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 . ..