*P*E*A*C*E*

 

*PEACE* 

begins in the living heart

and continues to radiate outward

giving and receiving 

*JOY*

in the depths of the soul

where an eternal life fire burns

the true gift of the spirit

*LOVE*

A Cold Rock in the Center . . .

       Tonight . . .
               the full moon stares down with a stillness that
                                       is as hard as ice . . a cold rock sailing
                       toward his destiny . . . a silver pearl,
he hides himself in the shadow of the round belly
                                                        of his world . . and
                    turning blood red . .  he blushes at his folly . . .
soon drifting away . . .
                            yet now
                                      my moon is sailing behind a bank of fog . . .
               a tenuous thing and yet like a veil
                             or a misty shroud . .  these clouds will deny the eyes
          the knowledge of vision . . . and the thing that
                        is not seen . .  ceases to exist . ..

                              an ivory figurine
                   motionless . . . forgotten . ..
    sits in a dusty corner
                           like an old tooth
                                         she fades away
              in shades of yellow;
                              lost in her slumber
           she dreams down slender roads
                            the dust of long lost hopes
   flying up from beneath her moving feet . .
                  her amber colored flesh peels away
          like wings . . .
                         like the pages of a book
                    like the leaves of an autumn tree ..
                      lifting . .  fluttering
                             anticipating a breeze
                 the bare bones of memories . . .
                                         driving ever upward . . . 

          There are whispers in the wind
                        the moon is sighing . . .
                                       his light drips thickly
                                                  like silver tears
                                                          from the leaves of the ivy . . .
                      their tendrils burrow down into the
         heart of the tall black pine .  .  .  shadows dark. . .
                                  invisible points concealed beneath the roots . . .
                resins scenting the air . . . with the wispiness of smoke . . .
                                     something is
                      hidden deeply
      longing to be free . .
                    beating like a heart throbbing . . .
                                    like bloody hands scrabbling. . .
                   like fingernails clawing. . .

somewhere is heard a distant melody . . .
                a window slowly opens and
a thousand birds fly free . . .
         wings exhausted,
                            feathers filling slowly
with silky winds . . .
         parachutes ripe with the fullness of  desire

there is the sky
there is the endless sky
and in the center . . .
an eternity . . .
                     

A Flight of Geese . . .

The bus was early
       so I wait . . .
pebbles gleaming
                weakly
in the amber light
     of the street lamp . . . .
The cool damp air
    moistens my reluctant cheeks
exposed to the dark expanse
     of morning . . . . .
I gaze at
        scattered
               cast offs
on the sidewalk,
as they seem to be
            life rafts
on a turbulent
     sea . . .
                    washes of salty brine
exhuming the
      soft centers,
hard shells
            dissolving away.
Overhead,
a thin bank of clouds
            occludes the slender
lights of the
            portentous inky sky . . .
there are moments,
         as cars slush by,
that I long to reach out
and caress a lonely
                          brow,
or expend my energies
           listening to a soul song . . .
a requisite for a poet,
is to delve into
the strati of common lives . . .
nothing is new
           under the sun,
yet
    there are dreams
left unfulfilled
           and loves
                    unexamined,
. . . . . a hard trampling
on the fragile crystal
           of living hearts . . .
   is laying fine lines . . .
adding to the layers
           buried . . . building mounds
   of understanding
and empathy

The humming of the cars
           reach my ears
as if a symphony of sighs,
                  each vehicle a carapace
within which
          the soft flesh
is unexposed . . .
we are lost
          to each other,
I am lost to you . . .
                  your eyes evade mine . . .
as they fly by . . . .
                 like flocks
of wandering geese . . .
     lost
before the coming storm . . .
      we are lost to each other
and yet
in the end our roads will
                      meet
though your flight
           be so much faster
than mine . . .

Drops of water
on my glass shelter
leave
distorted shadows
like tears . . . and scars . . .
on my paper . . .
as I write  … …
        each one slips away . . .
a flight of geese
                      against the lighting sky . . . .

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


Enjoying this Jamendo Artist's Music:

Royalty Free Music - Stock Music Library | Jamendo PRO

Like poetry
or lace . . .
a shadow of a smile
flickers on a face . .
music so expressive as it
enters the realm of light,
yet so tentative and touching . . .
While surfacing . . . so quiet . ..
filling the air
with a hint of
peacefulness . . .
a space is created
in the disquiet of life . ..
a place to become immaterial . ..
and rest
when the world
gets too heavy with flame . .
a shaded corner
to hide from the heat . . .
a sprinkle of raindrops . .
to settle the dust . .. .
a smile remains . .

Beautiful music . . . as always . .. .

Review for:

"Instant"  http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/102825

 

The Voyage of the Damned

Rushing, as I walked to
accomplish my errands . . .
upon
turning a corner I saw
in the distance
a goal. . .
my destination.

The street seemed so far away,
and as I progressed I anxiously watched
as it never seemed to get nearer
and then . . .

I realized I was missing
the moment
and all the barely encompassed
here in the now . . .

I was missing
the golden glow of the fall leaves,
expiring against a silver bright sky. . .
I was missing the
Mandelbrot patterns around me,
the pine needles
arrayed on the damp ground . . .
the sounds of music,
the tone of birds . . .
and the scrunch of my feet against
the gravel on the ground,
each tiny rock a crystal bell . . .

I was missing . .
the steamy smiles of
passers by,
and the breath of freedom . . . .

As the goal
became just another passing moment. . .
I retrieved my treasures
like scarlet leaves
collected in a wicker basket . . .
and held in awe 
what senses,
reaching out like tentacles,
exploring the depths
and the heights . . .
were able to harvest
against the coming storms . . .

What is my goal in the end,
but death,
and a moldering
away in a grave
unsuited to
deep breaths of
Autumn flavored air . . .

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

An Autumn Moment

The leaves flutter down,
gasping a last refrain,
with colors reminiscent of a Turkish
carpet, arrayed on overgrown grassy lawns
and
clinging like starfish
facing their new horizons,
they feel the flesh of the soil
with splayed fingers,
slowly growing numb . . .
as molds fringe the brittle
textures, scraping away the flesh
to leave a fragile lacy pattern
of veins . . . slowly, slowly . . .
gazing sadly at the stars . . .
as they twirl away in their
nightly dance
across indigo skies . .

The scuffed toe of my boot
skitters through the leaves
committing some to their utter destruction,
and arbitrarily sending others
back into a flight
on Autumn breezes. . .
The cold reaches fingers
up my nose
and the laughter of
children is heard
in the distance . . .

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

Shadows of Time

Detail in Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise, Paris

I find myself in a
place where it is always 5 p.m.
and I am needed to set the time straight. . .
I must be here or I will disappear,
like the cat who left only a smile
as a reminder . . .
of his demeanor . . .

The moon peers down at me through
the skylight in the library . . .
he wishes to read some of the tomes . .
that line these dusty shelves . .
we have an agreement . . .
and I offer him my book of poetry
and a cello song . ..
where there is dignity . . . and grace . .
simplicity . . a cup of cold tea sits at my side . .

This moon is hard and marches forward
like the iceberg .. .. known to carry small children
from the peacefulness of the north pole
where they were conceived
in innocent gardens found
buried deeply in caves of icy blue . . .

that old moon looks like a wedge of lemon . . .
and he patiently watches me . . .
his eye foreboding . . . as he is
inscrutable as a chair . . .
I gaze at him wishing that he were
a lover type .  . . or at least capable
of conversation . . .

I remember walking through the graveyards
in a local town . .
reading every inscription . .
and wondering about these people
who mattered to somebody  . . .
and while I read . .
his face watched mine
as I shed a few tears for these unknowns . . .
and I wondered if anyone . .
would care about me . . .

perhaps the moon
will erect a marble angel to watch over me . . .
or blaze a poem in granite . .
to withstand the elements and time . .
or perhaps my bones will gather flies
like icing on a dark cake . ..
and my flesh will shrivel
becoming dust that unites with dust . . .
perhaps his gaze will reflect on the stillness
of my eyes . ..  like a beacon showing me the way . ..

I saw shadows on the other side of the brick wall
deep they were . ..  like bottomless pools . .
aching to hold
a ray of light .. .
These deep damp blanks
are the loneliest things I know .. .
At least as lonely as I am . . .
and the moon that walks by me . .
even with his luminosity
cannot reach every shadow . . .
or cut away the loneliness
with his sharp beams . . .

He just is . ..  always . ..
and I am the one that sets the clocks . .
for the march of time . . .
and the things that were . .
have gone away . .
sliding down into the pools
of everlasting darkness . .  .

Detail in Cimetiere DuPere Lachaise, Paris

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

Beautiful music ... ...

 










 by

Daniel H. 

The Sea . . .

Oregon Coast at Lincoln City

The colors and dreams of this music . .. 
flowed through me like a vision . . ..
long and drawn out . . . smooth as a swell on an ocean . . .
shining and reflecting a starlit sky .. ..
a calmness descends . . . the swoop of a sea bird,
a ship on a distant horizon carrying lights
that flicker and dance .  .  .
a beast of the sea . ..  remote as an island,
displaces water as clear as waves of glass . . .
a trail of foam, like white horses,
drives across the endless waters . .  .
seeking mystical shores . . .
somewhere, a great distance . . .
music rises along with the mist
on a great sea . . .

Sea and Sky
by Neuromanter

Royalty free music for professional licensing

Oregon Coast October 14, 2011

The Gift . . .

Cadeau
by CHRISS ONAC

Royalty free music for professional licensing

Two poems written while listening to Chriss Onac's gorgeous compositions . . .

The Gift

Slipping through the shadows . .. 
a silvery moth . .
flutters in the breeze . ..  from flower
to humble tree . . .
the nectar of the gods flows
out to greet a
most yellow and fuzzy bee . . .
the youngest feline . ..
ventures into the golden day . .
watching the sunshine . . .
and where the shifting shapes
were meant for play . . .
*****************************************

To Err is Human . . .
for creation itself is a stumbling block
to the oblivious . .. 
and the Divine sets the course, 
and the way thereof for
the threads of dreams and human connection . .
slide on under
the heartbeat of the creator . . .
where love is recognized and felt . .
as the music of life . . .

so we dance or we fly . . .
we run or we crawl .  .
time itself is not still .  .  .
we must move or we will fall . . .
*********************************************

Muse

Cloisters - Secret Garden

Deep in the dark and loneliness of the night
I wake up and look at you . . .
your silent breath leaves ripples
of neon lavender .  . traces like footprints
on sandy shores . . . filling slowly with the
reflections of the dancing stars
that trail languidly across the skies . . .
the luminous foam
riding the ocean waves .  . reaches higher
than a grain of sand . . .
a world in motion . . .
a universe throbs . . .
reflecting my heartbeat . . .
I listen for yours . .
but you have vanished . ..
and the night
is lonelier than the song
of the mist falling from the edges of
the dark leaves on the last tree
standing on the brink  . . .

Racing the chiseling of time . ..
the face of the hollow mountain
melts before my touch . .
and the salt on the edges of my teardrops
paint the patterns of my dreams . .  .
my wings are shredded
from the echoing, violent winds . . .
and my soul
is trailing blood . . .

No review written but was listened to as I wrote

the poem above . . .

so thus was a measure of inspiration . .. . 

That Somebody's NOT You
by DeE[J]LuX
 

Royalty free music for professional licensing

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Jamendo . . . From the Poet's Heart . . .

Fern

Cool and Smooth . . like stardust in a river flow . . .

The lone runner . . .
landscapes moving by as a vision
smoothly . . .
slipping from our grasp and observation . . .
the feel of wind whipped cheeks
cool and salty like tears . ..
a tempo settles in and moves
the listener . . .
we can fly too, with the wings of our feet
kissing the earth . . .
the soil of our beginnings . . the cradle of our desperation . .
our dream . .
brilliant stars move beneath . .
lifting us higher . . . each speck of flame
in the black universe. . . a song . . .
a melody which flows like a breeze
through our soul . . .
the dust of the stars . .. build our bones . . .
and give us strength for the race . . .

Thank you for the music to inspire me and cool my burning bones. . .

Lone Runner
by Pascalum

Royalty free music for professional licensing

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Magical piano . . . the musician is a magician . . .
causing emotion to roll through my heart in big waves . . .
I gulp down the music like a thirsty being
lost in a desert
and finding an oasis . . .
a tree grows, offering shade from a brutal sun . .
the night falls . . . a clear endless darkness . . .
deep as a well . .
and the starlight . . .
dances and shimmers across the cooling waters . . .
in the distance . . .
the song of a wild thing . .. calling .. .
intense . .. vibrant and piercing . .
what is this river
that runs down my cheeks . . .?
leaving patterns
against the dust
like an enigmatic message . .
of truth and pain . .
of love and despair . . .
I am moved . . in my bones . . .
the sharp edges . . . ragged and telling . ..
a bloody beating thing . ..
is throbbing in the center .. .

I cry . . .

The Illusionist (incomplete, without applause and vocals)
by JOSE TRAVIESO 

Royalty free music for professional licensing

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

A Certain Fragility . . .

Sometimes I sense a fragility
in my house of cards and find
myself frantically looking
for a way to shore myself up
against the gentle breath of the breeze
that seeks to snuff out this unstable frame

lost in the construction
of a desperate devising . .
never able to push
the way out . . for a lack of doors . .
the walls . .
the walls they haunt me . ..

The dream is always there
the hope is always fair . . .
we say . .  we say my friend
this was the other day
I walked with you
I talked with you
I held you by  the hand . . ..

there was a child who saved a quarter a week
to buy the microscope
that sat on the top shelf
of the White Front store . .


the smell of silver as it slips
through the fingers . . .
a memory of yesterday . . .
oh so long ago,
the fairies danced beneath the stream . . .
like smoke drifts in the wind . . .
a life so short . .  so temporal . .
snuffed out on a whim . .

The stars are always bright
on the other side of the clouds . ..
I dream, I dream my love
that I was meant to die . .
and yet I find the chance to cry . .
and grab the heart of life . .

I have no patience for this small amoeba . .
slowly, slowly dying against the light
of my bright sun . . .
. . . a sort of love developed . . .
the seeking of something unknown . . .
a world of alien population . .
smeared thinly on a strip of glass . . .
the voiceless . . .
trembling and demented
existing unknown beneath
my white hot gaze . .

The heart,
the heart is always black
my love
with ancient hardened blood . . .
it aches within the breast of me . ..
and etches symbols . . .
upon my brittle bones .. ..

What will come tomorrow
is as eternal
as what came before yesterday
My place in the moment,
like the crawl of the amoeba
is to dig holes
in the face of time . . .


I find a way to travel small distances
into the unimaginable . . .
never taking the consequences
of being a god
over an endless universes . . .

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