Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Never a Dull Moment

Photographer Unknown*

Around here. . .
always the potential of wild action . . 
which I watch for . .  diligently . . .
for nothing escapes me . . 
and when I see, what is unique to me . . .
I cannot avert my eyes . . 
for fear of missing one detail . . .
there are no lies in my world . . 
just the endless parade of wonder . . .
*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.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012


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 . .

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Something Died

 Something died
and nobody cared,
a shroud of flies gathered
and nothing washed the body.
It lay silently
 without sweet incense
rising like a prayer;
or flowers weeping tender
silently turning
into cries of desperation
it was an end of something
an era . . . or a dream . .
and hope flew away on
wings of steel blades . ..
each stroke a slash
on a stilling heart;
dark red were the skies
crystal drops
of silent tears 
falling, falling


Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Like Heartache

Cresting the tidal wave of sunlight
ending in points
of color                      
blue and yellow              
golden filters
         butterfly . .
a habit of watching
rewarded . . 

cresting happiness
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                               
and universe
with all its glory                        
and beauty

red stones in the road                    
like drops of blood
burnished and turned
each left                              
like a sign                  
to the wanderer
the harvest is contentment  
fleshy fruits           
hang low
to entice
the hungry soul
like becoming         
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 . . .


    Lines Build Walls by Ehren Starks

Sunday, October 28, 2012

The End of Summer Roses

Vampyres . . .

"Requiem" from Van Syla's album "Goodbye"
Original review by Orangeupurple for the album: 

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
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
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 . . 


    Beginning of a Journey by Yumi Kurosawa

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Common Threads

  Francesco, "Réflexions"

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 see a tapestry
                   of existence
laid across a night
                           black sky,
the warp and weft
        unfamiliar to me

                                                  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
          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:


It's interesting
that both of
these albums
look similar
. . . 


Thursday, September 13, 2012

Lost Gift . . .

Inside House of Cahors
Lost Gift

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 .. .


Schwarzweiss, "Untiteled"

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!

Dancing in the Shadows

Finding yesterday

                      in your story

my tears    

                     remind me

                       that once                                                                   

I was a victim too,

                            but today

                                                   as I dance alone

where sunshine glances,

                                         I see reflected                                                                                 

                                                                   the shadows

of other dancers,                                                          

             their ethereal arms

hold me                                

                                                              against the painful storm,

and now

with my heart beating                                            

                                 for you,

and as my soul cries                               

                                                     throughout the years ..

my arms are out

to shelter you

and help you find your strength


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

Monday, September 10, 2012

Stuff . . .

 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 . . . 

  Time Travellers by Mr.Ju

More mr.ju music to be found here:

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 . . .


Thursday, September 6, 2012

Music . . .

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!
Warm and bright . .  a lovely acoustic guitar lights up the night with a mellow mood . . . enjoy! 

All pictures were taken at the Oregon Coast, Yachats . . . a beautiful place and one of my favorite destinations . . . July 2012

Saturday, September 1, 2012

My Love is a Mystery

Multnomah Falls, Oregon

Multnomah Falls, Oregon
sparkling is the water
shattered beneath the cliff . .
like crystal and memories
on the stream set adrift . . .
shining the wings
flying o'er all . . .
silently beating
the breezes to rise . . .
warm is the sun
on my cheeks,
a  light kiss ..  .
my love is a mystery
where life strikes a chime . . .
like the flight of the eagle . ..
and the cling of the vine . . .
no understanding . . .
no dreams .. .. visions grand . .
my love is a shadow
my love has been cast
the heart slowly broken
and slower to mend . . .
I know not the future .. .
nor remember the past . ..
yet hope is the song
to my soul closely clasped . . .

This is quite a striking album . . . beautiful, stunning music . .. peaceful and quite captivating . . . an elegance of sound and a beautifully balance album cover. This one has been around since the beginning of July and somehow I missed it . . . but here it has emerged to flow into my heart and soul and be a soothing delight . . .  Some of these songs are so tender that they are like the effervescent dew . . . delicate and ephemeral . .. tending the moment with intense peace and vision . .

Child of Mine . . .

 To Creix . . . who's music
reflects the dark of my midnight soul,
and the tender gleam of hope
through the poetry of the mind;
and who is my friend,
inspiring me
to reach beyond my limitations!

Child of mine, 
you cried in the night
. . .  the night so deep and dark,
like a ditch
full of muddy waters . .
yet gently stirred by the delicate kisses
of fronds of fern
bent low . . .
and reflecting on ambient light,
they sparkle dreamily
unknown . . by mountains
or meadow . . . melody or silence;
no soul here
but you
and I
. . . to face the dark
of our own fears
. . . where no star dances
through hot aches,
spots on a frozen heart . . .
. . . my heart weeps for you
. . . our tears mingle
like rain with the dew
on the flower,
bent low . ..
slowly losing each petal,
one after the other . . .
drifting, slowly drifting
into the muddy waters . . .