I am lost in your hallways . .. skylights ripped like scars through your skin . . you have no joy in me as I wander through the night leaving temporary imprints, blood on your walls I am but a memory that clings like refuse . . . waiting to be blown into the ever waiting skies . .. a dream, a bit of wayward dust . . . a glint of glass reflecting hope, for esteem . . . I stand and yet I crumble . . slowly . .. minutely momentarily away . . . melting like seaweed on endless shores . . . I am lost in your beauty . . . I am lost to you .. .. . I hear a hundred thousand voices resounding like planets across the plane of time . . . the foot falls . . resonate. . . sliding warily through memories . . . woven in delicate arches . .. backs bent, straining against the pressure that releases life . . . a spare coin rolls downhill like thunder's deep echo the voice of a god speaking hidden behind the next corner . . beware of splinters spearing deftly through the murmuring heart . . . the fall of the house frees the soul as pigeons wing skyward the timbers crash to the soil and the stench of mildew revives the community to bury the body . .
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Rune X -Natural Northern Darkness-, "Paganstorm II (Album2013)" Dark pagan . .. black metal . . . joyless and droning . . yet mesmerizing and meaningful . . . responding and resonating with the listening soul . . .
To lighten and brighten the mood . .. This dragonfly was hanging on to the tallest branch in my yard, after taking several flights with a friend . .. it would sit here sunning itself, the colors glinting from the wings were like fire, golden red fire with occasional glimpses of the rainbow . . . its little head would turn and look at me as I took several pictures . .. but it posed magnificently:
* This picture of Halcyon Hall was NOT taken by me but was found on the Internet without notes regarding to the photographer. There are many pictures of this hall ( also known as Bennett College ) located in Millbrook NY . . . the latest pictures are of the collapsing in the middle section . . . it inspired me, this house, with its fancy face yet lost expression . . . its age and deterioration. . . its history . . .
The clouds, with shifting patterns, form and reform over the arch of the hill . . mutilating the view of the mountains, yet painting in shades of gray the flight of the winged . . . the glow of sunlight veiled beyond the ceiling of the sky . . finds its way to the sea beneath where gather the teardrops of the multitudes . . . . . . hearts encased in hurt . . yet . . somehow the souls of the living and the dead connect . . . through time's secret river as it flows into the sea with our dreams . . . for once we rose on wings that shined like rainbows; each soul a vision of love and joy . . . the being of each a treasure, always a reflection of the beauty of the earth, the cosmos . . . the universe, and heaven . . . the place where waters gather . . . where now the golden ripples of sunbeams unite to dance upon
a trembling sea . ..
****************************
This music, by GingerTom, is enjoyable to listen for anytime . . . yet it's more fun to go to his pages and read the story that is entwined with each track and enables the listener to see his vision (which is stage worthy) . . . I have written several reviews for each track as they were published so I will not write another . . just want people to enjoy this great listen . . . (My favorite track is "Tea Time" . . but others have their unique value also):
I love your heart . . . the song you sing reminds me that we are but fragments of the stars. . . fragile dust which has filtered through fire and storm leaving us divided and traumatized . . . each one alone, incomplete . . . yet all somehow connected . . . a long unbreakable thread
Look up and see your wings . . . seize them from the eternal abyss . . . and fly away . . . along the road Forever . . . find your joy in the smallest flower . . a tunnel to life where miniscule creatures tremble beneath your eye . .. I believe your tears will melt the wax, of feathers . . . so tenderly applied . . so violently sundered . . your eyes like rays of molten sunshine . . . a gold which drifts away, lost within the clouds dispersed over a troubled sea . . . your heartbeat will thrill the mountains to the ground . . your bones as white as snow . . . frosty shards bite into the depths . . hard is the pain . .
Look deep to find the dreams of souls . . . the same flows in fathomless swirling waters . . . danger . . . beware, for angels dare not tread here . . . the song is from the human heart . . to heal and build the thread of life . .. and death . . . and hope . .. a complication which seals forgiveness within the marrow of the soul . . . and calls it love . .. .
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Review: Walter Mazzaccaro, "Sognandoti Ancora"
Opening with an OH-SO romantic piano . . . I immediately visualized a couple, with eyes only for each other . . dining over candle-light . . . a dreamy atmosphere . . . a full heart-felt passion . . . . ahhhh . . . the music takes me to this place of love and romance . .
the wind blew and the branches with their clusters of wet leaves slapped my face . . . rubbing their hairy undersides, wet with fallen rain, along my cheeks . . stemming my voice with dirty green; I sensed annoyance in their language . .. the dripping of the woods . . was hollow as rivers melted into the mosses and rotten logs . . every child of the undergrowth slithered and chirped . . winged icons fluttered where branches bent as landing stages . .. and the shadows so dark and heavy, like fanged mouths of caves snarling. . . gnarled roots crawled up through the loam laying traps through this old avenue . . . slicked with mud drooling with the congealing blood of the wilderness . . . plastering my soles with wild lava cold and tempered . . slippery with birth . . I flew through these woods . . my grief so unavenged, yet like a greasy arrow straight through my heart branding its way through those barrens . . . a frail vine lifting boulders succoring me with its fruits . . . I dreamed, as I ran, of voices calling . .. barren trees and spirits of the ancients . . a balm of honey . . . golden in purity, a shelter in the storm, a twinkle of laughter; my steps take me to the top of the hill, the heights above the forest . . a rainbow's end from the city; the storm having danced away, finds a home across the mountains and I find the stars blooming across a velvety sky . . ************************************************** Some music for your enjoyment:
Cresting the tidal wave of sunlight ending in points of color blue and yellow contrasting golden filters reflecting
yesterday's butterfly . . a habit of watching
rewarded . .
cresting happiness joy which though so ephemeral as effervescent as a bubble a moment where wings lift the spirit which crumbles so easily crushed against the harsh embrace of
planet and universe with all its glory and beauty red stones in the road like drops of blood burnished and turned dusty each left like a sign to the wanderer the harvest is contentment fleshy fruits hang low to entice the hungry soul like becoming fingers like fish in trees like patterns against the blue like many hued clouds bursting with dew . ..
Like music in the wind . . the birds on the wing
a sky so blue
a sun so warm . . .
I dream of innocence
for in the end
when all the stars
are gone:
the darkness
remains . . .
Krzysztof Malinowski, "Catharsis"
This was just what I wanted to hear . . . Uplifting music, with a clear sound; conducive to smiles and relaxation . . wings that lift me up as I listen . . . a breath of fresh air relieving pent-up pain . . . sorrow and grief flow away into an endless streaming breeze . . . Music has a way of touching the soul's deepest feelings . .. reflecting and inspiring the mind of the heart. This album is a tale . .. a tale of darkness and pain . . . a tale of escape and desire . . . . a tale of death and re-birth . . .
As I walk along this lifeline I see the shadowy beginnings and I hear the tearful goodbyes . . . The march of time goes slowly by rending what we hold most dear . . . This temporal place these bloody shreds We cling to in despair . . . Dance with me my beloved for we soon must say goodbye Hold my hand my love and look into my eyes I see myself inside of you . . . and you within my heart you are forever there although, we must be apart …
"Beginning of a Journey" by Yumi Kurosawa on Magnatune
Original and creative . . this work is exotic with unique placement of instruments and a creative expression of peace and sublimity . .
A slow walk near a silver pond.....
while a pair of swans float serenely by
and seem to be held aloft
in the crystal blue sky . . .
a cool breeze caresses my cheek,
and the sweet scent of blossoms
wafts near
touching my soul
while the music calms my stresses
and I feel at peace . . .
A beautiful album ... designed to free me from fear and sadness . . . and lifts the stresses from my environment . . . a healing is in process . . . a moment is filled in with the twinkling stars and an angel's touch . . Gorgeous and serene . . . - M^^W - An old review of mine . . . I enjoy listening to this album anytime I need to de-stress . . .
I watched her as she sat, slouched in the bus shelter, her nervous dancing feet, encased in brown shabby boots, maintained a strict, yet open shape of a 'v;' her eyes withdrawn, she glanced at me, quickly. . . dismissing my presence. . The shelter reeked of body odors, old food, dead leaves, and tobacco . .. her faded, jean jacket seemed to be lined with steel and kept her shoulders from slumping as if there were no self-will left within her thin frame . . . her hand, held a phone to her ear tightly, as if she were searching for an elusive heartbeat . . . and as she quietly talked, her demeanor intense and her eyes sparkling with tears, unshed, I looked at the sky across the highway . . which was unusually peaceful . . The day somber, though the morning sun glinted on everything shiny, as it slanted over my shoulders . . . The clouds stretched out, curling, like feathers, into the shape of a fan . . the center radiating out from my vision, and lining the sky with thin strings of arthritic stretching fingers . . gnarled and frail, they bent and beckoned over my head . . The woman at the stop carved her anger and confusion between her eyes . . she looked up once more at me through her short gray bangs . .. and shrugging herself to her feet . . slowly walking away . . . she shuffled down the long sidewalk beneath the silver clouds talking softly on her telephone . . .
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ahh! I remember the ride, the other day, coming home on the bus.
I was watching this striking, elegant woman
and her companion . . .
he was wearing a dark hound's tooth jacket,
and a floppy fedora hat
. . . and was confined
to a wheel chair . . .
He had a neatly trimmed gray beard
and sat quietly with
a pleasant smile on his face . . .
as he gazed out the front window of the bus,
glancing at no one,
talking to nobody . . .
She wore a pea green jacket
made of linen, slightly wrinkled . .
She had bottle thick glasses
which distorted her bright gray eyes
and yet as she slowly blinked behind them
she had a certain look of self confidence
and calm about her . . .
Her thin cheeks were rouged
as was her neck . . a soft rose petal. . .
Her slender feet encased in white tennis shoes
and her black cotton trousers, by sagging around her legs,
gave her the appearance of being conflicted
. . . Her left arm stretched out toward her companion and
her fingers firmly resting on his knee,
gave her a proprietary air . . .
as if by her frail strength, alone,
she could keep him from flying out of his chair . .
Her nails were neatly mainicured,
and her fingers were tastefully decorated
with a big shiny ring . .
thin gray hair neatly capped her head, like a halo. . .
She held close to her side, a pocket book,
crammed to overflowing with envelopes;
which I think were old love letters,
and ancient bills . . . which she filed neatly
and carried with her everywhere.
When it was time for them to exit the bus,
she was the one to unbuckle the wheelchair
and push her man off the bus . .
and last, in the frame of my vision
was her fragile figure
leaning far forward as she
shoved at that heavy chair
making slow progress down the street . .
The wind blowing her light clothing behind her
as if it were trying to form wings
of what she wore . .
yet she remained weighted down
by her pocketbook full of treasure,
tightly clasped beneath her arm.
***************************************
Having tinnitus is a 24/7 365 ordeal . . . Mine gets louder with the sounds I hear with my good ear . . . such as when children are screaming, the hissing in my ear becomes a private shrieking and actually hurts at times . . . I want to crawl into a cave of silence where those horrible sounds will subside . . . but my job, with children, continues and I must compensate my anguish in my own time . . .
My friend, on FaceBook, who also suffers with tinnitus, shared that she was going to try some sort of relaxing music so she can sleep . . . I suggested drones, because that style of music helps my headaches . . . and so between the two of us we found these two albums to be helpful, or at least we hope so:
My emptiness . . . losing my equilibrium . . after profound deafness became part of my life . . . is any good part of me left? I lose my way these days. . . I think that's why I keep breaking things . .. my toes, my glass cups and this morning my favorite lamp . .. I do things wrong, I hit things hard . . I wobble . . the world weaves and warps around me as if seen through heat waves and mirages . . . I can't sense the sharp edges of things until they strike me . . . or the ups and the downs . . . the ground leaps about like a herd of running horses . .. or a ship floating helplessly on a restless sea . . . . . .and I long for the stillness and quiet . . . of the deep green forest. .. and the eternal dark night . . . those moments before the storm . . . I find it hard to think . . . it makes me wonder if there is any point of me going on . . and on . . . and on . . and no . . . I don't see any hope . . for anything . . I'm too negative and turned inward with pain . . . for it all still hurts . .. like yesterday's memories . . and I am scarred with lost dreams beating broken wings against the walls of echoing canyons .. .
So full of living . . dreams and melodies . .. there is laughter and there is sadness . . . and somehow too . . . I find the sky . .. it tells me of forever, and the teardrops of angels . . . like sunshine and shadow, is sorrow and joy . . eternal the passion; essential the love . . . peace, like feathers on the snow . .. memory fills my vision and takes me to my heart . . . Music, purely Beautiful!
This poem is dedicated to a young woman, a teenager, who was brutally assaulted by a 47 year old criminal . . . no details here . . . they are too evil to hear let alone live through . . . my heart goes out to her.
Cloisters of Cathedral Saint-Etienne; Cahors, France
A mysterious walk through time . . . electrical storms, blue fire . . . a bit of ambient music . . . whirling on the edges of yesterday's memories . . . like flashes of gems weaving a pattern, within a fractal, within a universe . . . and beyond . . . like flashes of stars repeating and dreaming . . . diving beyond the horizon . . . the longing to follow . . . to see, to reach, to touch . . . to become one with time . . . to flow forward while looking back . . it sounds like this . . . a river of water is running over multi-colored pebbles . . . slowly dragging them from the mountains to the sea . . . a thousand years . . a million . . . their flesh becomes sand, the dust that coats the heart of the world . . . let time . . . be . . .
More mr.ju music to be found here:
http://www.jamendo.com/en/artist/339613/mr.ju
A Way-Back me . .. time has passed . .
Letting Go . . . accepting change . . . leaves a sense of peace . . within the rebellious soul . . The heart lifts up from an unbearable burden of heaviness and leaps into the drifting breezes
like a forgotten balloon, after the party, which follows the melody until there is nothing but silence and an empty heart bursts . . .
Nothing is wasted . . . my love for you is returned randomly . . . on the wings of a flickering butterfly - or in the arms of the rainbow . . . or the kiss of the breeze as it carries . . . the desperate cry of the lone wolf . . . and the ashes of death itself grows into a light that flies across a dark sky so full of embers . .. a billowing canopy so pregnant with fire and song that it's as if the loss of one little star will leave no hole . . . in the universe .. . for the empty space is filled . . . with darkness itself . . .
Just a note: translators are not perfect when it comes to meaning and intent . . . interpretation of poetry, itself, is difficult and tricky . . .
Just a Note about Content
All of the poetry and stories are created by me, unless stated differently. All of the photography is taken by me unless accompanied by a link to the original. Some of the pages in 2007 have pictures which do not belong to me.
I HAVE NOT TAGGED ALL MY PAGES. IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR SOMETHING - USE THE SEARCH BAR. THANK YOU!
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