Somewhere across the pond
Two winds meet
Water rises over edges
Defined for so long as forever
The New World floods
We worry, this side
Powerless against power
So vast dictating what shall be
Lives upturned
The New World floods
Thinking we are atop the chain
The peak of nature
We forget and are reminded
Of Her dominion over us
As the New World floods
Many places have met Ocean
Within my memory
Each time sending ripples
Through our comfort
As their world floods
How can we do other
Than what we do
Even seeing how fragile
Solid ground is
As our world floods.
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Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Songstress
Sifting through journals, uncovering memories, hopes, lists of ideas that just might form a ladder to carry me from the muck I felt mired within... I find poems, songs, snippets of beauty and moments of experience stored in rhythm and rhyme. Pieces of time in shapes that tell tales of myth mixed with the mundane. When I don't write stories... I am songwriter.
How many roles do we keep hidden from ourselves? Things we do that we forget, deny, disbelieve?
What shall come of this?
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How many roles do we keep hidden from ourselves? Things we do that we forget, deny, disbelieve?
What shall come of this?
Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Creation is like a sun shining from the heart...
The sunlight soothes my skin, scent of a green, green land playing in the air.
A bee bumbles past as I lay lazily, brush in hand, stroking the paper into colours.
Words come, unbidden, as the image emerges and my pen pours ink onto the page, spelling out the words, the spell, to capture the feeling.
How words and images reflect each other, like twins, Dionysian movement, Apolline images, dancing together.
I am reminded of Blake, who I have often strived to follow, inspired by the seamless blend of pigment and print.
Walkers wander past, voices loud against the hush of the slow summer which sneaks into my valley. Traffic in the distance, not so far from here, but still worlds away, does not burst the bubble of my beauty-brushed-blessed-being-of-the-moment.
I am here, bathed in light, warming in the sun, warmed from the sun within which feeds on the fuel that is joy. Joy, like a sun in my heart, shining in the light of the sun in the sky, overflowing through my hands and onto the page.
How can I share this moment with you?
I breathe up, a prayer of delight, of gratitude, of beauty.
I talk of sun and warm and light, of joy overflowing and green green grass... and still I wonder, can you feel it?
Can you feel the heat, the flames like liquid gold, pouring out from my heart into beauty, being fed by beauty, a circle of love for the world?
My heart opens and love pours out.
A bee bumbles past as I lay lazily, brush in hand, stroking the paper into colours.
Words come, unbidden, as the image emerges and my pen pours ink onto the page, spelling out the words, the spell, to capture the feeling.
How words and images reflect each other, like twins, Dionysian movement, Apolline images, dancing together.
I am reminded of Blake, who I have often strived to follow, inspired by the seamless blend of pigment and print.
Walkers wander past, voices loud against the hush of the slow summer which sneaks into my valley. Traffic in the distance, not so far from here, but still worlds away, does not burst the bubble of my beauty-brushed-blessed-being-of-the-moment.
I am here, bathed in light, warming in the sun, warmed from the sun within which feeds on the fuel that is joy. Joy, like a sun in my heart, shining in the light of the sun in the sky, overflowing through my hands and onto the page.
How can I share this moment with you?
I breathe up, a prayer of delight, of gratitude, of beauty.
I talk of sun and warm and light, of joy overflowing and green green grass... and still I wonder, can you feel it?
Can you feel the heat, the flames like liquid gold, pouring out from my heart into beauty, being fed by beauty, a circle of love for the world?
My heart opens and love pours out.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
The Silent Smile
Once upon a time... for that is how all stories must start, although there is always something before, and so it is also how all stories must end... Once upon a time there was a maiden who lived near a deep dark forest, a maiden named Rose.
When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.
One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.
All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.
And so Rose grew up.
She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.
One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.
A voice calling... singing... laughing...
And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn't matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.
And Rose, of course, followed.
She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.
And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.
And disappeared.
And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.
And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.
When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.
One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.
All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.
And so Rose grew up.
She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.
One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.
A voice calling... singing... laughing...
And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn't matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.
And Rose, of course, followed.
She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.
And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.
And disappeared.
And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.
And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Coursework
Brain whirs, click clicking like clockwork turned crazy.
Fingers find passages in the words whirling round and round and round, crafting thoughts into things that make sense, albeit only to the head that tipped them out, they fear.
Restless, the body breathes deeply. It feels like this is forever, for always and eternity. The body always only knows Now.
Meanwhile the Mind wrestles with itself, like untamed horse and whispering-rider both, the Mind both knows what must be done and longs to wander free.
The art of essay writing involves every part of the Self, even the distant dove, immanent and divine, watches patiently, singing; this too will pass... and the mind and body calm, lulled by the song of spirit, this is now, and there will be another now, and another. Lets live this now, craft this piece, and pass on, beyond, from moment to delicious moment, each a foundation for the next.
Do this now, the mind promises, and we shall be free later.
No, says Spirit softly from the stars, we are free now.
Fingers find passages in the words whirling round and round and round, crafting thoughts into things that make sense, albeit only to the head that tipped them out, they fear.
Restless, the body breathes deeply. It feels like this is forever, for always and eternity. The body always only knows Now.
Meanwhile the Mind wrestles with itself, like untamed horse and whispering-rider both, the Mind both knows what must be done and longs to wander free.
The art of essay writing involves every part of the Self, even the distant dove, immanent and divine, watches patiently, singing; this too will pass... and the mind and body calm, lulled by the song of spirit, this is now, and there will be another now, and another. Lets live this now, craft this piece, and pass on, beyond, from moment to delicious moment, each a foundation for the next.
Do this now, the mind promises, and we shall be free later.
No, says Spirit softly from the stars, we are free now.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Story Charmer
In the back of my mind, through the forest of thoughts, I catch glimpses of the story. Its shy, but longing to be shared, and though I can't quite make out its shape occasionally, just for a moment, I catch sight of its colour.
Warm markings full of depth and glowing orange-red flash between the deep green leaves, like a goldfish in the ocean, dark and murky.
The story sneaks closer and I sit patiently, my pen flying across the paper while every other part of me is still. Waiting. Waiting for the story to lay itself down in the movement of ink, the flow of words across the crisp paper transforming potential into reality.
Warm markings full of depth and glowing orange-red flash between the deep green leaves, like a goldfish in the ocean, dark and murky.
The story sneaks closer and I sit patiently, my pen flying across the paper while every other part of me is still. Waiting. Waiting for the story to lay itself down in the movement of ink, the flow of words across the crisp paper transforming potential into reality.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The Dance
The beat. Struck. Deep.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.
The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.
She danced.
Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.
The beat struck deep in her bones.
Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.
She was the dance.
No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.
Only the dance.
Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.
She was the dance.
Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.
Feet faced feet, dancing together.
Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.
The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.
They danced together.
Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.
They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.
The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.
They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.
They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.
They danced together.
And the world danced too.
Rhythm. Pulsed. Through.
Bodies. Dripped. Danced.
The sweat poured from her skin and she did not notice. It made her movements smoother, easier, removing all friction from between her and the world.
She danced.
Lights flashed every colour imagined since neon, a riot of manic patterns coating the room with jilted visions of seconds snapshotted from the ravers’ lives.
The beat struck deep in her bones.
Her arms moved of their own accord, feet dragged willingly on puppet strings of song. She did not dance, the beat danced her.
She was the dance.
No thoughts. No mind. No feeling but pure bliss.
Only the dance.
Her eyes, half open, watching the floor. The floor, moving beneath her, known only by the touch of her feet.
She was the dance.
Then, into her sight, came another pair of shoes.
Feet faced feet, dancing together.
Matched perfectly, dancing in the dance.
The music raised their faces at the same moment and they met, recognising in each other themselves.
They danced together.
Time began, mirrored in each other’s eyes.
They danced in until the lights came up, the sun rose beyond the walls.
The danced out together, fingers entwined, along the beach where the waves began to pound.
They danced together, no longer alone in their world, alone in the dance.
They danced together and a new world was born between them. A world of wonder.
They danced together.
And the world danced too.
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