*Usually I don't borrow the photography of others without noting the artist's name . .. but this one I could not resist and where I found it . . . floating around on FaceBook . . . there, sadly, people don't respectfully submit the names of the photographers.
There is something at the rim of the universe . . . a sound of forgiveness or a fog of music through which a vision of spheres dance beyond the endless stars breathing deeply of creation; the tapestry explodes with energy flying through the underside of forever . . a sign is given of grace and things yet to be revealed as reflection . . . the mote in my eye is an angel dancing through sheets of salt . . . skating, swirling, leaping . .. undulating weaving in and out of rippling skies; formless, the uncreated are rebirthed as wingless beasts crawling through the mud of a seamless landscape . .. seeking a lost pearl . . . an elusive iridescent flow of hope . . . yet their greed commands them, bubbling up through the murk and filth . . . and thus they lose vision of a beauty . . forming an aching arch of stillness an undefined spectrum around a wounded moon . .. they lose sight of the given, chasing after the forsaken . . . and the sound of music rattles the bones of a yet unformed world . .
Cresting the tidal wave of sunlight ending in points of color blue and yellow contrasting golden filters reflecting
yesterday's butterfly . . a habit of watching
rewarded . .
cresting happiness joy which though so ephemeral as effervescent as a bubble a moment where wings lift the spirit which crumbles so easily crushed against the harsh embrace of
planet and universe with all its glory and beauty red stones in the road like drops of blood burnished and turned dusty each left like a sign to the wanderer the harvest is contentment fleshy fruits hang low to entice the hungry soul like becoming fingers like fish in trees like patterns against the blue like many hued clouds bursting with dew . ..
Like music in the wind . . the birds on the wing
a sky so blue
a sun so warm . . .
I dream of innocence
for in the end
when all the stars
are gone:
the darkness
remains . . .
Krzysztof Malinowski, "Catharsis"
This was just what I wanted to hear . . . Uplifting music, with a clear sound; conducive to smiles and relaxation . . wings that lift me up as I listen . . . a breath of fresh air relieving pent-up pain . . . sorrow and grief flow away into an endless streaming breeze . . . Music has a way of touching the soul's deepest feelings . .. reflecting and inspiring the mind of the heart. This album is a tale . .. a tale of darkness and pain . . . a tale of escape and desire . . . . a tale of death and re-birth . . .
As I walk along this lifeline I see the shadowy beginnings and I hear the tearful goodbyes . . . The march of time goes slowly by rending what we hold most dear . . . This temporal place these bloody shreds We cling to in despair . . . Dance with me my beloved for we soon must say goodbye Hold my hand my love and look into my eyes I see myself inside of you . . . and you within my heart you are forever there although, we must be apart …
"Beginning of a Journey" by Yumi Kurosawa on Magnatune
Original and creative . . this work is exotic with unique placement of instruments and a creative expression of peace and sublimity . .
A slow walk near a silver pond.....
while a pair of swans float serenely by
and seem to be held aloft
in the crystal blue sky . . .
a cool breeze caresses my cheek,
and the sweet scent of blossoms
wafts near
touching my soul
while the music calms my stresses
and I feel at peace . . .
A beautiful album ... designed to free me from fear and sadness . . . and lifts the stresses from my environment . . . a healing is in process . . . a moment is filled in with the twinkling stars and an angel's touch . . Gorgeous and serene . . . - M^^W - An old review of mine . . . I enjoy listening to this album anytime I need to de-stress . . .
I watched her as she sat, slouched in the bus shelter, her nervous dancing feet, encased in brown shabby boots, maintained a strict, yet open shape of a 'v;' her eyes withdrawn, she glanced at me, quickly. . . dismissing my presence. . The shelter reeked of body odors, old food, dead leaves, and tobacco . .. her faded, jean jacket seemed to be lined with steel and kept her shoulders from slumping as if there were no self-will left within her thin frame . . . her hand, held a phone to her ear tightly, as if she were searching for an elusive heartbeat . . . and as she quietly talked, her demeanor intense and her eyes sparkling with tears, unshed, I looked at the sky across the highway . . which was unusually peaceful . . The day somber, though the morning sun glinted on everything shiny, as it slanted over my shoulders . . . The clouds stretched out, curling, like feathers, into the shape of a fan . . the center radiating out from my vision, and lining the sky with thin strings of arthritic stretching fingers . . gnarled and frail, they bent and beckoned over my head . . The woman at the stop carved her anger and confusion between her eyes . . she looked up once more at me through her short gray bangs . .. and shrugging herself to her feet . . slowly walking away . . . she shuffled down the long sidewalk beneath the silver clouds talking softly on her telephone . . .
**************************
ahh! I remember the ride, the other day, coming home on the bus.
I was watching this striking, elegant woman
and her companion . . .
he was wearing a dark hound's tooth jacket,
and a floppy fedora hat
. . . and was confined
to a wheel chair . . .
He had a neatly trimmed gray beard
and sat quietly with
a pleasant smile on his face . . .
as he gazed out the front window of the bus,
glancing at no one,
talking to nobody . . .
She wore a pea green jacket
made of linen, slightly wrinkled . .
She had bottle thick glasses
which distorted her bright gray eyes
and yet as she slowly blinked behind them
she had a certain look of self confidence
and calm about her . . .
Her thin cheeks were rouged
as was her neck . . a soft rose petal. . .
Her slender feet encased in white tennis shoes
and her black cotton trousers, by sagging around her legs,
gave her the appearance of being conflicted
. . . Her left arm stretched out toward her companion and
her fingers firmly resting on his knee,
gave her a proprietary air . . .
as if by her frail strength, alone,
she could keep him from flying out of his chair . .
Her nails were neatly mainicured,
and her fingers were tastefully decorated
with a big shiny ring . .
thin gray hair neatly capped her head, like a halo. . .
She held close to her side, a pocket book,
crammed to overflowing with envelopes;
which I think were old love letters,
and ancient bills . . . which she filed neatly
and carried with her everywhere.
When it was time for them to exit the bus,
she was the one to unbuckle the wheelchair
and push her man off the bus . .
and last, in the frame of my vision
was her fragile figure
leaning far forward as she
shoved at that heavy chair
making slow progress down the street . .
The wind blowing her light clothing behind her
as if it were trying to form wings
of what she wore . .
yet she remained weighted down
by her pocketbook full of treasure,
tightly clasped beneath her arm.
***************************************
Having tinnitus is a 24/7 365 ordeal . . . Mine gets louder with the sounds I hear with my good ear . . . such as when children are screaming, the hissing in my ear becomes a private shrieking and actually hurts at times . . . I want to crawl into a cave of silence where those horrible sounds will subside . . . but my job, with children, continues and I must compensate my anguish in my own time . . .
My friend, on FaceBook, who also suffers with tinnitus, shared that she was going to try some sort of relaxing music so she can sleep . . . I suggested drones, because that style of music helps my headaches . . . and so between the two of us we found these two albums to be helpful, or at least we hope so:
My emptiness . . . losing my equilibrium . . after profound deafness became part of my life . . . is any good part of me left? I lose my way these days. . . I think that's why I keep breaking things . .. my toes, my glass cups and this morning my favorite lamp . .. I do things wrong, I hit things hard . . I wobble . . the world weaves and warps around me as if seen through heat waves and mirages . . . I can't sense the sharp edges of things until they strike me . . . or the ups and the downs . . . the ground leaps about like a herd of running horses . .. or a ship floating helplessly on a restless sea . . . . . .and I long for the stillness and quiet . . . of the deep green forest. .. and the eternal dark night . . . those moments before the storm . . . I find it hard to think . . . it makes me wonder if there is any point of me going on . . and on . . . and on . . and no . . . I don't see any hope . . for anything . . I'm too negative and turned inward with pain . . . for it all still hurts . .. like yesterday's memories . . and I am scarred with lost dreams beating broken wings against the walls of echoing canyons .. .
So full of living . . dreams and melodies . .. there is laughter and there is sadness . . . and somehow too . . . I find the sky . .. it tells me of forever, and the teardrops of angels . . . like sunshine and shadow, is sorrow and joy . . eternal the passion; essential the love . . . peace, like feathers on the snow . .. memory fills my vision and takes me to my heart . . . Music, purely Beautiful!
This poem is dedicated to a young woman, a teenager, who was brutally assaulted by a 47 year old criminal . . . no details here . . . they are too evil to hear let alone live through . . . my heart goes out to her.
Cloisters of Cathedral Saint-Etienne; Cahors, France
A mysterious walk through time . . . electrical storms, blue fire . . . a bit of ambient music . . . whirling on the edges of yesterday's memories . . . like flashes of gems weaving a pattern, within a fractal, within a universe . . . and beyond . . . like flashes of stars repeating and dreaming . . . diving beyond the horizon . . . the longing to follow . . . to see, to reach, to touch . . . to become one with time . . . to flow forward while looking back . . it sounds like this . . . a river of water is running over multi-colored pebbles . . . slowly dragging them from the mountains to the sea . . . a thousand years . . a million . . . their flesh becomes sand, the dust that coats the heart of the world . . . let time . . . be . . .
More mr.ju music to be found here:
http://www.jamendo.com/en/artist/339613/mr.ju
A Way-Back me . .. time has passed . .
Letting Go . . . accepting change . . . leaves a sense of peace . . within the rebellious soul . . The heart lifts up from an unbearable burden of heaviness and leaps into the drifting breezes
like a forgotten balloon, after the party, which follows the melody until there is nothing but silence and an empty heart bursts . . .
Nothing is wasted . . . my love for you is returned randomly . . . on the wings of a flickering butterfly - or in the arms of the rainbow . . . or the kiss of the breeze as it carries . . . the desperate cry of the lone wolf . . . and the ashes of death itself grows into a light that flies across a dark sky so full of embers . .. a billowing canopy so pregnant with fire and song that it's as if the loss of one little star will leave no hole . . . in the universe .. . for the empty space is filled . . . with darkness itself . . .
A spark of life a dance of hope a dream floats in the breeze . . . the heartbeat of the earth, through the ocean surf, gives peace to the soul of the listener . . .
Beautiful piano . . . moves me to tears . . . tender to the ears it also makes me smile . .. .
YUMMMMMM . . . easy-listening jazz . . . warms the soul and mind with the flowing sound of jazzy instruments . . .slow dancing in the heart . .. wrapping the listener in mellowness . . soothing and full of lazy dreams . . . Excellent sounds, pure and divine!
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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