The butterfly bushes,
in my small yard,
have captivated a multitude . .
where the purple flowers cluster
and dangle temptingly,
dancing slightly in the breeze . . .
warmed in the golden sun and
emitting an enticing scent of honeyed sweetness . .
bees gather, diving deeply into the heady stuff . . .
focused on their business . .. they never notice
my camera as it poises over each unique individual . . .
some new and fluffy with yellow pollen . .
others shiny and black . . .
and the furry ones, that look like little teddy bears . .
tumble and bumble along on their frail glassy wings . .
The small butterflies, like fluffy orange kittens . . . play and frolic
amongst this abundance . . . big eyes reflect
back at me . . . a certain winsomeness . . .
and a little dreaminess in the sunshine . . .
The humming birds seem to think
that this is their sanctuary . . .
and often hover before my face
to look into my eyes. . .
never though, when I have my camera . . sadly . .
and I always explain to them . . .
that I am just here to observe . . . never to disrupt
this small Eden . . .
and though my neighbors may decry my "weeds"
I see
a beautiful garden . . .
Once, long ago,
I laid on my back
in the tall grasses,
completely invisible
to anyone looking for me . .
I watched the darkening sky
and the star-flies,
little groups of insects. . .
or fairies,
swooping through the dusk,
like stray embers flashing upward
from that great bonfire
in the setting sun . . .
I called them to me,
by name and they came,
without hesitation
entering the crystal goblet
I had ready . . .
where I treasured
this captive magic . . .
their thin wings beating
hopelessly
against the invisible glass . . .
the green leaves
of the willow tree
tasted the dust
at her roots and
I would watch the branches
sweep the banks
of a little brook
leaving cryptic forms and markings,
messages to the musical water . .
tell me something new . . . something
you have never told me before
a dream,
a story,
a wish . . .
I will tell you
about that endless day when
the willow tree passed away. . .
this one had an airy spirit
and a tender heart
though she would join us
in our frivolities . . .
her strength and stability
was like that of a goddess . . .
and her graceful lines
were expressed as beauty . . .
the birds found rest in her shiny tresses . . .
she was shelter
from long ago hot summers. . .
her limber branches
creating a green breeze
and lacy shadows . . .
. . .this terrible windy day
she hurled herself to the dirt . . .
roots pointing to the skies . . .
her bones broken and disarrayed . . .
her trunk horizontal and still . .
all the other children were
in fear of the powerful storm . . .
yet I found a certain exhilarating glee
in the strength
of this invisible moving force. . .
I wanted to be out in the wind. . .
being lifted by strong arms
and tossed into the air . . .
my heart felt so light
and I knew that I could spread my wings
and fly forever . ..
but I was commissioned
to watch my siblings . ..
all crying in a row . . .
like naked, hungry little birds . . .
eyes wide in dread . . .
mouths round, black and bottomless . . .
piercing the air with loud wails . . .
sadly, I just laughed at them . . .
I lacked sympathy, then, . . .
there they were . . .
trapped in their misery . .
exposed in their frailties . . .
I never understood their fear . . .
except that the willow-tree fell . . .
and would not rise up again . .
her long branches
tangled in a lumpy heap and
slowly beginning to wilt . . .
while the birds circled overhead
calling . . . calling . . .
************************************************************ A diversity of music genres . .. beautiful and captivating . . . I have been listening for days . . .
Weaving through space, sinuous and dreamy,
leading me through the back roads of my memories . ..
my dreams flying through the wind . .
and my hopes of peace and understanding . . .
bloom like a white rose in the darkness . . .
a pale fragrance,
by morning covered in fragile dew . . .
like pearls . . . reflecting the eye of the beholder ...
I have added Google Translator as a new widget on the sidebar. . . Give it a try and let me know what the results are, if you wish. Remember that these on-line translators are very imperfect and can translate word for word but not the intent and meaning . . . that is hard for people to do let alone an electronic brain.
Poetry is difficult to understand under the best of circumstances . . . and will probably be more difficult through the translator . . . but with so many people from different countries coming to visit, I thought it might be helpful.
for so many miles I have walked,
lost beneath a silent moon. . .
the dust of the road,
rising up like long ago memories,
clings to the skin of my soul . .
and following me,
as a cape flapping in the wind,
are the streaming shreds
of heartache . . .
I sing a tuneless song
to keep me company . . .
and remember
when I held your hand
as we walked down
unfamiliar streets . . .
our way was paved
in sunshine and melodies
though the skies were black with clouds . . .
my eyes are hungry
for the sight of you . . .
Quiet and tender are the melodies . .
they float around me,
sentimental and wistful,
like lost cherubs . . .
dreamy and content . . .
There is beauty in these shadows. . .
a cool and restful place to stay
and listen to the music . . .
for much of a long and weary day . . .
the electric guitar gives strength
and the piano gives peace . .
and there is a sweet balm in these songs
to sooth away the sorrows
and smooth away the rough edges . .
with a breath of the
lovely and divine . . .
The brightest edge of an ancient star,
peering through the mists, is the color of a million years . .
a long, long, road traveled,
ending as a point of light
reflected in the eyes
of white wolf . . . she stands on the ledge
above a canyon . .
blackness pooled beneath her . . .
rushing water feeds the night
with sighs and snorts
like a thousand wild horses
racing between the walls,
an echo reverberating into the heavens . . .
she joins the music of the water
and feels a shiver from the listeners,
small, like prey, they feel . . .
an untouched moment, wild. . .
with a lust to run in fear and exhilaration . .
hearts beating . . .
countless hearts are beating . . .
endless eyes shattered in the star's deep gaze . .
a pool of dawning knowledge
becomes a place of drowning
where the chosen one feels the hot breath
and the thrust of the the wolf's tongue,
like a lover's kiss,
for an endless moment
before the end . . .
and in the end . .. is a beginning . .
for the blood drawn, sinks into the thirsty earth . . .
where an ancient song
lies buried . . . waiting to be released . . . and on the banks of the wild river . . after the echoing cry is stilled, the child in the old man weeps with wonder . . . as one small star flickers and dies . ..
we crossed paths
and for some
unknown reason
you looked at me
and saw
a bleeding soul . . .
you heard
a heart song,
an echoing refrain
of yesterday's melody . . .
your fingers, delicate . . .
fluttering
white butterflies . . .. .
over empty spaces . . . .
I looked at you and saw
Phoenix rising . . .
passion surrounding
me in brittle arms of steel,
I breathed on you,
blowing ashes to the searing winds . . .
flames like roses blooming
and withering. . .
rising and falling,
sizzling beneath pearls
of tears like white wine . . .
The oak tree . . .
has no
memories of this .. ..
but stands stoic . . .
a shelter from the
scorning sun . .
I am moved . ..
by this sentimental music,
a wistful dream of yesterday;
yes, there was that day . . .
it dances slowly in my memories,
quietly fading . . . until the rim
of the past
becomes the moment of today .. ..
and here I sit,
my heart melting . . .
under the tender touches
of a piano's voice . . .
and slowly a few tears must fall,
while the beauty of the music
becomes a balm
to heal . .
on the lid of this life . . .
pointing obliquely to the end. . .
I cannot make it out
my eyes are too blurry
from the salty brine . . .
it gets harder to see
as the line gets finer,
and the time gets shorter
but my heart shrinks . . .
inward . . .
shellacking its surface
to reflect the burning
rays of pain
and I spread
some calk
to fill in the
puncture wounds
as if they were holes in old houses
needing repair . . .
yet there is nothing left
but this dull pain. . .
I am old enough
to know
that wounds heal,
and the scar left behind
is yet another shield
of protection and knowledge
against the woes of
time . . .
and though
a flower fades and drops
never to return
there will come a day when
yet another
bloom will grow,
the thorns a little sharper . . .
I know that I have
little to offer you
but my flimsy understanding
of life and time,
like the pale lunar moth
struggling to get to
that glorious moon . . .
brushing against the
topmost leaf where
her delicate scales brush off,
the glue too insubstantial to hold,
she flutters down
into the flame
of reality
and perishes . . . ***********************************************************************************
lying on my back
in the tall golden grass
I am completely invisible
to those doomed to wander on this flat land . . .
here I watch the star-flies,
little flocks of insects or fairies . .
swooping through the dusk,
like stray embers
flashing upwards,
from that great bonfire on the horizon . . .
I call them to me
by name
and they come without hesitation . . .
bringing the music of my soul . . .
it lingers in the air
like the perfume of the gods . . .
moving like the waves of a restless sea . .
I am overwhelmed by the ambiance
stroking me like calming fingers . . .
my star-flies swim back and forth in this
raw emotion .. ..
touching my eyelids . . . which flutter with want . . .
my lips . . . like tender invisible kisses . . .
my body completely relaxed . . .
I swoop upward and outward . . .
with my star-flies . . . into the deep space of Heaven . . . and I am truly lost to this world . . .
expressive and dynamic
yet peaceful and calm . . . subtle . . .
a great evening's listen and some of the best jazz
on Jamendo . . .
the emotional piano, percussion and bass . . . work
so well together as to be seamless in the overall
presentation . . .
Why is jazz my favorite music? I have been trying to understand that myself . .. but maybe its because it pulls to the surface my emotions of the moment . .
whether cheerful or sad . . .
blue or mad . . .
When I hear good jazz like this,
I feel it in the pit of my stomach . . .
that thumping of the bass . . .
like a bloody heartbeat . . .
the piano like crumpled wings
trying to break free . . .
and the percussion . . .
a wet road in a maze of life . ..
and together they become
like building blocks
creating the beat of my life . . .
growing like a tree,
lifting up my inner soul
like a baby bird, on the branches
of life, . .. Sometimes protected and sometimes exposed . .
Yes . . . Jazz often expresses my life . ..
giving me meaning and understanding . ..
like a poem . . like a song . . .
Electric and funky . . .
a little bluesy and a lot jazzy . . .
vibrations and chimes . ..
delivering a punch to the psyche . . .
tremendously good . ..
day-dreamy jazz . . .Royalty free music for professional licensing
She walks her trail with a pathway of obliging stars as eternal guides . .. her tribe has gone before her to part the tangled seas of grass . . They have taught her the ways and wisdom of her people . .. to forsake the taming, but seeking the instincts of the wild, together, they climb to the mountain top, where they sing of the beauties of a dreamlike creation . . and of a life giving abundance, for all that draws breath, to cherish and share . . .
Their ancient story is of loss, fear, and fragility of love, strength and tranquility . . and those that hear their song are released from their prisons and renewed . . . for it is such that causes even the angels to lean in, a little closer, to hear these ancient songs and then pause to gaze, in wonder, at this small blue planet . . .
finding . . .
A place to cling
on the peak of the moon's
distant rays . .
I have lost my way home . .. thus needing a place to rest
my weary heart,
I looked into the eyes
of the dream weaver and know . . .
I am the hunter
endlessly searching for beauty,
finding broken dreams
and misplaced memories and
often the bizarre. . .
I am the wanderer,
searching for planets
yet unnamed . . .
and finding the dispossessed
at the crossroads
of eternity. . .
I am the dreamer
watching and wanting
a web disrupted
at the seams of time
I wait for the meaning
and measure of me
I have but to wonder
and though
I am fearful of what I seek
I always find it
in the darkness of my night . . .
I hear your song . . . it reflects in my whispers and the aching of my heart . . . it tugs on my dreams . . and releases my memories . . .
I cannot catch the sun
in my net . . . it burns . . .
with that fire . ..
the ravenous greed of the sun
is reflected on the green leaves of summer . .
the dust lifts up like old dreams,
flecks of what has been . . .
flying in the careless winds . ..
reaching an apex. . .
culminating in old boxes
and bundles of yesterday's rags . ..
brown with moss
and slick with age . . .
it adheres like glue . .
leaving traces along the pathway
of time . . .
lost memories retrieved
as I sit by my window . ..
I look at the moments. . .
each parting of those waves
reveals a road not taken . . .
a sorrow not grieved
a heartache unhealed . .
a knot . .. stiff and rusted . .
the dust rises up
like the ghosts of the lost
and dance an everlasting waltz
with the last human on earth . . .
A cry tears through the night . . .
the quest of the piano . .
splits the waves of silence . .
There is a peace in knowing pain . .
that sharp blade
that slices through the heart . ..
and so
my tears fall heedlessly . . .
and my heart is slowly breaking.
I watch you walking away,
not an easy thing
to let my heart know . . .
although I did expect
you to go . . .
for many reasons,
but not least,
the belief
that you deserve to have
your heart's desire
which weaves
its transparent shell
around my soul . . .
and so
although I ache,
I will not crush the petal of the flower . ..
that wishes to break free
nor tear the wing of the song bird
that longs to fly away . .
a silken thread trails against
a deep blue sky,
it leaves a memory
floating quietly with strength
to hold that solitude . ..
through the dances in the air,
and though the waters fall
and lightning strikes,
like fire from heaven . . .
it sails on.
and so
I will but soak the soil
at the feet of the rose .. ..
and bejewel the graceful neck
of the singing bird
with my tears,
like pearls on a string
reflecting warmly
the ashes of your love . . .
and but one tear
is left for me,
preserved for always
in my memories . . .
like butterflies in amber
songbird . . . my sunny songbird
why do I let you fly
so small and frail
against the stormy sky . . .
you are blown away from me
so quickly . .
a moment's salty froth
leaping into the air
dissipated against the rocky shore . .
I hear you singing in the breeze . . .
a slight flutter like a leaf, blown
carelessly . . . the shadowy branches
scratch against the night sky. . .
your eyes are like the star's glance,
a mere twinkle and a sigh. . .
I leave you in the clouds
that drift. . .
love is like that. . .
the feather
soft in the breeze
your presence, like
the song's burst
an echo in the night
your dream, a fragile bubble
bursting at first light
Some, may think that I only listen to music from Jamendo.com . . . but that isn't entirely true . . . on a daily basis maybe . . . but I also have an extensive collection of music, mostly blues and classic and some New-Age, CDs and tape. And of course, music that my musical friends, scattered all over the world and the Internet share with me . . .I also have an account at Magnatune where I find some of the most enjoyable music . . . so I share some here . .. enjoy these Celtic/Folk tunes . . .
Here is a new album and talented musician on Jamendo . . . acoustic guitar with a great singer . . . a little dark and melancholic and a little experimental . . . a very enjoyable listen:
Don't forget to check out my "Trip to France" page (on the left side) Several photo albums have been added. Enjoy the pictures . . . I had tremendous fun and now I have the traveling "bug."
Pictures taken at Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden, Portland, Oregon
Music: Dancing with the Swans by: Sagnik and Krishnaroop
from the album "Ethereal Lounge" http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/92226
What is yesterday
but a fleck of dust,
blown in the wind,
and soon forgotten
after leaving a footprint
in the shifting sands . .
What is today . . .
as I sit by a lake
filled with spring waters. . . I watch
the curious ducks float by,
sparks dribbling
from their bills I hear
the cargo train
passing through on the other side
of the green . . .
his voice is humming
with the day's burdens . .
The water tumbling,
down the cliff,
leaps and shines with
white glee,
sparkling with expectations. . .
for it is new
with birth
and not yet settled
and still like the pond below . . .
scummy and wrinkled
with a life lived
and a collection of detritus. . .
old feathers . . . dead leaves . . . the unknown, and filled with
algae and green slime so that
the geese are happy
to feast there . . .
The old tree stump
in the middle of the lake
is a harvest of green
and reflections, perhaps ancient memories . . .
and rooted deeply
in the sands
of experience
still making
an offering to life
on the alter of death . .
There is abundant water on this earth
a huge burst
of elixir
the manna of life
an expectation
of beauty, evident
to the furthest reaches
of space. . .
a glowing blue planet
of promise
and love . . .
Just a note: translators are not perfect when it comes to meaning and intent . . . interpretation of poetry, itself, is difficult and tricky . . .
Just a Note about Content
All of the poetry and stories are created by me, unless stated differently. All of the photography is taken by me unless accompanied by a link to the original. Some of the pages in 2007 have pictures which do not belong to me.
I HAVE NOT TAGGED ALL MY PAGES. IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR SOMETHING - USE THE SEARCH BAR. THANK YOU!
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