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.

When We Had Wings . . .

     Once
     so long ago . . .

     a spiraling galaxy
     held our hearts . ..

     and we flew from end to end
     with wings
     that cried . .

     in grief, of sorrow
     in joy, of love . .

     we held on our faces,
     masks of serenity

     our praying hands
     cupped nectar from
     invisible winds . . .

     and we dreamed
     of a golden star . . .
     shining on a silver sea . . .

     and we reflected
     from heart to heart
     a soul of a planet . . .
     a small blue flower . . .

     a babe cried there
     on a lonely shore . . .
     where the seabirds gathered
     and the salt air stings
     in contemplation . . .

     and the dreams flow
     like mists and dew,
     rivulets of
     what will be . . .

     tomorrow and tomorrow . .
     deeper into the darkness
     we flew . . .
     our wings of crystal . . .
     shattered and fell away
     and we forgot . . .
         that once we were angels . . .

EDIT (August 28, 2012):

I was so moved by a Jamendo friend, Stefano Mocini, who was inspired by this poem and wrote a beautiful musical piece to go along with it . . .

Royalty-free music for professional licensing

Rune made a beautiful video to showcase Stefano's music . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XKoP-QXgRUk&feature=em-subs_digest

Do Not Laminate . . .

 

The rumpled edges of my train pass

                          speaks of many voyages . .

the dirt that clings,                    

                the smudges that blur,

and the shiny heart       

that once embraced a              

            street light glow,

and amber lights

                  like quasi suns

with halos and darts

spattered bright         

              and lamentations of

 semi-permanence . . . .

 

Inside of me is a hollow woman,

ravenous and filled with desire. . .            

hungry for a universe,        

longing for a world

that lights up beneath the song

of existence. . .

as nothing is much more than             

a whisper in the wind          

a teardrop in the rain;

I close my eyes                 

and there is the shadow of an

 abyss and                

nothing but the music    

with an echoing refrain . . .

If all I have . . .           

is myself

                      without a heart

or an umbrella . . .

to ward off the storm . . .

of fire . . .                    

and if all I am

       is the frame of myself

made of metal,                 

rusted and dented

yet seeking             

the fragile. . .

              If all I saw

was emptiness

and loneliness. . .          

the world a whiteness,

              no mountain peaks,     

nor ocean depths . . .

                 If all I heard

was silence. . .                 

the whisper of nothing

I would never know

to say good-bye

I would never know

you

**********************************************************

I Would Dream of Strength . .

Somewhere in France

I would dream of a
a benevolent heaven
announcing itself with
a reverberation of multitudes
of crystal bells and
a flutter of invisible wings
holding back
the tirade of everyday horrors . . .

I would dream of
torrents of waters
created by a wisp of a breath . .
an avalanche, a flood . . .
where the essence of life . . .
a lightening bolt of blue . . . vibrant
with energy,
is a fragile bud
pushing through broken gray rock .

I would dream of her skin
marked like a city map
cracked and bloodied
where roads would fall . .
a warrior's valor . . . standing
on the brink of helplessness
she carries the weight of a universe . .
in her womb

I would dream of
a solitary melody wafted from a
piano rippling below her broken hands .. .
the stretch of fingers
lost somewhere in the weight
of a tarnished golden ring . .
a space of silence loops around
where in the grave
she will be still. . .
and her children
keen at the marred knees
where once they bent before the gods . ..

I would dream of a shattered vase . . 
cutting away the memories of yesterday's rose . . . 
and shining ribbons of scarlet blood
wrap around the effervescent islands .  . 
like a slender chain 
stretching into tomorrow
where the rain blurs the shadows 
cast by an ever hidden sun

I would dream of palaces and castles
built on love's great foundation,
where sunlight sings the name
of everyone she loves . .
I would dream beyond the pain,
letting sorrow fly away
with a ray of hope, an elixir carried
in the seraphim's heart . . . like honey,
and leave a single drop to glisten on your lips
as if a kiss
from angels . .  just a moment
of a dream . . .
let it pass
and let it return in strength . . .

Royalty Free Music - Stock Music Library | Jamendo PRO

My Comments:

Compelling . . . after all . . .

24/01/12

This was better than I thought it would be . . . 
after glancing at the sad and obscure album cover . . . 
feeling turned away . . 
yet I stepped into this album and found it to be very, very good 
as a matter of fact
. . . very imaginative . .
vibrant and articulate . . . sharp and clear . .

"Forest Temple" leading me straight into a dark and mysterious jungle
hot and humid . .
yet cooling
where thick green leaves
stay the violent and abusive sun . . .
"Mystery" the swishing of angel wings,
the sigh of something lost,
a quiet and tender touch,
a syncopated moment in a breeze . . .
the clang of a distant chain
upon a metal pole . .

Each track a mural . . a vision
a picture of what is to be . .
or what was . . ..
a dream . . .
a memory . ..

Cahors, France

Below the Lint . . .

In Strasbourg, France 2011

The Empty Hole


I practice what to say
before I leave the building
I say "good bye . . "
it takes a moment's care
not to say something foolish
or blue;
the flies gather at the corner
where the sun settles,
pushing to find the weakness . . .
an obligation to stand still
at the bus stop
turns into a restlessness
wandering
    traveling
testing each step
each stop of the route . . .
a failure to
realize my place
in the hierarchy,
can result in dismissal
from the ranks
and banishment. . .
its always safest
to take the lowest place,
below the lint perhaps
which only cares to annoy . .
the wind . .  rustles the leaves
on my road
as I walk,
the pale of the morning
precedes me . ..

Open Air Museum, Cuzals, France 2011

******************************************************

http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/99602?refuid=1088547
Melodie in der Nacht
by Linda Li
************************************review by me . . . .

Sweet lively listening . . . many of these songs sounded familiar to me;
they were romantic and sentimental with a sad yearning, a plaintive melody . . .

In Strasbourg, France 2011

. .. and plucking at my memories . . .
something from long ago
drifting like a lonely cloud
across an empty sky . .
returning through my dreams . ..
a half remembered waltz . . .
a kiss, a tender look . . .
all faded away like lavender ink
on old love-letters . . .
happy memories cut short . .
a sadness . .
a melancholy . . .
a crumbled dried rose . . .
dusty petals on the floor . .
there was yesterday . .
and now it is nothing more . . .
than the breezes knocking,
knocking on my door . . .
a candle quickly snuffed . . .
sits sputtering in an open window . .
and the silence in this melody . . .
is more than I can bear . . .
. . . is more than I can bear . . .

http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/99555?refuid=1088547

The 4 elements
by Peter Kind 
********************************review by me

A breath of fresh air . . .
Love is the energy . .
from which all things come . . .
creation upon creation . . .


beauty in the "earth" . . there is no compare . ..
except for the dreams and fantasies . . .
of the visionary listening
to the music . . a temporal thing . .
a dragonfly's song . . . an angel's wing . . .
lost in the melody . .


Fire in the darkness . . . a light,
a warmth, the listener hangs on to the quiet . . .
humbled by the unknown . . .
sparks rise to kiss the stars . . .
and the night descends . . .


a dance of energy .. .. a lightness
of gentle feet . . . pattering, and frisky . .
lifting higher with the wings of the breeze . . .
as the dark trees on the hill sway . .
they lift their branches in praise
and they dance in the wind . . .


water drifts down from the trees . . .
and pool in the shadows . .
silver with ambient light, small leafy life boats
float across on the mirroring surfaces . .


the stillness of the earth . . . a sail in the wind
the light of a distant fire guides . . .
as a star in a darkened sky . . .
and the water, as spirit, moves the soul
throughout . . .
Tender is the music . . gently to be moved. . .

Maison Henri IV, Cahors, France 2011

http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/99476?refuid=1088547

Spiritum contra spiritus
by Alejandro Vallarino

**************************review by me . . .

I remember hiking through a beautiful mountain forest,
long ago with my sister. . . and finding a small crystal spring,
bubbling up between the toes of a large mossy tree . . . magical . ..
and this album cover reminded me of that . ..
and, not surprisingly . . . so did the music .. .
it has a rather magical clarity .. .. a twinkling of unusual notes . . .
and surprising moments . . . as if suddenly transported to
a place undefined . .. a moment that makes your heart feel
like a fragile bubble and you catch your breath
in wonder . ..
piano . . . guitar .. . dreamily expressed as if in
a perfect trance. . . very nice and very unusual .. ..
I like that . . it dances and whispers . . .
sparkles and flies . .. like a drop of spring water . ..
on the edge of a cliff . .

Inside a residence, Sarlat, France, 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 . . .

Somewhere

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.

**************************************************************************

Royalty free music for professional licensing

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 . . .

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

Somewhere in France (SW) 2011

THE MAN WITH MANY PENS

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 .. .


 

Royalty free music for professional licensing

Somewhere in France, 2011

La Bella Principessa

La Bella Principessa

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Young_Girl_in_Profile_in_Renaissance_Dress

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

An Offering from Henry . . .

Bucolic fields in France

From: MY SOUL REFLECTIONS IN SUSPENSION . . .
By Henry Ireland
(FaceBook)


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!. !
There!.
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

The Salt of the Desert

Lizard on castle wall, France

After the wandering
through the land of the sun . .  .
where the dying is done . . .
this pain severs our souls . .
and we are prostrate with grief . .

our children's spirits have withdrawn
from the fury of the heat . . .

this family's heart is deeply carved
by the blazing passion
of the angry gods  ..

we have followed the stars
faintly lighting our trail . .. 
we have wandered
and suffering by night. . .
diminished by white hot day . . .

our feet are bleeding. . .
scored deeply by piercing stones
defending against our way . . .
our breasts are withered,
sunken eyes like waterless wells . .
the bones of our backs . . .
cast deep black lines
sketches on our ashy skins . . .
a shadowy tale
of this journey through death . .

statue in medieval village, France

keen eyed raven

rustles feathers over head,
waiting . . .
silently watching
as our people fall in the heat . .
a black feather drops
a single offering to loss . . .

the soul is weary
and grieves
as the dry rivers flow . . .
and forever lay down
a trace in the desert . .

a trail of salt
in blazing white . . .
a silent sacrifice to an angry
god's fire . . ..

detail on building in Rocamadour, France

**************************************************************

The Caves of Heaven . . .

Paris 2010

Where can I hide

                      my small self

from the wrath                              

of the universe . . .

                  its paroxysms

less like a hiccup

than a catastrophic eruption                                               

of hot and angry fissures                         

                                              blasting molten lava at my fragile ego . . .

                                       From day to day I wander

by the trembling waves of the sea . . . .                   

until a pointed tide                         

                         curves over me,

                    and grasping me in its fist,

sweeps me like unwanted crumbs from a table

to be ground into the dust of the creations . . .                 

nothing I was

                                            and nothing I am still. . .

and yet

a conundrum. . .

                                       a puzzle in which I

am left with gaping holes of                        

lacking comprehension

and a looming presentiment of annihilation                            

                                                    My small footprints leave 

a shimmering trail

in the time swept sands of existence,                                  

            a beacon for this monster of vengeance

                         to follow. . . 

my flesh raw and tender,                                     

                      a sacrifice to my neon culpability 

as I struggle along the shoals                                                      

waiting for my death .. ..

where can I hide

                                       my small self

from the wrath                                        

            of my destruction?

Paris 2010