We Are Shaped By Our Thoughts

When the mind is pure,

joy follows like a shadow

that never leaves.

– Buddha

. . . . .

When you stop thinking about yourself all the time, 

a certain sense of repose overtakes you. 

– Leonard Cohen

Its Imperishable Bloom Prevails

of what we need to know of it / we know it was a living thing / we know too that
it exists fragrance-free / in amongst a multiplicity of many other things / its invented 
form – its shape stationed here / flaring singular in its perennial bloom / its endearing
complexity peacefully prevails / but who shall articulate its final line / of the poets
among us, who will let slip a vocabulary suggestive of its outward exposition

Through The Door

Threaded to the sun…

Across The Land And The Water

Window-shopping, endlessly we traipse zigzagging our way through the many narrow streets for a quick look-see into an overwhelming river of trinket stores and expensive upscale boutiques. Peering into this particular scene, our discerning eyes fix on the eyes of a dramatic collection of papier-mâché Carnevale masks and puppets – one-of-a-kind theatrical pieces created by the century-old merchants of Venice. Inwardly we observe each detailed piece in an effort to get to the essence of it. Immediately our gaze takes note of a brilliance and singularity caught in the passion of their expression, existing in this solitude without the medium of language. Twenty minutes go by. Reckoning the distance left, rightly so, we carry on with an outward eye, eagerly taking in bits and pieces of everything converging at this memorable point in time.

 . . . .

Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again

in the quiestest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.

– Pat Conroy

Extended In All Directions

Bent and twisted in time and space, the sky absolutely clear –

thoughts enthusiastically stir in anticipation of some form of dialogue.

It is with muted breath that it waits for some kind of response –

something to elucidate its art, to make a thing out of its translation.

. . . . .

The oaks and the pines, and their brethren of the wood, have seen so many suns rise and set, so many seasons come and go, and so many generations pass into silence, that we may well wonder what "the story of the trees" would be to us if they had tongues to tell it, or we ears fine enough to understand. 

– Anonymous

What did the tree learn from the earth
to be able to talk with the sky? 

– Pablo Neruda

Thinking Of Returning

Looking back…

. . . . .

The farmer's painted 'gruene Rundballenpresse' boldly crosses my path

at its own pace, shifting its unwieldy weight beneath a gracious sun.
Years later perhaps, I'll discover what it is for now I cannot yet know –
the sophisticated poetry yet to be found in this landscape's iridescence.

. . . . .


...poetry is paying attention to life when all the world
seems asleep to its beauties and truths...

 – John Geddes

Lifted, An Intensity Mounts

One hears too, a crescendo –

audible only in that brief spell of silence.

A million notes full of consciousness, 

culminating like nothing I've heard before.

What might be a couple of minutes pass,

in overlapping layers and with a tease of intrigue

a music begins to spill, its pulse scattering…

. . . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uC-USAB530A&feature=related

. . . . .

Winterr – Concerto in f-minor

Allegro non molto

"Aggiacciato tremar trà neri algenti

Al Severo Spirar d' orrido Vento,

Correr battendo i piedi ogni momento;

E pel Soverchio gel batter i denti;" 

Largo

"Passar al foco i di quieti e contenti

Mentre la pioggia fuor bagna ben cento" 

Allegro

"Caminar Sopra 'l giaccio, e à passo lento

Per timor di cader gersene intenti;

Gir forte Sdruzziolar, cader à terra

Di nuove ir Sopra 'l giaccio e correr forte

Sin ch' il giaccio si rompe, e si disserra;

Sentir uscir dalle ferrate porte

Sirocco Borea, e tutti i Venti in guerra

Quest' é 'l verno, mà tal, che gioja apporte."

Winter – Concerto in f-minor

Allegro non molto

Shivering, frozen mid the frosty snow in biting, stinging winds;

running to and fro to stamp one's icy feet, teeth chattering in the bitter chill.

Largo

To rest contentedly beside the hearth, while those outside are drenched by pouring rain.

Allegro

We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously, for fear of tripping and falling. 

Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and, rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up.

We feel the chill north winds coarse through the home despite the locked and bolted doors…

this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delights.

To Write It Down – The Shape Of It

Feeling it, you want to tell it – something found in a stranger’s
handiwork that catches your eye, so much so that you try to locate
the proper words so as to tell more about that sort of thing.

There’s a hesitancy…

A stillness holds you there pondering another's life tied to it…

and the mind works hard to map out the pieces of a poem driven into it,

to the silence of the rusty nail caught bending in the breeze.

While Thought Exists

And literature becomes an escape, 

not from, but into living.

– Cyril Connolly

. . . . .

ALL THIS

.

All this I do inside me,

in the huge court of my memory.

There I have by me the sky, the earth,

the sea, and all things in them

which I have been able to perceive . . .

There too I encounter myself . . .

– St. Augustine

After A While Comes The Dawn

SLEEPING IN THE FOREST

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

– Mary Oliver

. . . . .

Morning brings back the heroic ages. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.

– Henry David Thoreau

Opening In All Directions

Particles of dandelion fluff

invented in the likeness

of splattered paint.

You can see it – the face of it.

Momentarily time, space

and observation improvise 

amongst shifting configurations.

I cannot now say where I am within it.

. . . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIWaL8qqiqs&feature=related

Space, Silence – No Echo

When words become unclear,

I shall focus with photographs. 

When images become inadequate, 

I shall be content with silence.

– Ansel Adams

No Beginning, No End

Standing on the second floor the eyes find poetical expression in bits of cloud before searching the constructs of the house, the church, the street below – each appearing somewhat more interesting than what was initially experienced. Immediately the mind intuits the thought of life passing and negotiates with the idea of it. Everything there – truth, spirit, vitality filtered through the fluidity of consciousness is reduced to something encoded beyond the window's ledge – its message is left untouched.

. . . . .

What was any art but a mold to imprison for a moment 

the shining elusive element which is life itself- life hurrying past us 

and running away, to strong to stop, too sweet to lose.

– Willa Cather

Owing It All To Darkness

Behind sleep

the mind,

beyond reason,

d ri f  ts  like

a butterfly.

. . . . .

In darkness,

drawn to this

remote place,

a butterfly

surrenders

its mystery

to the talisman

of silence.

With nothing

to distract it 

a butterfly,

with a place

to set itself,

stands naked

as a star

in the clear

relief of its

simple tender

hallelujah.

In A Different Space

Today finding comfort in repetition, comfort in the fall of leaves,

comfort too in the sound of the heart's piquant pulse.

The mind acknowledging again and again  its 

beating, lub-dub – repeating, lub-dub – beating, lub-dub –

 its measured pace coming on strong and going wherever you are.

Wherever you are today I hope you can find comfort in repetition, 

comfort in the fall of leaves,  comfort too in the sound of the heart's piquant pulse.

Looking To The Centre Of Everything

Unrolling from my tongue one sentence at a time, the words of a Mary Oliver poem viewed through the thick-lensed glasses of one whose eyes wide open on the other side willingly conceptualize the poet's every word – and the mind in the plenitude of an echo follows their various trajectories. For a time at least, each word in its turn becomes a loyal companion igniting a soul toward some sense of discovery. Mary's song flung with light teaches yet another set of eyes the strength and beauty of the imagination. 

. . . . .

Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.

It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white

feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,

until at last, now, they shine

in your own yard?

Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

– Mary Oliver

Passing Through What Flows Into You

One's destination is never a place, 

but a new way of seeing things.

– Henry Miller

. . . . .

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by

the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. 

So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

– Mark Twain

Huge Like A Bloom Of Sun

 When you begin to touch your heart or let your heart be touched, you

begin to discover that it's bottomless, that it doesn't have any resolution, that

this heart is huge, vast, and limitless. You begin to discover how much

warmth and gentleness is there, as well as how much space.

– Pema Chodron

. . . . .

Every moment is unique, unknown, completely fresh.

– Pema Chodron

Lingering In The Mind, The Soul

TO BE FOUND

.

We are always looking for the mirror

by which we might see

our true Self

Look closely.

There is no place that mirror is not

Yet the vastness that we are

cannot be captured

in a single image

Through that One, see all beings

We are always listening for the voice

by which we might hear

our true Heart

Listen closely.

There is no place that voice does not resound

Yet the vastness that we are

cannot be captured

in a single sound

In that one tone, listen

as the whole universe sings back to you

The need to be seen, heard

through sacred reflections, and earthly echoes

is the guiding impulse of our basic sanity

Surrender.

While looking and listening,

as we must and as we will

Remember

the One

who looks and listens

Become the inward mirror of your searching eye

the inner echo of your true heartsong

Become the very Beloved you seek

There is nothing you are not

Nothing.

– Willow Pearson

Becoming Too Precious

Imagine if you will…

A baby black bear's shiny tipped nose

pressing in toward another pair of eyes

peering through a vacant window.

There, there it was –

a happy tail whose force 

was gathering strength

at the opening pitch

of another day.

, , , , ,

Until one has loved an animal,

a part of one's soul remains unawakened.

– Anatole France

Meanwhile, A Touch Of Yellow

Shouldering its way through

in so light and detached a way

an unblemished spot of yellow.

. . . . .

YELLOW (/ˈjɛloʊ/) 

The color of 
gold, 
butter, 
or ripe lemons.

. . . . .

Common Connotations

sunshine, warmth, fun, happiness, warning, friendship, caution, slow, 
cowardice, Mardi Gras, summer, lemons, Easter, autumn, electricity, 

liberalism/libertarianism, hope, optimism, imagination, curiosity