breath we take is filled
with the purity of peace
its beautiful here . . . I want to stay.


Monday, August 9, 2010

Her Tears

By the flowing river,
she sits by the glowing river,
water shines like liquid gold,
painful memories are growing.. .. ..
and she whispers,
"if you were a road
and I were a hope
could I follow you to where you spill
out into the open sea?
Does the sea hear the cry
of this simple melody and
the sound of wind caressing chimes
while all of my lost dreams . . .
like bubbles filled with nothing
burst over simple touches?"
Left to wonder as she walks
into the water .. .. .. and the river
folds around her
holding her tightly to its bosom
whispering nothing into her ears,
and filling her heart with liquid gold
overcomes her unborn dreams
with a rush of song
and a ripple of water
washes away the unwanted stain
of her tears.

Remember Passion?
You were the reason for me to fly.
I longed to see you so much so
I shook off my fear and grew wings
and I flew straight to you,
and you were there
for me . . . my shining light,
my beacon . . . you grew for me
into the brightest star of all
and helped me to see all the beauties
in life . . .
but now there are only shadows
remaining.. .. ..
simple memories, like vague melodies
that cling to the thin skin
of my aching heart .  ..
there is no balm that heals . . .
perhaps time . . . can . .  .
but how do I get rid of love, or all my questions,
For as my planet turns
my sun sinks below the infinite distant horizon,
the night looms
and brings with it, loneliness and darkness
and I cannot see.. .. ..
I cannot see you anymore, my sunlight,
you took all the joy in life
when you left me in the dark
and all the golden emblems of beauty
have become tarnished and desolate,
fading images in my starless skies.



the white is cutting
textures of frozen tundra
sky drips with colors

I stand here lonely
looking at the night skylights
rejection hurts me

I sing my sad song
with no one here to hold me
me invisible

pain is an emblem
a flag we fly when lonely
shifting shape in winds

my eyes overfill
waters overpower me
salt crusts on my skin

in this endless cold
I am like the wanderer
frightened and alone

Would it help to be numb?
perhaps . . . to look out a dusty window
onto a street brimming with life;
people smiling,
people talking,
people walking
where are they going
all these wanderers?
Do they peer at life so closely. . .
as I.. .. ..
do they hear a sad refrain
as they pass my dark abode?
do they see the shadows looming
do they see a sadness growing
like the deadly nightshade blooming
sweet fruit so full of poison
belladonna . . . the beautiful woman
so full of promise
so full of hope . . .
is that me . . . a pestilence to the one
who loved me?

When all is lost:
would talking help . . .
would it give ceasing to this pain,
would it bring understanding where none
was before?

It is like standing on a fence
with barbs digging into your feet
you must fall . . .
but your choices are slim . . .
so to which side of the fence
do you take your leap?

a painful distance resides on
either side of this barrier . . .
a chasm,
a gaping hole into the universe,
a void . . . where there is nothing
in view . . . no cushion to land on.. .. ..
no promises . . . no futuristic dreams,
no smiling faces with arms outstretched. . .
nothing to break the fall
no matter how desperate
the decision . ..
yet fall you must. . .

so you plunge . . . and descend into the unknown . . .
the harsh cold winds tearing at your cheeks,
desolate lights flickering by your frightened gaze,
you see no end to this dropping
like flying but without the comfort of wings. . .

and alone . . . you face this inner death . . .
as alone and naked as your existence decrees
and as the fates have determined,
no matter your rebellion.

and so you watch yourself
first you fear.. .. ..
and then you grieve.. .. ..
for your inner vision tells you a truth
best left un-worded.

and finally resignation
which overcomes you
just before the end.

How would talking help that?

This page is dedicated to my friend, who like the rose, is sweet and glorious and beautiful beyond compare, but the rose, like passion, burns itself out with its hot flames, and while the embers of love still linger with a heart-wrenching memorable scent of incense, and the wistful memories glow brighter than the full moon, all begins to fade away with the passing of time and the shifting winds  . . . and in the end all is forgiven. But, it takes time . . .


                  Pierre-Marie . . . this is astonishingly awesome, a labor of love, and a divine collaboration with the God you love and adore. The music is well composed and meticulously crafted and would be considered a masterpiece by any classical symphonic attendee. The sound quality is exquisite and the album cover is tasteful and elegant. Perfection!

There is obviously a great deal of extraordinary inspiration in evidence as I listen. This is a truly moving concept album. Each piece is profound and with monumental aspects which paint vivid mental pictures. I think the music has very healing qualities and a peacefulness and serenity which rides through the profundity of this beautiful music.

Although all the pieces were exquisitely divine and loved by this listener, the favored one was the "6th day" with those lovely human sounds during the creation of mankind, and the music was just so very sublime. How many years did this symphony take you to create? The entire album was so good and deserves a standing ovation from this listener.

Free music for professional licensing


Friday, August 6, 2010

To Dream Again!

A dance of life
Seen through the beauty
               of warm air
and distant love . . .

I seem to have an ache
lodged beneath my bones.
They feel hollow today,
fragile and crumbly
as if about to meet
          the dust
of stars, drifting and mixing
amongst the everyday dirt
of life's mundane moments . .  .
the choices we make
that pave our roads
with leftover dreams,
sad songs and unrealized wishes
are misted over and tempered
             by hope,
and the colors of a rainbow
is a ribbon
trailing behind,
a little frayed
and forgotten.. .. ..
until a stumble causes a meditative moment,
and a chance to dream again.