The Air Changes, Creates And Re-creates

Surreptitiously the lens

is gently immersed

into the tulip’s centre.

As quick as the shutter clicks

its radiance is captured.

Previously interred,

spectacular permeations

from elsewhere itself,

born of some other hour,

bloom amid this regulated light.

In the split of a second

the tulip's exquisite flame

captivates the naked eye.

Humbled, the heart stutters

a kind of wordlessness

before coveting a breath,

as the light refracts a fraction

of what abides therein.

Out Of The Stillness, The Eyes Of An Unbridled Beauty Hesitate

Learning how to be still, to really be still and let life happen –

that stillness becomes a radiance.

~ Morgan Freeman

. . . . .

When we are able

to make ourselves

as still within 

as an untouched 

mountain lake, 

we have an 

exquisite reflection 

of all that is 

in and around us.

~ Laura van Dernoot Lipsky

Transitional Estates

Late in the day you remember

the familiarity of home.

. . . . .

A piqued curiosity requisitions the mind to cull 

particles that slumber deep in their dark shadowed space.

Quiet thought processes stream prophetically

through coloured layers of history.

The mind, mindful of its purpose, starts to unravel – 

its questioning cry binds tight to memory's blur with a palpable hope.

Until at last, a glimpse is given into the uniqueness of a room,

appearing a shade brighter against the symphonic measure of time,

As the sky dims, the romance of absence lingers

and you hesitate, immersed in this bliss.

. . . . .

“A strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, and the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow. Memory is history recorded in our brain, memory is a painter, it paints pictures of the past and of the day.”

~ Anna Mary Robertson Moses

Give It A Healthy Push: Go!

Something Is Slowly Transmuted

Anonymously the eye’s ride

beyond the window’s ledge…

…to the flight of butterflies,

so beautifully reconciled,

adrift in the presence of light.

…to  the position of this man –

his back to all, facing something

irrevocable and unyielding.

…to the season’s fresh air

wedded to the weightlessness

of the butterfly gainfully employed.

. . . . .

The mind sallies along caught in a dream-like flutter
midst the capaciousness of the wild azure sky.

Swiftly the imagination starts to flit at a tremendous pace,

enthralled like the butterfly frolicking in the gallery of the garden,

where ever-so-delicately its carnivalesque spirit blithely drifts.

. . . . .

Intermittently the poem breaks ground in the unexpected light,

as words are summoned to locate its beginning.

If You Feel It, You Can Tell It

Poised To Intercept

A Straightforward Interruption

How Still It Is, How Moving

Distinct puffs of fluff –

how brief their sumptuous bloom.

Suddenly the sun.

The Analytical Mind Imparts

We're all on one road, and we're only passing through.

~ Leonard Cohen

. . . . .

CHILDHOOD 

It would be good to give much thought, before

you try to find words for something so lost,

for those long childhood afternoons you knew

that vanished so completely --and why?

We're still reminded--: sometimes by a rain,

but we can no longer say what it means;

life was never again so filled with meeting,

with reunion and with passing on

as back then, when nothing happened to us

except what happens to things and creatures:

we lived their world as something human,

and became filled to the brim with figures.

And became as lonely as a sheperd

and as overburdened by vast distances,

and summoned and stirred as from far away,

and slowly, like a long new thread,

introduced into that picture-sequence

where now having to go on bewilders us.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

. . . . .

When we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and when we no longer know which way to go we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

~ Wendell Berry

 . . . .

Passing through, passing through. 

Sometimes happy, sometimes blue, 

glad that I ran into you. 

Tell the people that you saw me passing through.

~ Leonard Cohen

Tell Me More Of The Eagle

My shadow leads me to this spot

where the eyes travel an eagle's path –

capturing, in the isolation of the sky, 

the spirited beauty of its flight.

. . . . .

Don't turn your head.

Keep looking…

Stand still. 

Listen… 

. . . . .

This powerful stranger, so gracefully balanced, so free…

. . . . .

The eyes stray in their hurry, 

forgetting that to sit and pause 

is as important as to persist.

Something Nameless, Not Yet Engraved

In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.  

~ John Updike

. . . . .

In the blurring of its boundaries the swing hovers. Isolated from its original surroundings, its image appears so utterly changed. Slowly the swing begins to move back and forth, creating a rhythm comparable to a pendulum’s steady measure. In the region of its sway, each oscillation produces an extraordinary sense of liberation within. Tirelessly the swing moves to and fro – its image shaping and reshaping itself within the limits of memory that is chalk full of wonderful, yet complicated mysteries. As though by necessity, something nameless seemingly repeats itself, there in the arc of the swing, while deep inside, a just anticipation continues its skip. All too suddenly the impression of the swing starts to blur there in the mind’s presence. Inert and passive, the swing hovers. Slowly, a childhood memory fades as the hour – disguised and displaced, quickens. Stealing forth again, the voice too finds its pulse, attached to a seducing hymn, joyfully rising out of present time…

Soaring High In The Glistening Air

Let your mind start a journey thru a strange new world. 

Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before. 

Let your soul take you where you long to be...

Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar, 

and you'll live as you've never lived before.

~ Erich Fromm

And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light

Mere colour, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, 

can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.

~ Oscar Wilde

Arriving There

They came not so much for its beauty,

but for a long meditative breath – 

the lightness of it happening at will

as they witnessed its rise and its fall.

. . . . .

Meditation is the tongue of the soul and the language of our spirit.

 ~ Jeremy Taylor

. . . . .

You and I caught up in a quiet spell among the jumbled geometrics of branches and tree root progressions –  the blue of sky overhead covering a million miles. The whole of the scene mutely surveyed by a simple lens. The lightness of it, happening at will as a certain kind of permanence hummed in behind the shutter of an eye, while a silence not of absence was rigorously executed.

. . . . .

The present moment is the only aperture through which

the 
soul can pass out of time into eternity, through which

grace
 can pass out of eternity into the soul, and through which 

love
 can pass from one soul in time to another soul in time.

~ Aldous Huxley

. . . . .

For just a moment

1, 2, 3…

A blush of serenity grows

as the energy of the mind, body, 

and heart rest in silence…

For just a moment 

1, 2, 3…

There in our own solitude we stood,

in our own separate rooms…

For just a moment 

1, 2, 3…

We became a witness

to our true self.

Of Domes And High Towers

The euphoria of influence –

don't let it become at best, insignificant.

The unsung,

the unseen,

the unspoken.