Friday, September 23, 2011

Are You Real?

When I passed through your world . . .
did I leave anything behind?
my heart maybe . . 
a single tear?
a dream .. . a song . . .

once upon a time
a bird flew through an open window
leaving a melody . . 
and a single blue feather . .. 
there in my hand . . . and I saw through the misty distance . . 
as if it was yesterday . . . a heartbeat away . . .

I left a simple memory
of laughter . . . and pictures . . .
wishes . . . and a purple balloon . . .
rising in the air above a river
winding sinuously . . .  slowly . . 
her waters tossing the sunlight
in sparkles and shadows
into your dreamy eyes . .. 

your world . .  a magical land
where the stars bloom
like daisies on a sacred expanse . . .
a place of angels and goddesses . . .
their edges and smiles worn away by ancient passages
of an entity called Time . . .

a distant land
where a fisherman walks on water .  .
where we found hidden kingdoms growing
out of amber and burgundy cliffs,
and valleys so deep
they echo with the fall of dew . . .
and there we found . .. 
ambrosial wines and cheeses . . 
and a lonely old mamma . . . a goddess
sitting on the green . . .
with an eternal smile between her withered cheeks . .
and in the morning the sunflowers
stretch to the blue skies from their lush valleys . . .
and in the morning the birds
fly higher and higher . . . like ashes wafted
into the streaming clouds . . .

we walked along the
hills which grasped the lazy waters
between their bosoms . . 
and I heard their secret sigh 
ascending through cavernous deeps . . 
their song rising up . . . 
from the shadowy beating heart
of the planet . . 
a throbbing heat . . .
a dull red glow . ..   
a place between us . . . you and I . . .
you walk on the one side
and I on the other . . .
forever we are connected
by streams of moving memories . . .

- an orangeupurple dedication (and thank you)  to van syla . . .  a dear friend.

The aerie of the eagle
beyond the reach of the dreaming one . . .
is touched by the song
of the piano .. . which music will fly
and take the listener
. . . on the wings of an eagle
 . . . higher and higher
 and higher still
 . . . where we touch the stone
that splits the mountain
 . . . spilling the richness of the sea,
gathering all the stars of the heavens,
having and holding it all
 . . . yet giving it freely
to the dreamer with the outstretched arms,
who is part of the glory
 . . . and the beginning and end
of an eternal story . . .

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Ten Grains of Rice .. . .

Somewhere in France

Let no king reign
without first walking as
a child of the world
un-bandaged in the grimy streets,
wounded and raw
beneath an acid rain . . .
a new born child . .
first guilty of existence, and
unwashed under the flow
of bloodied armies
marching too and fro . . 
a tiny beating heart 
a speck of tender flesh,
clinging to maternal bosoms 
dreaming of rivers of nectar . . .
lest a king's dream
be that of the dragon . . .
an armored tail
gripping the ransom
of babies . . .
and a cage wraps around
a hollow tomb
where once
there was a beating heart . . .

These are the things you can learn while you are donating 10 grains of rice per correct answer . . it is free to you to play and learn . .  and you are feeding the hungry while you play . . . my students love playing these games and especially bragging about the amount of rice they have donated. 

Tuesday, September 20, 2011


She wears a mantle of silence
a shadow beneath contempt.
Her carapace is an armor
           in attempt
To deflect the poison darts
                       and bites
            of the enemy.
Her shining self
Reflected in the undersides of dew
                    is her glory
               but a lie
Devised to hide
The gory inner mess:
             Debilitating loneliness.
Her creativity lines her nest . . . 
Silk defining the limitations of bounded dreams
                     tied in the fetters
                     of self-denial and sacrifice.
Her voice is but a squeak,
An agony of expression longing to
Redeem the measure of her space
But acceptance of abuse
clings . . . a sour temple between the jaws.

Biting back her words she chokes
And all her leftover voice
                   echoes painfully in her skull . . .

This is a much older poem than most of my published  .. .. I wrote it at least 20 years, probably more . ..  I always felt that I had no voice . ..  for the reason of various strictures in my growing up years I learned to keep my mouth shut . . . and remain expressionless . . . my inner self came out through the written word, usually poetry but often short stories, too  . ..  my writing was often appreciated by the teachers at school and college . ..  so I kept at it . . . I found this particular poem tucked away at the bottom of a box and thought that maybe I would share it with you . . . so here, I copied it exactly the way I found it.


Sunday, September 18, 2011

Another Poem .. .. Another Song .. .. Another View .. .. I Borrow

Somewhere in France (SW) 2011


With one he wrote a number so beautiful
it lasted forever in the legends of numbers. With another

graffiti covered doorway, in France
he described the martyrs' feet as they marched
past the weeping stones and cypresses, watched

by their fathers. He used one as a silver wand to lift
a trout from its spawning bed to more fruitful waters

and set it back down, its mouth facing upstream.
He wrote Time has no other river but this one in us,

no other use but this turn in us from mountain lakes
of late desires to confusions passed through

with every gate open. Let's not say he didn't take us
with him in the long current of his letters, his calligraphy

and craft, moving from port to port, his hand stopping
near his heart, the hand that smudged and graced the page,

Somewhere in France, 2011
asking, asking, his fingers a beggar's lucent black,
for the word that gave each of us away.

- BY Jonathan Wells
The New Yorker
July 26, 2010

 I was listening to this music, by Re-Lab on Jamendo, as I read The New Yorker and came upon this poem which I loved . . . and wanted to share with you . . . and it all merged in my head as a surreal moment . . . and here of course I continue to share some of my pictures from France . . .

  Piano for the wide oceans . .
seas which wash like tears within . .
the salt, a cleanser that scours
the hole . . . empty and soulless . .
which drives the music
that swirls in lassitude . . .
as the water
retreating from the breaks mirroring . . .
a forest of grass running on the hill
a breeze
a swell
a light through the wave . .
green like the ivy that clings
to the tree . .
a lover's tight grasp
that smothers a cry . . .
a heart beats within
the ocean's wide reach . . .
leaving a trail for the moon . . .
which skims hot white dreams
to me .. .


Somewhere in France, 2011

Monday, September 12, 2011

La Bella Principessa

La Bella Principessa

Solemnly you sit
in the golden glow of sunlight reflecting on a yellow wall,
your demeanor calm . ..
yet your turmoil within
is like the battle of dragons,
black smoke of their breath rising up behind your eyes;
your day is caught up in memories
of yesterday's youth . .  
a dream you had of being a girl . .. 
before your marriage,
which, so quickly ripped your carefree days 
into shreds . . . while you were reborn
as a matron . . . though your face,
still smooth as a baby, 
is painted to cover the shadows and the pallor 
of your restlessness and ennui . . 
and your eyes as clear 
as the biggest star on a moonless night . . .
reflect nothing . . .
your tender lips have no longer the strength to lift
into a curve of delight . . . and those peals of laughter,
that once resounded in the valleys of the girls . . .
do not echo on the stone walls of the matrimonial domicile . .
is there a hint of a tear in those golden eyes?
yet you look as if you were about to call your kitten to you . . 
to run and play. . .
and sing with your friends in the garden . . .
trailing your fingers lazily in that fountain, there,
with the moss spotted faun cavorting in the water,
you have always wondered what doorway you could open
to find that world of fauns, and fairies, unicorns and roses . . .
flowers you can find in your own gardens,
but not the kind that never wilt . . . nor droop and drop their petals . .. 
that wither away
into scarlet crusts of blood . . .
spent in their dying moments . . .
your clear eyes glance like water 
on the hot face of the painter . . . 
as he patiently rubs a wayward stroke of his pencil . .. 
he looks into your soul . . . an open door . .. 
a draft blows through with  a vengeance . .
and for a moment you shudder as if a thing with scales
and claws is walking on your skin . ..
leaving tattoos, like drops of blood,
and you sigh. . .
just slightly,
a mere ripple in the oceans of a larger day . . .
and here, the painter says he has enough . . .
so you quickly slip away through a darkened doorway . . .
never looking at the drawing of you . . .
Versailles, France

Sunday, September 11, 2011

An Offering from Henry . . .

Bucolic fields in France

By Henry Ireland

A day to want to decipher the mysteries
 printed on the acanthus leaves
 on the rails of the glow
 in the metaphors of the dream.

One more day to go in search of some horizon
 and go to the next station of the happenings.

One more day to live without fear.

What is this absence nostalgic feel
that your home is always elsewhere,
wherever you are not!. !

Wherever seas kiss
white sand beaches that are fixed on the traveler's soul!. !
Wherever the clouds are hung
verses erect a memory!. !
Wherever the battlements of the high towers
will echo sounding deep!. !
Wherever green fields
with the stain of lichen months of the year!. !
Wherever dawn cities are
you always walking towards cavity of time!. !
Here I am writing dreams expatriates. !
Dreams!. !
Only dreams of glass in the windows of a sunset
I write not to be understood but only to be felt!

Clouds in Strasbourg

Monday, September 5, 2011


at the home of my youth . . . I stand
in memory's place . . . 

gazing through time
a window sill sits crusted with age,
objects scattered
yet holding their place,
spiderweb trails lead to faded smudges
following dreams of unreasoned memories . . 

handwriting on a weathered strip of paper .. . 
where decades of lying in the sun . . .  the fly specks
shadow the poignant words
of yesterday . . .
and here in the dusk
a family is born . .  each day
a descendent of the other . . .
flowing like a river from the valley
to the desert . . .
where the dry rains never fell . . .
and dreams were left by the side of the road
to wither into strings of loss . . .
shadows on paper . ..
faces once young . . .
where did they go
why are they gone?
a faded rose, ashy and gray . .
a crooked row of cracked porcelain vases
filled with the smell of old house ..  ..
deserted . .  despised
the sunlight spills through half closed shutters . . .
specks of dust, flashes of light
lazily floating, twisting and fluttering
like the heartbeats of
planets or wayward stars,
stumbling through the unknown . .
suns to the unknowable . . .
detritus drifting around my ankles
reaching out tentacles of sorrow
and questions of what could have been . .
if only . ..
and then there is
tomorrow . . . 


Poetry . . . sheer poetry . . .
beauty ringing like a bell throughout
the music . . . creative and expressive
each song a different life-form . .
each heartbeat . . . each voice . ..
each melody a treasure . ..
a focus, a dream, a faded piece of yesterday,
flowing through my brain
like knowledge attained
as hope
and memories,
my dreams for yours . . .
sharing my place
beneath the umbrella . . .
holding your trembling hand
blind as you are
you guide me beneath
the all seeing star . . .
and the music slides down my back
like water drifting off my umbrella . .
voyaging through the muddy rivulets . . .
on my road . . .