For longer than centuries it has been worshipped, seen as a source of delight and pleasure, immortalized by great artists, subjected to indignities and abuse, pain and pleasure, a prison of the soul, a temple. To the creative a distraction to have to care for. It sleeps, eats, works, plays, reacts to outside stimulus. It can be a puppet to obsessions and addictions, a vehicle for a gamut of emotional displays from enthusiasm down to apathy, a victim of a multitude of other impingements from outside sources and can be considered beautiful or ugly.
If you’re reading this, you have one. Well, what is it? It is something that you keep going. You feed it, sleep it, clothe it, work it, play games with it, take it places, walk it, run it, rest it and so on. The big question is, Is it YOU. You may say, “Of course it’s ME!”
It is a calling card, an identity. And what would be a surprise to most: It’s a carbon-oxygen engine that runs at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. You may say, “If this is true, who runs it? Who provides the wit, imagination, intelligence to keep it surviving, to make it work, play, dream, create, solve problems, etc.?” Something you have known all along but may have hidden it from your cognizance, your realization.
Let’s back up a bit. Have you ever seen a dead body (human or animal) and noticed something missing? That something is what kept that body alive and animated. Call it the soul, spirit, spiritual being, life force. That is what kept it alive, playing the game of its life. It wasn’t the body doing it. The body is laying there with nothing to animate it. It’s no longer being used as “the temple”. No one is home.
To go back to the questions: It is simply YOU. You are not your body. You are immortal.
If you grant to yourself that you know this and have known it all along, maybe life could be different in a good way.
(c)2010. All Rights Reserved. Anne Fewell
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Master, R.V.R.
This is how he came to power as one of the greatest artists of all time, an artist who could bring life to his creations as if they would talk from the canvas he created them on. I was the first one privileged to see him mounting his brightest star and carry it to where it never fell - his creations, that is. For him in his identity as a mortal man - well, that’s another tale in which all reasons will reveal themselves.
And how and when did this star begin to rise that has never fallen but 400 years later continues to inspire and awe those who view and participate in his creations - his paintings, drawings and etchings? And why was I the first to witness this brilliant seed blossom into a continously unfolding flower, culminating into a high aesthetic power that permeated earth with its spiritual beauty?
I was brought into being with his decision to be a great artist. With that decision I sparked into his universe and have never left - as his muse, an amused muse, bent to share in the playing of his life of all good and bad and in between. I suppose you could say one of my duties was to occasionally tease him with thoughts he would think his own and start to create upon them. And I would generate certain emotions - the whole scale of them - just to make it interesting. I should make the point that in this journey, I maintained constant amusement through the good and the bad. After all, that is also part of my job.
So he made the decision. That answers “how” this star began to rise. When? It’s not that important at the moment, but it was a while ago. Let’s say it was a lifetime in a place called Holland, mostly Amsterdam. Sometimes dreary, sometimes drab and depressing with streams of joy trickling through when you could grab them.
As a child brought up by a family of meager means (his father was a miller) he exhibited a high interest and fascination of everything around him, but mostly of people. Old people with wrinkled faces, noses with warts, sunken eyes, scraggly hair under worn-out hats - all kinds peaked a passion of interest. He began sketching on any kind of paper he could find which he kept loose in a spot by his bed. He loved the look of the landscape, especially in the mist or rain, with far-off trees or bridges with houses dotting around. He sketched his mother and father, bringing their spirits alive on paper. He sketched with an energy of not only the young but as a being with a mission.
One sunny April day, as a teenager, he sat in a corner mending some bags inside his father’s windmill. When he finished he looked up and watched rats that had been captured and rustling around in wire nets hanging from the loft. The light through the small windows above showed slightly hazy light in the air surrounding the hanging cages. The air was different in color on each of the sides and behind and in front, whereupon he realized that everything has an “air or light” around it and that perhaps all this space, all this air really has a color and could be possible to translate that color into terms of paint. But from that moment in his father’s mill he was convinced that every object in the world is surrounded by a substance of light or air or space or call it whatever you like, which somehow or other it must be possible to express in terms of light and shade and a half a dozen primary colors. He considered he was a mathematician who works in vegetable matter and who started out with a formula and who is now trying to prove that it works and that it is correct. Yet, what he wanted to know before he died is how did he happen to get those effects, how did he happen to create those effects using paint...i.e. that man is actually sitting on a chair in a room, not leaning up against a mere background of chair and room. Anyone can learn to paint things that are there. But to paint the things that one merely suspects to be there is the sort of task that makes life interesting.
His perceptions were keen and clear. He would not only see the surface of a person or object or vista, but would permeate through, seeking the soul of what was there. He had said that nothing counts in the world except the inner spirit of things, meaning the immortal soul of everything that was ever created - tables and chairs and cats and dogs and houses and ships. But only about three or four, maybe five, in every hundred would understand that and the others who don’t “will let us starve to death.” From this, one could see he “knew” in the truest sense but at the time perhaps didn’t understand the breadth of his power.
Through the years he realized there were those who were not cognizant of the greatness of his work and others who would take advantage of him and tried to pay him almost nothing. Most of the wealthy bourgoise were vain in the extreme and were upset to find their portraits “unflattering” due to his painting them as they really were and so suffered rejections. They couldn’t see the spirit in things and so didn’t have a clue what they were seeing when they saw his work of them. Still, through word of mouth and meeting people in the pubs and on walks and so forth, he flourished as a painter for several years as a younger man. He loved dressing in costumes and dressing his wife or other models in costumes for paintings. He spent hours finding used and old things like helmets, velvet clothing, satins, furs, jewelry, tankards, feathered hats -- all for his pleasure of playing and mocking up paintings. These were his happiest times. Oh, and I had something to do with that, too.
He said “I get interested in a subject. I see or rather I feel a lot of things others don’t see or don’t feel. I put them into my picture and the man who sat for his portrait and considered himself a fine fellow gets angry, says the likeness is not there or I have given him a look in his eyes that will prove to his neighbors that he is a miser or mean to his wife, and in the end he either refuses the picture or he will offer to pay me half of what he promised. And many people are hoping to say ‘he has lost something in his pep and stamina’. And what they mean of course is that I am beginning to paint them as they are and no longer as they want to think that they are.”
While musing, I have noticed that there is a false idea floating in cultures about artists and that is that they should “suffer” and “suffer for their art”. And some artists, being so intent on creating and painting beauty into their work, pay little attention to money and things of survival for their bodies because creating is itself outside of the “real” universe where the artists’ genius lives. Unfortunately, there are those who don’t understand this and have become so imbedded and fixed into the money, that it makes them blind as to the true value of the art they see and so take advantage of that aspect in some artists, When they commission or purchase an artist’s creation, that aesthetic will be with them far longer - even a lifetime - and give them and those viewing it more pleasure than what was spent. That aesthetic just doesn’t hang on a wall, it permeates the space it is in. Take it away and see what the room feels like. In this way, an artist’s suffering can be created by the bourgoise, whether intentional or not. At any rate that kind of thinking can stifle support of the artist in any culture and has for centuries. The more the artist is supported the more cultures come alive and flourish. Imagine if there were no art anywhere, no aesthetic to sooth souls - how dead would it be. Artists inject life into cultures and so need support to continue injecting that life.
I watched him through his hardships. He had absolutely no understanding of the value of money, died bankrupt and had paintings rejected. But he maintained his integrity of painting what he saw and ignored any hints that he should do otherwise. As he said, “Painting is seeing.” And he could truly “see” more than was physically apparent. Moreover, even though he may not have been totally cognizant of the fact at that time, he could perceive the spirit of a subject and communicate it in his work. He injected life into his work. And even though he had said he didn’t know how he did what he did, that was and is his power. And that is the Master, R.V.R, Rembrandt van Rijn.
Respectfully and Amusedly Offered, The Master’s Muse 8/31/10
(c) Anne Fewell 2010. All Rights Reserved
And how and when did this star begin to rise that has never fallen but 400 years later continues to inspire and awe those who view and participate in his creations - his paintings, drawings and etchings? And why was I the first to witness this brilliant seed blossom into a continously unfolding flower, culminating into a high aesthetic power that permeated earth with its spiritual beauty?
I was brought into being with his decision to be a great artist. With that decision I sparked into his universe and have never left - as his muse, an amused muse, bent to share in the playing of his life of all good and bad and in between. I suppose you could say one of my duties was to occasionally tease him with thoughts he would think his own and start to create upon them. And I would generate certain emotions - the whole scale of them - just to make it interesting. I should make the point that in this journey, I maintained constant amusement through the good and the bad. After all, that is also part of my job.
So he made the decision. That answers “how” this star began to rise. When? It’s not that important at the moment, but it was a while ago. Let’s say it was a lifetime in a place called Holland, mostly Amsterdam. Sometimes dreary, sometimes drab and depressing with streams of joy trickling through when you could grab them.
As a child brought up by a family of meager means (his father was a miller) he exhibited a high interest and fascination of everything around him, but mostly of people. Old people with wrinkled faces, noses with warts, sunken eyes, scraggly hair under worn-out hats - all kinds peaked a passion of interest. He began sketching on any kind of paper he could find which he kept loose in a spot by his bed. He loved the look of the landscape, especially in the mist or rain, with far-off trees or bridges with houses dotting around. He sketched his mother and father, bringing their spirits alive on paper. He sketched with an energy of not only the young but as a being with a mission.
One sunny April day, as a teenager, he sat in a corner mending some bags inside his father’s windmill. When he finished he looked up and watched rats that had been captured and rustling around in wire nets hanging from the loft. The light through the small windows above showed slightly hazy light in the air surrounding the hanging cages. The air was different in color on each of the sides and behind and in front, whereupon he realized that everything has an “air or light” around it and that perhaps all this space, all this air really has a color and could be possible to translate that color into terms of paint. But from that moment in his father’s mill he was convinced that every object in the world is surrounded by a substance of light or air or space or call it whatever you like, which somehow or other it must be possible to express in terms of light and shade and a half a dozen primary colors. He considered he was a mathematician who works in vegetable matter and who started out with a formula and who is now trying to prove that it works and that it is correct. Yet, what he wanted to know before he died is how did he happen to get those effects, how did he happen to create those effects using paint...i.e. that man is actually sitting on a chair in a room, not leaning up against a mere background of chair and room. Anyone can learn to paint things that are there. But to paint the things that one merely suspects to be there is the sort of task that makes life interesting.
His perceptions were keen and clear. He would not only see the surface of a person or object or vista, but would permeate through, seeking the soul of what was there. He had said that nothing counts in the world except the inner spirit of things, meaning the immortal soul of everything that was ever created - tables and chairs and cats and dogs and houses and ships. But only about three or four, maybe five, in every hundred would understand that and the others who don’t “will let us starve to death.” From this, one could see he “knew” in the truest sense but at the time perhaps didn’t understand the breadth of his power.
Through the years he realized there were those who were not cognizant of the greatness of his work and others who would take advantage of him and tried to pay him almost nothing. Most of the wealthy bourgoise were vain in the extreme and were upset to find their portraits “unflattering” due to his painting them as they really were and so suffered rejections. They couldn’t see the spirit in things and so didn’t have a clue what they were seeing when they saw his work of them. Still, through word of mouth and meeting people in the pubs and on walks and so forth, he flourished as a painter for several years as a younger man. He loved dressing in costumes and dressing his wife or other models in costumes for paintings. He spent hours finding used and old things like helmets, velvet clothing, satins, furs, jewelry, tankards, feathered hats -- all for his pleasure of playing and mocking up paintings. These were his happiest times. Oh, and I had something to do with that, too.
He said “I get interested in a subject. I see or rather I feel a lot of things others don’t see or don’t feel. I put them into my picture and the man who sat for his portrait and considered himself a fine fellow gets angry, says the likeness is not there or I have given him a look in his eyes that will prove to his neighbors that he is a miser or mean to his wife, and in the end he either refuses the picture or he will offer to pay me half of what he promised. And many people are hoping to say ‘he has lost something in his pep and stamina’. And what they mean of course is that I am beginning to paint them as they are and no longer as they want to think that they are.”
While musing, I have noticed that there is a false idea floating in cultures about artists and that is that they should “suffer” and “suffer for their art”. And some artists, being so intent on creating and painting beauty into their work, pay little attention to money and things of survival for their bodies because creating is itself outside of the “real” universe where the artists’ genius lives. Unfortunately, there are those who don’t understand this and have become so imbedded and fixed into the money, that it makes them blind as to the true value of the art they see and so take advantage of that aspect in some artists, When they commission or purchase an artist’s creation, that aesthetic will be with them far longer - even a lifetime - and give them and those viewing it more pleasure than what was spent. That aesthetic just doesn’t hang on a wall, it permeates the space it is in. Take it away and see what the room feels like. In this way, an artist’s suffering can be created by the bourgoise, whether intentional or not. At any rate that kind of thinking can stifle support of the artist in any culture and has for centuries. The more the artist is supported the more cultures come alive and flourish. Imagine if there were no art anywhere, no aesthetic to sooth souls - how dead would it be. Artists inject life into cultures and so need support to continue injecting that life.
I watched him through his hardships. He had absolutely no understanding of the value of money, died bankrupt and had paintings rejected. But he maintained his integrity of painting what he saw and ignored any hints that he should do otherwise. As he said, “Painting is seeing.” And he could truly “see” more than was physically apparent. Moreover, even though he may not have been totally cognizant of the fact at that time, he could perceive the spirit of a subject and communicate it in his work. He injected life into his work. And even though he had said he didn’t know how he did what he did, that was and is his power. And that is the Master, R.V.R, Rembrandt van Rijn.
Respectfully and Amusedly Offered, The Master’s Muse 8/31/10
(c) Anne Fewell 2010. All Rights Reserved
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
So What Do You Do With a Dippy Day, a Dippy Life?
Here you are doing a job or anything you don’t want to do, even living a life you don’t want to live.
You dream of what you have always wanted to do, what you were “born” to do: “Your Thing.” And then...JUNK comes pouring in -- Voices that you keep telling “SHUT UP!” “GO AWAY!” “LEAVE ME ALONE!” Thoughts you don’t want to think. Pictures from black holes of your mind you never want to see again but always come back to haunt you. Dumb stuff dumping on YOUR space (not the “real world” space), surrounds you like you’re stuck in the middle of a black balloon; pressing, pounding, mashing in on your head, your very body. Black-tar junk making you feel trapped in a box that will never go away.
And inside all of that is YOU screaming silently “HELP! Get me OUT of here!”
You let that go on for a while. At last you’re fed up. You in your tiny space stuck in the middle of the junk are now SWELLING MAD. And you now get bigger and bigger and bigger.
You mock up a gargantuan bulldozer. You rev it up and start pushing the voices and black-tar junk away. You keep pushing and pushing. You see a pinhole of light in your space. You keep shoving the junk off - more space opens, more light. You feel a hint of power coming from YOU.
You shove more and more and more. Now there’s more light in your space.
“It’s working! It’s opening!” Your dream seeps in. You swell with power.
You mock up a gale-force wind. The junk creaks and moans as you start to blow it off from around you. It resists your power. You expand and admire its insistence to keep you trapped. You expand more into a huge golden light. You permeate the junk like sunlight sifts through a morning mist. It starts to break up. You turn the remaining gray crumbs purple, then green, then orange, then blue. They dissolve into nothing. You look around. Your space (not the “real world”space) is clear. You’re no longer fighting a trap. You realize you are YOU and nothing else, not your body, not your mind and can make your dreams come true. The door to your future is open and you can make it what you will. WHEW!
You dream of what you have always wanted to do, what you were “born” to do: “Your Thing.” And then...JUNK comes pouring in -- Voices that you keep telling “SHUT UP!” “GO AWAY!” “LEAVE ME ALONE!” Thoughts you don’t want to think. Pictures from black holes of your mind you never want to see again but always come back to haunt you. Dumb stuff dumping on YOUR space (not the “real world” space), surrounds you like you’re stuck in the middle of a black balloon; pressing, pounding, mashing in on your head, your very body. Black-tar junk making you feel trapped in a box that will never go away.
And inside all of that is YOU screaming silently “HELP! Get me OUT of here!”
You let that go on for a while. At last you’re fed up. You in your tiny space stuck in the middle of the junk are now SWELLING MAD. And you now get bigger and bigger and bigger.
You mock up a gargantuan bulldozer. You rev it up and start pushing the voices and black-tar junk away. You keep pushing and pushing. You see a pinhole of light in your space. You keep shoving the junk off - more space opens, more light. You feel a hint of power coming from YOU.
You shove more and more and more. Now there’s more light in your space.
“It’s working! It’s opening!” Your dream seeps in. You swell with power.
You mock up a gale-force wind. The junk creaks and moans as you start to blow it off from around you. It resists your power. You expand and admire its insistence to keep you trapped. You expand more into a huge golden light. You permeate the junk like sunlight sifts through a morning mist. It starts to break up. You turn the remaining gray crumbs purple, then green, then orange, then blue. They dissolve into nothing. You look around. Your space (not the “real world”space) is clear. You’re no longer fighting a trap. You realize you are YOU and nothing else, not your body, not your mind and can make your dreams come true. The door to your future is open and you can make it what you will. WHEW!
Having Arrived in Your Dream - Now What?
You’ve made it through the junk of your Dippy Day, Dippy Life - or so it seems - and are now in YOUR DREAM. Since you opened its door and stepped in, you’ve felt exhilarated in every molecule of the moment. It’s YOUR game now. What now? Shall you savor it while wallowing in the deliciousness of your success or plunge in full throttle - Let it take you where it will?
You know every game has players, a playing field, barriers, freedoms and purposes. Well, we won’t think of the barriers now but just hone in on the freedoms and purposes. Let’s just relish the moment of arrival a while.
All right - that’s done. You’re still riding the stars in the fun and pleasure of it all, of being here, creating. You think of a purpose. You realize that the purpose is what is driving you to play your dream, your game. You realize you have the freedom to play, the freedom to decide the direction you want to go, freedom to be who you are, to do and have what you create, freedom to control the game, to communicate with players. And then you see there can be barriers to stop - or try to stop you from playing. What now? You feel a little sag, a little threatened. “Who or what could stop ME!” “Let them try!” With that you are pumped - then, surprise! - a brick wall sits square in front of you. You sag more. You feel heavier. Stumped. Stare at it, snarl, growl, glare at it, lie down. Take a nap. Wake up. It’s still there. You start to feel grim. Look for a way over, around or through. See no way. Shed some tears. Sigh. Go to bed. Wake up. Go through it all over again. “WILL IT EVER END!”. Wake up again, muster courage, decide to bootstrap it.
Suddenly you think of Purpose - Why you’re playing your dream, your game. You come alive, glowing. Golden sparks fill your being. Energy pumps through you. Power returns, infusing excitement. You get on with it like a comet that never looks back. You make a pact with yourself: “Keep Purpose Alive!” You realize Purpose expands your space, fires you up to drive you through any wall to make it crumble.
You smile, your day and life smile - no off-switch in sight. Your dream is ON.
You know every game has players, a playing field, barriers, freedoms and purposes. Well, we won’t think of the barriers now but just hone in on the freedoms and purposes. Let’s just relish the moment of arrival a while.
All right - that’s done. You’re still riding the stars in the fun and pleasure of it all, of being here, creating. You think of a purpose. You realize that the purpose is what is driving you to play your dream, your game. You realize you have the freedom to play, the freedom to decide the direction you want to go, freedom to be who you are, to do and have what you create, freedom to control the game, to communicate with players. And then you see there can be barriers to stop - or try to stop you from playing. What now? You feel a little sag, a little threatened. “Who or what could stop ME!” “Let them try!” With that you are pumped - then, surprise! - a brick wall sits square in front of you. You sag more. You feel heavier. Stumped. Stare at it, snarl, growl, glare at it, lie down. Take a nap. Wake up. It’s still there. You start to feel grim. Look for a way over, around or through. See no way. Shed some tears. Sigh. Go to bed. Wake up. Go through it all over again. “WILL IT EVER END!”. Wake up again, muster courage, decide to bootstrap it.
Suddenly you think of Purpose - Why you’re playing your dream, your game. You come alive, glowing. Golden sparks fill your being. Energy pumps through you. Power returns, infusing excitement. You get on with it like a comet that never looks back. You make a pact with yourself: “Keep Purpose Alive!” You realize Purpose expands your space, fires you up to drive you through any wall to make it crumble.
You smile, your day and life smile - no off-switch in sight. Your dream is ON.
Bucolic Yum-Yum
Whisper not on my bucolic yum-yum
for I will tickle your frolic where
it’s most licorice
and tie bows on the end of your rain to
see its downside grin;
Now bend your wits and with me leap rainbows
across calliope chuckles in the
no-winter whistles ho ho;
Yellow stars meet red twinkles orange;
We slide lavender ribbons to a spot in space
where no human has been
then dash laughing to rainbows downturned grin;
Here, where no logic lives, we make our own sense,
wiggling our wits where nothing whispers
but shouts universes with a no-mouth;
However you say it, it comes about
And then it is.
for I will tickle your frolic where
it’s most licorice
and tie bows on the end of your rain to
see its downside grin;
Now bend your wits and with me leap rainbows
across calliope chuckles in the
no-winter whistles ho ho;
Yellow stars meet red twinkles orange;
We slide lavender ribbons to a spot in space
where no human has been
then dash laughing to rainbows downturned grin;
Here, where no logic lives, we make our own sense,
wiggling our wits where nothing whispers
but shouts universes with a no-mouth;
However you say it, it comes about
And then it is.
Honking Winter In
Amber-colored beaks honking winter in
while the sun brings dawn around for
roosters to crow about.
while the sun brings dawn around for
roosters to crow about.
Beauty Enough Seeks
Amber giggles sprinkle tickles to a once-upon-a-mind;
A soul rises surprise on a golden ever that
never finds wisdom backward;
Yellow ginger, jasmine-sweet laughter in the air
where a song searching for an ear finds
a deity wherein genius is born
continuously,
a kind of golden magic of a muse blossoming logic
and spirit enough to fill any emptiness;
Beauty enough seeks souls open enough
to welcome its creation.
A soul rises surprise on a golden ever that
never finds wisdom backward;
Yellow ginger, jasmine-sweet laughter in the air
where a song searching for an ear finds
a deity wherein genius is born
continuously,
a kind of golden magic of a muse blossoming logic
and spirit enough to fill any emptiness;
Beauty enough seeks souls open enough
to welcome its creation.
Roberto
You know from where your song sings,
from where there are no things to
distract your soul's emission,
from higher than breast or heart or
song itself, even higher than reason;
Another may think your body, a trained
machine, sings,
Such rhapsody comes from you know from
where your song sings: You,
weaving subtle golden threads of
melodic majesty,
delicate wanderings
fulfilling souls ravenous
for beauty,
speaking emotions of any color
from apathy to serenity,
spoken from your depth of soul,
Yes,
You know from where your soul sings.
from where there are no things to
distract your soul's emission,
from higher than breast or heart or
song itself, even higher than reason;
Another may think your body, a trained
machine, sings,
Such rhapsody comes from you know from
where your song sings: You,
weaving subtle golden threads of
melodic majesty,
delicate wanderings
fulfilling souls ravenous
for beauty,
speaking emotions of any color
from apathy to serenity,
spoken from your depth of soul,
Yes,
You know from where your soul sings.
Watusi Drummers
Bells on thin black ankles
ring sparkling crystal chimes
to the stars;
Long black arms move willowy
over white round drums
beating carmine and purple waves
caught by dancer's butts,
bouncing, gently thrashing to
jungle dew hovering through the twilight
to place kisses
on a royal deep blue midnight.
ring sparkling crystal chimes
to the stars;
Long black arms move willowy
over white round drums
beating carmine and purple waves
caught by dancer's butts,
bouncing, gently thrashing to
jungle dew hovering through the twilight
to place kisses
on a royal deep blue midnight.
Aphrodite Knew
At sundown's last flicker, stars appear
as if they'd never been there;
sudden soft sprinkles of
smallest twinkles on a vast deep
midnight blue velvet air where
Aphrodite plays the 24-hour
Bellyroll Winkle,
a music only the gods could run their toes through,
a music that dances the purest crystal air
your mother ever let an apple pie cool to,
a music of love and wisdom as if played through
soft sprite eagle eyes,
And whispers:
Moonlight and stars only shine when there's a
night to shine into,
An oak leaf shows its true color only when
the sun lifts its head,
And there's plenty for freedom to fill these days;
These things Aphrodite said, but more,
These things Aphrodite knew.
as if they'd never been there;
sudden soft sprinkles of
smallest twinkles on a vast deep
midnight blue velvet air where
Aphrodite plays the 24-hour
Bellyroll Winkle,
a music only the gods could run their toes through,
a music that dances the purest crystal air
your mother ever let an apple pie cool to,
a music of love and wisdom as if played through
soft sprite eagle eyes,
And whispers:
Moonlight and stars only shine when there's a
night to shine into,
An oak leaf shows its true color only when
the sun lifts its head,
And there's plenty for freedom to fill these days;
These things Aphrodite said, but more,
These things Aphrodite knew.
Silver Ginger
At twilight, hollow as a moonless night,
Far before the mockingbird arches its
skybound chortles,
A gentle whisper sounds my ear,
Kindling latent spectrums of my soul;
Pristine flute pours silver ginger through
our air
while purest melodies follow now into tomorrow.
Far before the mockingbird arches its
skybound chortles,
A gentle whisper sounds my ear,
Kindling latent spectrums of my soul;
Pristine flute pours silver ginger through
our air
while purest melodies follow now into tomorrow.
Apple Pie
The day just turned another tide in time from
brunch to afternoon wine;
coffee, more coffee, sugar, salt and pepper,
red-checkered tabletops,
steak, eggs with cheese sauce,
Jefferson Airplane, music psychodelicing
now-sounds where there's no apple pie,
only cheesecake at
The Apple Pie,
a place in a town called George.
brunch to afternoon wine;
coffee, more coffee, sugar, salt and pepper,
red-checkered tabletops,
steak, eggs with cheese sauce,
Jefferson Airplane, music psychodelicing
now-sounds where there's no apple pie,
only cheesecake at
The Apple Pie,
a place in a town called George.
Another Universe
A poet says in verses
what he wants to say about
universes;
If he says it in reverses,
it’s another universe
he says.
what he wants to say about
universes;
If he says it in reverses,
it’s another universe
he says.
Amused Muse
I am a poet guided by
and amused muse
who sees solidity airily
and airs serendipity rhythmically
viewing viewpoints as music
with any color I choose.
and amused muse
who sees solidity airily
and airs serendipity rhythmically
viewing viewpoints as music
with any color I choose.
Reflecting Pool
Night, a day without sun
A reflecting pool for games
unseen as we sleep
innocently
and unspin events of a well-worn day
more freely
when harsher games were played.
A reflecting pool for games
unseen as we sleep
innocently
and unspin events of a well-worn day
more freely
when harsher games were played.
Above the Eyes of Earth
Above the eyes of Earth - its missles, fossils,
moon trips, hieroglyphic confusion, oceans,
war, hate to even death, the flight of time and
the edge of space,
Love lightly dances,
its source the spiritual dimension,
Laughing as it peeks upon pretenders
that truth is physical.
moon trips, hieroglyphic confusion, oceans,
war, hate to even death, the flight of time and
the edge of space,
Love lightly dances,
its source the spiritual dimension,
Laughing as it peeks upon pretenders
that truth is physical.
Wink
Others would call you a dreaming face,
your body dotting a mountainside,
you sifting through a space called
incomprehensible sky,
see a humming rhythm to our galaxy,
dime-sized to you,
vast to a breeze;
It takes a moment to see it all,
then being it, swinging its various balls:
Jupiter, Neptune, Saturn, Mars,
Moons, more moons, red stars, blue stars,
Comets whipping through Saturns rings,
Pluto swinging to the whole machine,
Jellybeans scattered in a vacuum jar,
galloping, galloping in clockwork march;
You tell a possum about this new-found thing;
He looks at you, winks
and goes back to sleep.
your body dotting a mountainside,
you sifting through a space called
incomprehensible sky,
see a humming rhythm to our galaxy,
dime-sized to you,
vast to a breeze;
It takes a moment to see it all,
then being it, swinging its various balls:
Jupiter, Neptune, Saturn, Mars,
Moons, more moons, red stars, blue stars,
Comets whipping through Saturns rings,
Pluto swinging to the whole machine,
Jellybeans scattered in a vacuum jar,
galloping, galloping in clockwork march;
You tell a possum about this new-found thing;
He looks at you, winks
and goes back to sleep.
Not a Newscaster
At the top of each rising night
a mockingbird says what's on his mind to
sleeping hulks on a Hollywood hill, who snort
their snorts and then turn over;
And those startled awake by his fickle calls
will swear as he rides the midnight crescent to dawn,
they'll buy earplugs tomorrow;
But I, prickled with delight, write this
to an inspired bird pouring his soul out in pure lark
and thank all that's holy he's not a newscaster.
a mockingbird says what's on his mind to
sleeping hulks on a Hollywood hill, who snort
their snorts and then turn over;
And those startled awake by his fickle calls
will swear as he rides the midnight crescent to dawn,
they'll buy earplugs tomorrow;
But I, prickled with delight, write this
to an inspired bird pouring his soul out in pure lark
and thank all that's holy he's not a newscaster.
Beach Party
Green pine sap pitched sparks from an open fire;
a switch was turned and a child
danced on the stars of another galaxy;
We in awe, warmed by her grace, tuned,
became her and the stars,
smiled as blue-marbled Earth
rolled her way around the sun;
Sun’s open fire pitched sparks into deep blue space;
a switch was turned and
one side of Earth sang spring;
summer, fall, winter glided behind;
We in awe, warmed by those simple moves
returned to Earth’s spring side,
satisfied we had answered more completely
what is the sky
who am I.
a switch was turned and a child
danced on the stars of another galaxy;
We in awe, warmed by her grace, tuned,
became her and the stars,
smiled as blue-marbled Earth
rolled her way around the sun;
Sun’s open fire pitched sparks into deep blue space;
a switch was turned and
one side of Earth sang spring;
summer, fall, winter glided behind;
We in awe, warmed by those simple moves
returned to Earth’s spring side,
satisfied we had answered more completely
what is the sky
who am I.
Scarlet Sky
Last night I adorned my head
with stars and
sped on a comet between galaxies,
and robing my game with scarlet sky
met many who went with me,
spanking the tails of our comets for a
faster ride.
This was a time when no time is
and no space,
We discovered other universes and
kissed a million and one golden dawns
until Earth’s one side began to wink
and her dew began to rise.
We returned to Earth to play its own games
in its time and its space
until night when we’ll mount a comet,
adorn our game with scarlet garment
and explore another place
without time
without space.
with stars and
sped on a comet between galaxies,
and robing my game with scarlet sky
met many who went with me,
spanking the tails of our comets for a
faster ride.
This was a time when no time is
and no space,
We discovered other universes and
kissed a million and one golden dawns
until Earth’s one side began to wink
and her dew began to rise.
We returned to Earth to play its own games
in its time and its space
until night when we’ll mount a comet,
adorn our game with scarlet garment
and explore another place
without time
without space.
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