Monday, September 30, 2013

Freedom . . .

Somewhere in the Lot, France - 2012

The following poem was inspired while listening to the music of Van Syla: "Finally Free" .. .. 

the eyes of the dolphin
saw the wings of the 'gull
as she flew above mountains
which shadowed the sea . .

the heart of the dolphin
longed for those wings
to fly with the birds
across the great sky

and into the morning . . .
down through the night
the dreams of that fish
were always of flight .  .

mere flesh,
feather, scale, and fur
 the beasts of this earth
never fully share . . .

yet a heartbeat away
a breath taken deep
the warmth of the sun
a love that will keep

a world of water,
as the dolphin flies,
she leaps with a grace
in a soaring bird's eyes . . .

the joy of rapture
the freedom to dream
take just one step
you'll have your wings . . 

This music is so beautiful . . it brings the tears to my eyes . . . it's perfect . . . the sweet strings dancing with the piano . . . it's a dream of a song . . . something to give wings to the listener . . . lift them up with gentle warm breezes . . . let them fly with the music . . . the heart is full of happiness as the soul finds freedom . . . a melody to savor . . .Thank you for the kind dedication!

Sunday, September 22, 2013

The Sound of Color

  The sound of color
    dwells within the hearts
              of fallen angels

    a rainbow dances,
            a miracle song . . . along the lines of
                       cracked glass

    on a still and quiet night
       you hear the rustle
         of wings as
     once again they try
             to fly
      and fail . . .

     We are the sound
         of silence,
    the song of quiescence
           that sheds
    its essence along the breezes,

a whisper of a word . . . defined by dreams
and moved by clouds . . . 

    You are perfection,

freshly winged on Parnassian cliffs
                                 I am the forgiven,
    swimming through tides
           of feathers,
                        . . . crushed . . .

and crashed on hidden ragged boulders .  .

beneath a sea of vision
               and endless waters . . .

    releasing a salty incense,

                 and myriad travails
           raveling from distant memories,
                   deep corners of what could be . . .
   dark thoughts of misplaced treasure . . .
             a trail rims a sky reaching mountain

                        in the amber dusk. . .
    delicate as a moment,
                the flux of geese
    drifting south . . .

           and winter comes swiftly  

with fresh new sheets . . . 
                    clean, yet, 
of any wayward splash of ink . . . 


Tuesday, September 10, 2013

"The Bus is Moving; Please Hold On!"

So vocalizes the bus driver of my early morning journeys . . . a profound and wise observation of the whirl-wind of life . . . "The Bus is moving; please hold on!"

My friend is dying . . . her world narrowed in to the breadth and depth of a shoebox
 . . . her grip strong yet slowly . . . like a flower blooms
                             hands open . . .  reaching to the warmth of the sun . . .
. . . she hangs on to these last sweet moments, soured a bit by pain . . . 
                                                 yet energized with anger . . . "I don't want to go
                                  I am not ready. . ."

Like a small blue comma,
curled up in your bed of ephemera . .
                                           you are pausing for just a moment
                       the clock whispers against the wall . . 
                                   before that last good-bye
                                                you cling to the shreds of flesh
                                                                             you call your own . . 
the birds in the nearby trees,
            sing your name
                             with the lustiness
                                           of the well fed
and a minute humming bird
                                          drinks from your
                                                                    overflowing well . . .
your voice may be shrinking
but your song still rises across the valley . . 
                                                 a clarion call.
        Rest in the  cool shadows my friend . . .
                                find your place
where your head falls on my shoulder
                                                      I can be your boulder
                                                                                 of strength . . .  when the wind blows
             so carelessly
you fly in those breezes like a kite
                                                  of many colors
                                                                     reflecting the light
of this lonely blue planet 
                like a lover's drop
                of blood on a mirror . . 
                                                 Your eyes flow along the horizon
                                          watching the crows harass a hawk on the high narrow 
                          stream of air currents . . 
The bodies of the mountains
                                      cup the valley in safety and wisdom . . .
                    where a line of shiny bikes
        lead to your open door
                               and dusty footprints follow a pathway to your bed
where you lay
      curled up under a blue blanket
                                                             and wait
       for your set of wings . .. 

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Fragments of Color . . .

Thy quilt of many colors
define the  hills of summer winter spring fall . . .
the rusty oranges, crispy browns
the truest blue of eternity . . .
bloody reds, rivulets of wine . . 
the green of growth and whispering pastels
mere shadows of shade that falls between the sighs
of their creator;
thy paint is smeared upon the trees of god . . .
sublime yet vivid . .  deep and hurting . . .
thy breath begs my very soul for room
to expand beyond the sills . . . beyond the dreams . . .
to points of light
which ne'er return . . .
yet blooms upon the trees wherein I taste thy flesh
like in a dream  . .
the shape of winter . . . gives me rest . . .


The voice of the cello
warm, golden like honey
she flirts, with moments
of inspiration . . a dreaminess . .
a hollow deep within her womb . .
her fingers run along the tree branches
where water flows, silver and denuded . . .
she dances there
like a spark of fire . . . the eggs
of the moth
coat her throat . . . birthing into
feathery flutters . . . straight to the cage of my chest . . .
where they live in softness . .

Out of the Blue and Into the Amazon by Emily Burridge


Imagine that you are a bird  . . . newly created . ..

         birds are born with short melodies . ..  what color are you . . . what do you sing?

Pretend that you are a babbling brook

         cutting new corners, fighting a current . . . sparkling under the sun . .

Dream that you are a star

        escaping from a galaxy

                     dancing down a black hole . . . a new universe . . .

        what is the music there?

Visualize yourself under the sea . .  what are you . .

    what do you hear . . .

You are a ball of fluff . ..  flying in the blue like a kite

beneath a yellow sun . . . you think you have wings . .

and want to reach the nearest clouds . .

            where do you go . .  and what do the air currents

sing to you as you flow . .  easily . . . on your voyage . . .

As you dream, you are the goddess of music . . .

      it resounds through you

   like the vibrations through crystal

and the twang of a tuning fork pitched

      to break air molecules . . .  into the essence

of beginnings . .

        I hear the crickets

        sing their sacred song . . .

        and the heartbreaking blue

        of morning glories

        is reflected

        in splatters of dew . . .

Went out this evening to dispose of the trash,
the sun was about to set
and the colors in the sky made my mouth fall open . .
on a canvas water colored with a hazy shade of purple,
peach and pink . . .
and splashed with turquoise patches of blue
there were clouds dancing across the horizon masquerading as cats stretching after a nap, ballerinas in gray tutus . . . and
spinning space ships . . there were sleds and carousels . . .
and dainty mice cleaning their whiskers . .
a small bat flew by, like a comma in that sky
and a silver jet lit up with bright diamonds,
dipped its wings at me . . . and I foolishly waved . .
the clouds continued, in a line to pass and form
a parade, amorphous . . .
a grinning mask as the light began to fade
and just before
it all passed away, giving room to mosquitoes . .
an angel . . . kneeling in prayer . . .


Friday, July 26, 2013

i am alone . . .

                    I am alone where things are blurry . . .
                                            there is a line
                          I cannot cross . ..
                                     the will to kill the weary . . .
           the lust to drive a wedge
                                       . . .  I am alone
                             in this dream . . .
                                               a place I cannot fathom,
                                            and dark as a womb . .
                                 where nothing
                                                    but the heartbeat
                                   holds me . . .          
                                                     I am alone
                                    where songs are foolish
                                              of love and fear
                        and death . .
                                                 and flowers bloom
                                                 where no one has the vision
                                   or smells the sweetness
                                           of solitary discovery . . .
                            I am alone and
                                          my bones are broken
                              I weep but no tears do fall . . .
                                                      I am alone in spirit
                                      and function . . .
                                                               nothing is real . .
                                    but reality
                                               itself . . . . . 

Saturday, July 20, 2013

and the trees dance on and on . . .

I haven't been lost. . .
as I round the corner,
another year -
another day

I haven't been found,
but the blue of the sky
in the corners of my eyes
where a small tear
like a lake
full of life
passive and
still under the setting sun
a fire blooms
and rages silently . . .

I once dreamed
there were faces
in trees
and they danced with me
in the night as
they sang to me of death
and life
and death and life

and that it took a hundred thousand
for one small molecule of water
to pass from here to there . . .
I am the lost one . . .
I wander in circles
in a crowd of stars
where I am seeking
a field of flowers
over a hidden sea

into my heart;
the beats
irregular and
the blood drained
by the dark of the night . . .
there is a white moth
like an old movie,
the story of my life -
I am here
in the end,
the thread,
as a lacy wing
blooms before my face,
I was wrong
when I told the truth. . .

sweat drips from my eyes,
salty and sweet,
dark heart shaped splashes
sullenly evaporate
on this warm living soil
where a molecule of water
and dies again

(Written under melancholia on the eve of my birthday)

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Thoughts from my head on my way to work . . .

we live in our heads,
tentacles of ourselves reaching out

my ex-husband stole my
to hire a man
to stalk me,
and then ultimately kill me. . .
When the man and his friends
were ready to snatch me,
from the street corner,
as I waited for the first bus . .
and then the police car
came up behind them,

from nowhere . . .
like my guardian angel . . .

So many years ago . .  and the tears still fall
when I remember . .
I try not to remember how I hated and feared men
after that . . .
The horrors of a man who could leave
a woman he once loved
destitute . . .

for I had nothing left,
but my life . . .
my friends
my child
my joy of life
the stars over my world
the air, flowers, birds . .
running water . .
my intellect
my spirit

my strength . . .

we live in our heads,
tentacles of ourselves reaching out

the beautiful girl
raced past me to get to the bus shelter's bench
She saw me with my cane . . .
my slow pace . . .

I wonder sometimes . . .

If the fruit of the tree
of the knowledge of good and evil . . .
was that verbal communication?
Was Eve the first human to talk?
Is that why men hate women so much?
because Adam had to listen?

we live in our heads,
tentacles of ourselves reaching out. . .

The workmen, in the building, gave me earplugs
to ward off the loud dissonant sounds
of the fire alarms
they were testing . .
with strobe lights flashing .. ..
it feels like an alternate universe
and I cannot quell the sensation
that I must run away. . .

the ear plugs are soft with pink and yellow stripes,
like candy,
I squish one down
and place it in my ear
where it expands slowly
tickling my ear drum
with its whispering sounds . . .
now I hear
only the sounds
of my inner self . . .

We live in our heads,
tentacles reaching out . . .

I walk towards the stairs
which lead up to my office

there is a lonely footprint
on the unwashed floor
bare and small
toes pointed
towards the exit. . .

We live in our heads,
tentacles reaching out . . .


  Royalty-free music for professional licensing
Massimo Vaccaro, "Meditazioni (EP)

Delicate flute and rushing water .  . peaceful and quiet . . .  gives the listener room to breath . . . 
My only complaint is that the album is too short . . . but I listened . . . forever . . ..


  Royalty-free music for professional licensing

GingerTom, "Music and the Movies 10"

With GingerTom's music, it is best to travel to Jamendo where he furnishes our minds with a delightful story to attend to the music . . . Even better to go to the beginning of this series and read the stories for all . .  in order:

I love the mystery of this musical story . . . It touches on something I would love to do . . travel through China, incognito and being touched by the simple lives and the beauty that abounds, both natural, historical, and human created . . . the Asian notes, and instrumental sounds in the music is quite nice, not overdone but tempting the heart of the listener . .. to follow . .. wherever it may lead. (This is one of my favorite GT's )

Please feel free to check out my music shares and reviews at:  
Thank you!

Sunday, June 9, 2013

House . . .

Halcyon Hall *

I am lost in your hallways . ..
skylights ripped like scars
through your skin . .
you have no joy in me
as I wander through the night
leaving temporary imprints,
blood on your walls
I am but a memory that clings
like refuse . . . waiting to be blown
into the ever waiting skies . ..
a dream, a bit of wayward dust . . .
a glint of glass reflecting hope,
for esteem . . . I stand and yet
I crumble . .  slowly . .. minutely
momentarily away . . .
melting like seaweed
on endless shores . . .  I am lost
in your beauty . . .
I am lost to you .. .. .
I hear a hundred thousand voices
resounding like planets
across the plane of time . . .

the foot falls . . resonate. . .
sliding warily
through memories . . . woven in delicate
arches . ..  backs bent, straining against the pressure
that releases life . . .
a spare coin rolls downhill
like thunder's deep echo
the voice of a god speaking
hidden behind the next corner . .  

beware of splinters
spearing deftly through the murmuring heart . . .
the fall of the house
frees the soul as pigeons
wing skyward
the timbers crash to the soil
and the stench of mildew
revives the community
to bury the body . .


Rune X -Natural Northern Darkness-,  "Paganstorm II (Album2013)"

Dark pagan . ..  black metal . . . joyless and droning . . yet mesmerizing and meaningful . . . responding and resonating with the listening soul . . .

  Royalty-free music for professional licensing

Red Dragonfly

 To lighten and brighten the mood . ..  This dragonfly was hanging on to the tallest branch in my yard, after taking several flights with a friend . ..  it would sit here sunning itself, the colors glinting from the wings were like fire, golden red fire with occasional glimpses of the rainbow . . . its little head would turn and look at me as I took several pictures . ..  but it posed magnificently:

* This picture of Halcyon Hall was NOT taken by me but was found on the Internet without notes regarding to the photographer. There are many pictures of this hall ( also known as Bennett College ) located in Millbrook NY . . . the latest pictures are of the collapsing in the middle section . . . it inspired me, this house, with its fancy face yet lost expression . . . its age and deterioration. . . its history . . .

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

again . . .

and one
displaces the wind
the wanderer, alone. . .
reaches up to the rain,
pasting teardrops on children
and wings on effervescent lullabies . . .
a ray of sun creeps through the boiling clouds
like streaks of golden hair
flowing into the eyes
of the observer .. ..
and two
beyond the tree
a lonely figure is bending over
the beating heart . ..
red like ruby roses
dancing on a silver river of mirrors
float the dreams of multitudes . . .
like burning ships passing by in the night . .  .
willing to be embraced
and three
an emblem, ululates
through golden plains
the wind bends the stalks
like horses
galloping beneath the cliffs . . .
singing the song of dolphins
tossed on a troubled sea . . .
the life entwined . .
    hope tumbles outward
through a universe
yet open arms
         of angels
              for love . . . .

and those of us who have died . . .
and returned
will always remember
the graceful dance
of that last amber leaf
in the last exhale
of Winter's breeze . . 

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Bigness of Existance . . .

Vers River

Crystal Springs
Some songs were meant to be unsung;
some dreams have faded long ago;
some clouds never pour . .  but float away
across the endless sound . . .
Once the sea covered the world
in a mantle of glowing amber,
an unblinking eye in the universe,
seeking that which is yet unblemished
by fear
or frozen forever into time long gone . . .
There is endless energy locked
into the hearts of the stars . ..  the Universe
is not to be despised .  . . for like a box of treasure,
a single atom revealed . . . expands forever within the
hands of the gods;
the pathway is long and curved . . .
the trees stand sentry, dark and still . . .
one wonders about the corners,
seeking and expecting a violent thrill,
yet all is familiar sameness
the trail goes on and on . . .
even the shadows are empty
and the day is ever so long . . .
If you think of love or hatred
and find both on that twisted strip .. ..
breathing the air of its partner .. .
the relief of the one is the other . . .
Longing to be defined and believed . . .
an emptiness in my soul is filled with song . .
and color .  .
vistas . . . and wonder . . .
newness and oldness . ..  courage and wisdom . . .
found in the most surprising corners . ..
along that twisted trail  . . 


Pacific Ocean

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Do not Despair . . .

           I question my reflection
           as the balloon of many colors
           lifts up into the ozone . . .
          There is a silent melody of the heart,
          where, nudged by warm exhalations
          of angels,
          all the people glide by
          on wings of gossamer,
          wistful dreams drift over their heads . . .
          some to slip away forever,
          and little tears of crystal emptiness
          evaporate into a heartless desert . . .

                    There is no answer to your endless question
                    There is no hope beyond the moment
                    There is no dream beneath the whispering winds

          There is no love but that defined
          by gods who carry all the pain . . .

          You stand sentry
          Oh raven,

          ebony upon my winter's breast,
          your inner light,
          an array of un-shed colors . . .
          dancing sun-like on closely knitted feathers,

          golden as the summer storms
          that cloud your visionary orbs
          where flocks of birds seethe
          across sighing skies;
          and a deep heartbeat throbs, somewhere,
          pulsating with an undefined empathy,
          reflected in the eyes of the mirror.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Time Through the Window


I look through the pane,
and find a way out
     of my angst . . .
through the window
    . . .  I fly to the top of the pine
putting on the wings
               . . . of it's cones
and there I tumble from bough
  to bough,
catching my sharp edges
. . . on green needles,
the soft dew. . .
   as I flow
like thunder . .

That which we capture in our hearts
is safe from loss
bound by an endlessness which
engulfs the stars,
the blue
and a dreaming pine-cone
with wings . . .

So confess:  the lily's bloom
extracts a certain lightness
                                    in our being,
as beauty,
                 . . . effervescent
of heaven . . .
where is our loss,
our final destination                     
                           . . .  where bleak the dark
or bright the light . . .                   
we yet have wings . .
    and know
 . . the dream released . .
Explain:  the empty shell,
its tender clasp of breath
is sunset's glory . . .

 . . . a rim of pink
a reflection of blood             
the crimson of life
                                let go.

The Angel of Death
 has wings
of beating hearts,
 a voice of tears . . .
grasping hands
of time's relentless
                        . . . sands
eyes of infinity's
        and endless
pain turns a corner . . . 
A light drips
slowly into pools
of golden
              love . . .

Stand beneath the
where she drops her
. . . leaves
and sunlight filters           
her ever reaching
 . . .  branches
raindrops disclose
molten silver,
reflecting endless
 . . . colors
of thought                         
the rough edges
                  of black clouds
eclipse the watery
. . . sun
floating themselves                                    
into oblivion
until evaporation                          
. . . charms                                                
an upturned land,                                                                      
the shape of all                             
. . .  things                                                      
. . . eroded                                                  
by the feather light
of time . . .

All pictures taken at St. Cirq Lapopie, France

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Where Tears Gather . . .

The clouds, with shifting patterns,
                                       form and reform over the arch of the hill . .
mutilating the view of the mountains,                       
                     yet painting in shades of gray the flight
of the winged . . .
the glow of sunlight veiled                                                  
beyond the ceiling of the sky . .                          
finds its way to the sea beneath
                                                  where gather the teardrops
                                                                                        of the multitudes . . .
. . . hearts encased in hurt . .
          yet . .  somehow the souls
of the living and the dead connect . . .                                            
                                          through time's secret  river
as it flows into the sea with our dreams . . .
                                                                          for once we rose
on wings that shined like rainbows;                       
                                                          each soul a vision of love and joy . . .
the being of each a treasure,                           
                        always a reflection
                                                                       of the beauty of the earth,
the cosmos . . . the universe, and
heaven . . .
                      the place where waters gather . . .
where now the golden ripples                          
                             of sunbeams unite to dance
a trembling sea . ..                 

This music, by GingerTom, is enjoyable to listen for anytime . . . yet it's more fun to go to his pages and read the story that is entwined with each track and enables the listener to see his vision (which is stage worthy) . . .  I have written several reviews for each track as they were published so I will not write another . .  just want people to enjoy this great listen . . . (My favorite track is "Tea Time" . .  but others have their unique value also):

Sunday, March 24, 2013

A Song Called Love . . .

  I love your heart . . .
the song you sing reminds me
that we are but fragments of the stars. . .
fragile dust which has filtered
through fire and storm
leaving us divided
and traumatized . . .
each one alone,
incomplete . . .
yet all somehow connected . . .
a long unbreakable thread

Look up and see your wings . . .
seize them from the eternal abyss . . .
and fly away . . .
along the road Forever . . .
find your joy in the smallest flower .  .
a tunnel to life where miniscule creatures
tremble beneath your eye . .. 
I believe your tears will melt the wax,
of feathers . . . so tenderly applied . .
so violently sundered . .
your eyes like rays of molten sunshine . . .
a gold which drifts away,
lost within the clouds dispersed
over a troubled sea . . .
your heartbeat will thrill
the mountains to the ground . .
your bones as white as snow . . .
frosty shards bite into the depths . .
hard is the pain . .

Look deep to find the dreams
of souls . . . the same flows
in fathomless swirling waters . . .
danger . . .
beware, for angels dare not tread here . . .
the song is from the human heart . .
to heal and build the thread
of life . ..  and death . . .
and hope . .. a complication which
seals forgiveness
within the marrow of the soul . . .
and calls it love . .. . 

Walter Mazzaccaro, "Sognandoti Ancora"

Opening with an OH-SO romantic piano . . . 

I immediately visualized a couple, 
with eyes only for each other  . . 
dining over candle-light . . . 
a dreamy atmosphere . . . 
a full heart-felt passion . . . .  
ahhhh . . . 
the music takes me to this place of love and romance .  .

Thursday, February 28, 2013

On the Hill

Sunflower and friend . . . in France

the wind blew and
the branches with their clusters
of wet leaves
slapped my face . . .
rubbing their hairy undersides,
wet with fallen rain,
along my cheeks . .
stemming my voice with
dirty green;
I sensed annoyance
in their language . ..
the dripping of the woods . .
was hollow
as rivers melted  into the mosses
and rotten logs . .
every child of the undergrowth
slithered and chirped . .
winged icons fluttered where branches bent
as landing stages . ..
and the shadows so dark and heavy,
like fanged mouths of caves snarling. . .
gnarled roots crawled up through the loam
laying traps through this old avenue . . .
slicked with mud
drooling with the congealing blood of the wilderness  . . .
plastering my soles with wild lava

cold and tempered . .  slippery with birth . .
I flew through these woods . . 
my grief so unavenged,
yet like a greasy arrow
straight through my heart
branding its way through those barrens . . .

a frail vine
lifting boulders
succoring me with its fruits . . .
I dreamed, as I ran,
of voices calling . .. barren trees
and spirits of the ancients . .  
a balm of honey . . . golden in purity,
a shelter in the storm,
a twinkle of laughter;
my steps take me to the top of the hill,
the heights above the forest . . 
a rainbow's end from the city;
the storm having danced away,
finds a home across the mountains
and I find the stars blooming
across a velvety sky . . 

Some music for your enjoyment:

Monday, February 25, 2013

The Watcher

Window in Strasbourg, France

He makes music
in the dark,
his heart beats
to the rhythm of the moon
. . . its expressive face
lighting up his life
as he goes - -
the old farm hand
lost in the winter
with his cart
full of offal
dispensing castoffs . .
his weary frame
bends to retrieve
another treasure,
like gifts gleaming
in the darkness
as he guides his cart
over a crumpled road
. . . the sound
of music rises to
the stars
carrying his lonely tears
in the night
. . . like a wayward sigh. . .
the tinkle of trash
well received
by this who listen . .

In the morning
before the sun arises,
the souls of geese
. . . honking
in the inky stillness;
pools of darkness
bloom around the sliver
of a moon,
and I wish I were
the white moth
rising through the
dewy air
reaching for the apex
of the moon
where fluttery
kisses will wake
his sleepy eye . .
and the cheer-up
morning song
of robins
echo in the sunrise . . . beckon
angels to tread
through wisps of breezes

I see you as you
walk towards me
your silhouette as black
as a hole in existence . .
The steam from your breath
rises to meet
the mist from the melting frost
rising like ghosts
to dance before the low
winter sun .. . .

White wolf
dreams in the shadows
of times long past
before the bite
of metal
and barriers
to her passing . . . 
her golden eyes
to lighten the world
and her breath smokes
through cherry blossom
the sun setting the
mists aglow
the flames touching
the cheeks
of the watcher . ..