I Flew on the Wings

I flew on the wings
of your crystal sharp stars . . .
on the wind that
lifts the brilliant leaves
as they leap to exaltation
and extinction . . .
I flew on the colors of your need;
the shapes that lift me,
the songs you give me. . .
I flew with you . . .
I flew on the wings of joy,
a shape of truth
from your stormy soul. . .
with you I fly
up into the ebony night 
and we follow
the stars that guide us
and
the weights of our slow lives
have no anchors to hold us

##

A small boy handed me this small pink leaf this morning .. .. a huge treasure . . . 

        

Autumn's Dream

Autumn's dream . . .

is to be that child again . . .
walking down summer's long dusty road. . .
the billows of amber talcum follows,
like an army of hope
and a whisper of laughter,
in the melody. . .
in the song. . .
our dreams are never far
where adventure remains

Autumn's dream is

waiting for that child. . .
to return again  . ..
to that long ago summer day . . .
it lasted a thousand years
in a fantasy. . .
in a wish . . .
we followed our star
and were never alone
as the angels played along

Autumn's dream is

to be that child still. . .
climbing summer's mountain
where the eagle soars through the blue
and there we find the wings to fly
in the memories . . .
in the stories. . .
we had the promise of a long summer's day
and the mystery of a cool summer's night

and there
we laid down to dream

and there
we woke up
to the end of summer

and Autumn's dream . . .

##

When Spring returns

we will follow that trail

and we will find our soul's

heartbeat

in the sun's

climb toward Summer. . .

La tête dans les nuages

by Libration100
also on Jamendo: http://www.jamendo.com/en/artist/SER%27JACOBS_Pascal
He is one of my favorite artists there:

Free music for professional licensing  

Head in the Clouds


The sky is huge
half of our environment
look:
it glows with expectations
and encouragement,
pregnant with potential,
Fires to warm your heart
and your eyes. . .
the blue is endless,
and the angels paint
tirelessly
in the heavens, beauty
the clouds,
the colors,
the shapes
. . .to fill our minds
our souls
with creativity
and the joy of a child . . .

and even through the darkness
there is light
as a promise
of the day to come

M^^W

The Last Day of Summer

TreeHouse in Portland

Tomorrow I break branches,
the green is going to go. . .
the summer has gone astray
I heard it sigh. . .
it sighed
as it slipped away
down the hill and to the right
and over the edge,
with
rainbow sheets in the cloud
next to the rays
of the dying sun. . .
the music of the edgy wind
has made me disconcerted
and I will pick up splinters
of unknown wood. . .
and the moss
over moss
is slippery
under my unwary feet . . .

but if you call me
I will come. . .
do you hear me in the wind ?
the edgy wind
as the dry leaves
cover the mystery of my bones
leaving me standing
fighting alone
against a passion
of a dynamic season. . .
a dying reason
to hang on to old branches
as the skies turn gray
and the waters begin to fall

## 

I planted a field of sunflowers . . .
in anticipation of the beauty,
and the seeds
because I like to eat them. . .

and
when the flowers began to droop
from fatigue of old age
and very heavy heads
I harvested them . . .
and laid those big seeded wheels

out on my patio in the sun
to dry. . .
and in the morning I rose early
to hear a roar of birds. . .
my sunflowers were being devoured. . .
and I was so charmed by all the little birds
that I watched them all day long,
hundreds and hundreds eating those seeds
until they were all gone

the seeds,

and the birds

##

A Journey

 

Paris rain in July

 

 

I walk alone
in the center of my universe
and find small objects                                         
                            that clutter my way . ..
with open mouths                   
they cry at me
                                                        in unknown languages,
their hearts exposed                          
                 like a rainbow's sudden appearance
that surprises and puzzles me.                               

I walk alone
                                        and sometimes I run,
but I am always vulnerable                                      
       to the elemental storm
as it falls               
                    and the boulders
                                             which in time will halt
                                                       my flow as I stumble
on obstructions
as small as a molecule.                                               

I walk alone
                                       on the edges of time. . .
creating a symphony                         
that spills over the horizon
       and flows like tree sap
                                   around all my memories,
clutching them like dragonflies                     
forever in an amber gleam.


I walk alone
                                    amongst the stars
that glow like tiny beacons                                          
                          guiding me through the heavens,
                        calling my name . . .
    they

lead me further                              
into an unknown universe

 littered with the

                                           fallen leaves of autumn's
debris . . .            
they drift before me like                                            
                 yesterday's sorrow
                                     running in the wind before me. . .
and the winter's white glow                               
soon covers me like a blanket of death.

 

I walk alone;
                                               I dream alone. . .
my dreams expand across my scope                             
                                    filling my box of soul
as they sift through                  
my grasping fingers.. .. ..                                                  
        like dust in the moonlight,
                                                soon disappearing
from that silver shine. . .                    
                         and become meaningless
flotsam in
the stillness of my life

##

I am the Lion in Paris

I am the lion in Paris

watching life

flow by like a stream,

their dancing spirits vibrate

the atmosphere

and disregard

my questing eyes.

I am the lion of all seasons

and I sink beneath the weight

of time,

I long for the open fields

of spring tides

and the warmth of honeyed sunshine

I am the lion of nature . . .

granite is so cold and hard,

the call of the wind

flows through my mane

and removes me

piece by piece

I am the stone in Paris

refined by moving streams of time

I am earth and wind and fire

and I dream I am

a blazing star . . . 

##

Drums to Drive You!

 


    Ethnic Drums by Satori                     

    Ethnic Drums by Satori

Encryption (A left handed poem)

 

 

The Angel of Death

Feathers flew
as I watched you
strike the pigeon,
from out of nowhere
            you came,
                   a streak from above. . .
your sharp talons
        piercing through to the heart,
        the meat like butter
                  beneath your toes,
and where there was breath
there is none. . .
warmth leaking out
like steam. . .
it parts the air,
rising up as if it were the soul departing
             for a better place . . .


and then there was whimsy,
a vision, 
as I watch the man walk by,
dressed in white
and carrying a white ironing board
across his shoulders
like wings


although he had a bounce in his steps . . .
he wasn't flying
        as he was weighted down
with his burden. . .
 
but you flew away
        without your catch,
hesitation in your movements
as you looked longingly behind you. . .
unnoticed by the man with the white metal wings.

##

the handbook of life

we are born naked and desperate into this world, vulnerable to the whims of fate. . .
we are rejected or held; we are starved or satiated . . .
we are born without emotions but learn them
through time . . . and experience
and our hearts describe these feelings
and our hearts recognize them in others

and some of us begin to wonder
why we don't feel real
as we think others do. . .
and we look into the mirrors
of daily living

for
within the eyes of others
we find ourselves reflected

and see passing thoughts

and there we see
perhaps rejection
perhaps acceptance. . .

and some of us begin to wonder
about love
and where to find it
in the rivers of living
and wonder if there can be hope
or if perhaps we are
not worthy
of such joy .  .

and some of us begin to wonder
about forgiveness,
and if forgiving ourselves
opens the hidden gates
of being forgiven . . .
and if by crossing that gate
we can find love . ..
would we then be worthy?

and some of us begin to wonder

where the instructions are

written 

to guide us

in this place of awareness

of joy and despair. . . 

we wonder

where to find the truth

and if truth does indeed set us free

and free from what . . . 

we wonder.. .. ..

free from needing to be loved

or forgiven

we hope

because

the lacking of these

gives us anguish .. .. ..

And some of us grow old,

and we still wonder

for nothing has been written

where we can easily read. . .

so we try

to see the words written on

our beating hearts

between the throbs

of pain.

##

 

0Free music for professional licensing

A tale is told, a faint, gentle female voice recounts the adventures of a young man who has a dream and hears a distant voice and must follow . . . must follow to his destiny . . . as we all must follow our siren song, whatever that may be and where ever it may lead us . . . The story is full of misty adventures, like in a dream, do they exist . . . is this real? We float along with the music and on this lovely mystical journey with the stars to guide us in this unknown and new creation.

Beauty in a "Breeze" the sound of angels singing through the flute and exquisite melody . . . "Arid" with music so nearly muted. and very quiet, wind and stringed instruments painting emptiness and loneliness through a vastness that transcends vision . . . and quietly describes bewilderment through the empty spaces of a journey, the desolate places we all find.

And then the "Silence" which comes before the effervescent "Storm" . . . progressing through to the "Rain" which drums solemnly . . . and profoundly on our psyche. The "Shores," of course, with ocean sound, the waves richly pounding on the beach and the music slowly coming closer, beautiful . . . the song of the "Siren", so beautiful that you can not help but be mesmerized and follow. "Voice" is so celestial as to destroy any doubt and pain . . .and the excellent piano melody of "Easing" sweetly guides the listener toward the more energized, almost rock genre styled "Waking" and then "Home" where though the journeyer felt happy. . . was lost.

This was an astonishingly good album . . . Gorgeous . . . can be viewed as music to relax with, or to stimulate the imagination, or for meditation, or can be listened to for the storyline of a Journey .

-PurpleOrca  review