Blue

Things that fly . . . at the mere kiss of the breezes . . .

the sun shines, warm and close . . . .

The birds are buzzing,

and the bees singing,

little things marching

on their parade grounds

find their place . . .

on this heaven we sometimes

call earth . . .

We force our way past gravity

reaching toward the unknown . . .. 

dreaming of the impossible,

following our

star

The dragon folds 

her treasure

into the palms of the lonely,

and dropping her demons to the floor she

lifts her wings

to shine against the

blazing sun

When I find myself lost

in the shadows

I wait, but a moment,

for the sun to follow

her road

above the horizon . . .

where she kisses

my cheeks 

and breathes

her warm life giving

spirit

under my

sun dappled

wings . .

. . . and I am

the meadow,

I am the dream of tomorrow,

and the dance of the

eagle's eye,

sparkling . . . . . .

for that moment

that lasts forever . ..

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

I took all these pictures around Clackamas Town Center near Portland . . .  A small meadow next to the I-205 freeway, inspired me the most . .. and all the art, hanging on poles which intrigue me . . .tend to appear in the most amazing places . . . where they capture the sun and reflect it back to the observer . . .

Shades of Scarlet . . .

My pencil is but a mere stub

                                          of what it once was

                                                                        in its glory days .. ..

I carry it everywhere with me

to jot down thoughts,                                              

                           and half baked ideas . . .

these days its nearly flat   . . .               

and without a sharp point

                                         it cannot draw the fine details

of stamens in the cup of the flower. . .                       

                                          nor the passion of the bee

who, covered in pollen,

and golden, like the precious daughter                                           

of Midas . . .

                                     a child who seemed to exist,

merely to give a lesson                             

                              on the powers of love

and the subliminal values

of existence  . . .                                            

..... my pencil, again,

intrepid yet inanimate . . .

                                                a slight pressure and. . .

she scrawls . . .

                the latest nonsense from                                                            

            my flickering brain. . .

thoughts and feelings                                       

that slide down below

                                               the surface before I am ready

 to capture their essence                                          

with a touch of revelation and insight . ...                              

                                        like a torch in the painted caves,

revealing the forms of                               

visions and dreams . . .

                                       if I walk down those sloping pathways,

deeper into the hot bowels                                                     

of the earth . . .

                                          past the sleeping dragons,

I expect I will meet myself                                              

retreating from my old dreams . . .

                                              and my demons;

you see . . .

my life never follows the

                                      well lit road

nor the easy path . . .                      

                      I dig my own way

over the rough stuff 

and I find myself                                               

in the arenas of other gods . . 

                                                those I never thought 

to meet. . .

and thus I am never truly prepared                                                     

for my future . . .

                                     so I watch the hungry earth

swallow up my troubled blood . .                                   

                                   shades of scarlet

in the shadows of                                               

my dreams . . .

Geese in the Rhododendron Gardens, Portland, Oregon

The flow of . . .

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All around me . . . the music flows,
sadly calling . . . like a water sprite . . .
stroking the shoreline,
messaging gently at malleable muds,
softly enticing . . .
with a lover's melodic tune,
echoing from the forest trees . . .
all around . . . dark green
like a cavern's maw . . .
stretching around me . ..
I am left to wander naked
and all alone. . .
the frosty air wrapped 'round. . .
as an icy blanket,
leaving me cold, so cold
to the marrow of my bone. . .
I walk along the water's ledge
and listen to the cry
of a sad and lonely owl
questioning humanity
asking who
and wondering why . . .
 *************************

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Left alone to dream               

                                              I dream of peace       
            flowing like a river beneath
 a brilliant sun                                            
                            and the lights in the periphery
 of my vision                                                                           
                      flash as if about to fly 
like the pelican,                          
                                         regal and unwary,     
  ready to lift the fallen
           and swim with the lost . . .                                              

a brittle leaf . . . 

briefly sways like a hammock,
                        then drops . .  fluttering like a
wayward page                                     
                         from a book half written . . .
the last of his kind . . . he dreams
before he lies buried                                                            
                                beneath layers of time  . . .
and slowly rising again                        
to the mountain top
       where
he rests
                                     until he is finally lifted
in the cradle of the pelican
and taken home                                                   
to his dream . .
****************************

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The days go by

go slowly by,
the moon droops low
half warmed by kisses
from a weary sun . . .
I set sail .  .  .  with a wisp
of a breeze . . . and fly
until there are no more
melodies
flowing through my
cold and empty soul . . .
and the dimmest star,
the furthest thing,
reflected on my lonely lake
reach up through tree branches mazed
and scraping against
a raw and frightened sky. . .
in violent breezes
in dark and dreamy
colors dim
and as the dreams begin to disappear . . .
my eyes close
forever,
and without a fear
I slip away . . .  . . .
and flow without the stream of life
I am no more
and yet
I find am . . .


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

A poem in three part harmony, a triptych painted for the visionary . . . a flowing tale of grief and ultimate triumph . . . a sadness prevailing along with the music from the spheres . . . reaching the listening and discerning ear . . . who will hear the sorrowing truth . . . and yet witness the hope that flows and carries the heart along  . . who?

Shyam Monk - Peaceful Guitar . . .

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With a warm voice and a softly strumming guitar
this musician moves into your heart
your home
and clears the spaces of drifting souls,
lost and bewildered . .
he guides them away
to find their road
where they travel
until they reach the Tree
where they are nourished and grow
and climb into the heaven
of their dreams . .

fly away
fly away sweet dreams
and land on the lips
of the singer
spending words
of wisdom
and heart . . .

Shyam Monk plays a gentle, meditative, acoustic guitar, and he dreams for us . . . from the depths of his heart . . . a sweet soul, a sweet song with which to drift away, rest, and fly on warm uplifting breezes.

###################################################

Rocks for Sale!

Portland, Pioneer Place 2011

Remember when you

             sat by the side of our dusty country

     road

          selling stones,

                           which you found there . . .

and we laughed

               at the boy who

                                wanted candy . . . .

                                   then

someone, perhaps an angel,

                              strolled up

           to your little stand,

                          and bending down

discussed with you

                    the merits of each small gem . . .

          and smiling, he . . .

chose one,

                               giving you a dime . . .

which sparkled under the glances of the sun

                                                 reaching through the shade . . .

as you sat in your arbor,

           the deep black shadows

held you down . . .

                       and you watched your customer

                                                               disappear

                     into the distance .  .

down that hot, shimmering lane,

you in the deep black,

                               the tree branches still as stone

        in that hot summer air,                       

a lone bird sang

            a short dry melody . . .

and you turned your little coin 

slowly in your fingers . . .

                           your back to us . . .

forever

           that small boy

                            selling dreams . . .

################################################

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Review:

My favorite was "Wind Calling" with the beautiful flute like sounds and the way the music flowed across my space like a gentle breeze . . . in softly rolling waves . . it was very beautiful . . . smooth and chilling.

I also enjoyed the vocals in "Follow Me" and the bouncier percussion and energy pulled out of the song, more upbeat than the normal ambient that this artist provided in this album.

"Real Spirit" with the chimes and other exotic tones was another very appealing song . . . I loved the percussion and that strong echoey sound, and sometimes hearing a lovely sitar . . . very nice! The way the musical instruments wove in and out of each other was extraordinary.

This album was a very nice mix of peaceful ambient and upbeat happier songs . . . and even with the mix the album had a delightful flow. I always love this artist's music as the tunes are always exactly as advertised . . . the music is nicely composed, and prepared and ready to be downloaded and enjoyed . . .

################################

The short poem, "Rocks for Sale!" is based on truth . . . something that happened many, many years ago, regarding my youngest brother, Dean, someone who has been lost to me for a long, long time.

Goodbye - Hello

Saying Goodbye to Paris

My refrigerator holds an assortment of photos and clippings . . . comics that made me chuckle, stories that resonated with me . . . and poems that moved me . . . . Here is one. Its been on my fridge for a very long time . .  It came out of the Oregonian and is cracked and yellowed with age. So I copied it here for you to enjoy:

TO HOLD

A poem:

by Li-Young Lee, Chicago

So we're dust. In the meantime, my wife and I
make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet,
we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight,
measuring by eye as it falls into alignment
between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I'm lucky,
she'll remember a recent dream and tell me.

One day we'll lie down and not get up.
One day, all we guard will be surrendered.

Until then, we'll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn't for our having.
So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I'll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.
********************************************************

Poetry is a delicate creation, always personal . . . For it means something slightly different to each and every observer . . . our pathways are our own . . . our moccasins fit only our feet . . . and we interpret the artistic communications of others through the lens of our own understandings . . . It is always a challenge to understand perfectly . . .

This story was like a dream itself ... .... reminding me that we are but temporal, and all that we think we own . . . is just momentarily in our grasp . . . our existence, and what we love, is beautiful and delicate and ephemeral as life, a mere wisp of mist streaming over the dew laden grass before the rising of the heat of day . . . and occasionally we remember that everything we have and we give is not ours at all . . . but something like the mist, which will return to us in the end . . . 

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. . . . like music . . . each note a sensation. . . like the touch of a feather that glances off the shoulder, where the wings once appeared, with strength and courage .  . What is music but the tender expressions of a being trying to become real and visible through the misty shields that come between beckoning souls. What is art, of any style, but the longing of an angel to say . . . "I am here . . . together we make a whole . . . the picture will be clear . .  if together we stand . . . " And in the meantime we make the beds and share our dreams . ..

I like this particular musician, Score Creationism. This is what he said in regards to this story-telling album (Let There Be Notes): "In the beginning music was created.  Man learned this and was punished.  Scores/Soundtracks for movies, games, or your life." That tickles me and the music gives a story of creation involving a little more than we are used to hearing . . . . Its worth listening to because its quite beautiful, and moving . ..  and I enjoyed it very much.

Hello . . .  Portland

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Gorgeous . .  surreal . . . uplifting . .  flutes . . . bells . . . song that welcomes the listener into the new day .  . lifting up into beautiful melody .. . harmonious and adventurous . . . A wonderful listen. 

The Power of Music

Ridge, looking towards west Portland, 2010

*****************************************************************
Every song I hear gives me a unique feeling . . . a song can smile at me, or accuse me, it can lift me up or compress me to my bones. . . it can sooth my weary soul, make me cry, it can enervate me, it can energize me . . .


Every song I hear becomes a part of me, driving me or halting me . . . warming me or cooling me . ..


Music has the most profound abilities to heal me . . . or hurt me . .


I have been so intrigued by the two albums this artist put on Jamendo this weekend. His compositions are so exquisite that some of them moved me to tears . .. . "Message from Mars" was one of those . . . I can't say why . . it just did. Maybe it IS a message from Mars . . .??!!???


Both of these albums are professionally done with excellent sound quality. The album covers are tasteful and attractive. Overall these are high-quality albums and worth a listen, no matter what your favorite genre is, because you may find a touch of most music styles running through these songs. But, you will definitely enjoy them. I can guarantee that!

- M^^W - 

Edit: He has put out a third album . . . which I am just beginning to listen to . .  very nice so far. 

Review for: "Moving Thoughts" by Zoltan Percsich

Here is an endless supply of beautiful music from this artist, as this album can be played over and over . . . an endless round . . . so enticing and celestial, like a walk in the fog on an early morning, cool and calm with the small birds echoing through the mist, and as the rising sun parts the clouds there is a feeling of calm in one's aloneness and a peacefulness ascending from the soul . . .  this and the sounds of angel wings gives a preview of heaven's peaceful atmosphere.

- M^^W-

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Eager to hear more:

Portland 2010

Review for:  "Black Sun Garden" by Sid Ghost
I loved this . . the sound quality was quit intriguing . .. the resonating notes, the reverberations . . . the piano, guitar, and percussion . . . all quite expressive, emotional and compelling, propelling us along with the story . . . a human story, and familiar . . . regarding despair, remorse, love and hope. So beautiful. There was so much heartache and longing in this story that I felt the tearing in my throat . . ..

These compositions were exceptional and so full of yearning, intrigue and drama . . . a tapestry rich in color and creativity. Listen . . . close your eyes and see where the music takes you . ..

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Review for: "Svetoten" by Svetoten Band 
OK . . . I know I have died and gone to Heaven . . . pinch - pinch - pinch . . . ooh yaaah . . .

Jamendo never fails to amaze me when it comes to the astonishing music I find here . . .this world styled music, with the sound of acoustic instruments . .. the dominant flutes, strong guitars, tender strings, and other interesting equipment . . . I don't know what all . . . I just fell into the sounds of "Fanky" with delight . . . and the others . .. each one unique and offering its own voice of happiness, celebration or wistfulness . . . dear and delicious music from all over the world . . . here to make its way into your heart . . . and make you feel at home in this world . . this world of music.

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Reflections and Reviews

Downtown Portland

Review for: "Live at Aster Cafe 12/29/10" by Walker Fields

When I was very young - I wanted to grow up to be a hobo and ride the rails. It had a certain romantic appeal to me . . .  and I always loved these type of folk songs that Guthrie did . . . they carried me along on those slow journeys across the USA with the dangers and adventures . . .  laying in the straw of an open boxcar with a few pals . . .  someone playing the harmonica and someone else playing the homemade banjo . . .  with no idea where will we get off . . .maybe someplace far away and maybe we will find work . . . make new friends . . . and maybe someday settle down. . .

This type of music is old Americana . . . very laid back and enjoyable . . . the voice is warm and perfect for the acoustic banjo and harmonica and the live stage background sounds are very much a part of the atmosphere. . . wonderful.

What a treat for me to find this music . . .  Sure would enjoy more of the same . . .

##

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Review for: "Internal Chill" by Crock

Classy album cover . . "Internal Chill" like a smooth dessert . . . was succulent and with the aroma of nectar . . . a voice creating in you a desire to follow . . . on the streams of her breath . . . as it flows around you, like melancholic smoke  . . .  melody, rich and deep and slow, nearly motionless and the dance steps swirl around you, driving you, as you follow that languishing voice . . .

"Night Drive" a pleasant beat, a midnight song, resonant with the mysteries of the dark. creatures and lights flashing by . . . beautiful and soothing. This song was a deep purple as it billowed in the deepest dreaming regains of my brain . . .  filling my inner vision with a primitive hunger . . .

"Floating Voices" all I could think for one remarkable moment was OMG what perfect sound . . . . it IS IN MY HEAD!!!!!  It was pure pleasure . . .
like a long slow ride across a landscape so surreal and imaginative that it becomes reality.

The last track, "Silicon Sol" was just a very pleasant, little hopping sort of tune . . .  and I enjoyed this album very much . . .

##

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Lost by the Side of the Woods

Johnson Creek 11/10

I stood alone by the edge of the trees,
where the great blue heron
marked her flight,
and the end of yesterday
trailed by in empty gusts. . .
leaving a few skeletal leaves to brush
against my still legs. . .
and I hushed my beating heart by
listening to the hollow rush
of the the nearby stream,
while I waited for distant memories
to leave their traces
on the sides of my cheeks, as if they
were tender fingers softly
stroking there, like the still
breath of a cloud winging by
on the battered wings of the last  silent silvered butterfly,
left over from summer's warm grasp .

The whispers of distant sound
flutter against my ears bringing
witness of life secluded
in the echoing mysteries of the woods. . .
and through the lacy patterns of the
leafless trees reaching out against
the deep blue sky and
stripping away a few remaining
clouds scattered overhead,
reflecting a trace of orange from a receding sun .

. . . . my feet worry against the fine gravels
on the aging line between the pathway
and the woods,
and trace dark lines in the moist soil
which point along the way like arrows
drawn deeply …. small canyons
to foil the small furry caterpillar
crawling slowly, and curling at the touch
of my questing fingers. . .
while I wonder if I am real enough
to matter, and if I leave traces
that pause the hurling by of time,
or if life itself were tangible. . .
with a solidity to be grasped
and held tightly . . .

SpringWater Corridor near Johnson Creek

and if I brought it closer to my eyes,
could I determine a pattern,
a design of beauty, perhaps
a way to march through the wilderness,
or retrace my steps?

Is there a map to lead me through
this moment. . .
showing an array of solid roads
leading out of the confusing and messy
wilderness 
towards an understanding. . .
an island rising above
like an answer
guiding me upwards and outwards

from the towering question marks of my life .

Is there
a shining answer
to the riddle
of my dreams . . .

##

The Ridge near my house - Sunset