why don’t we view the moon with racism and hate?
we as people
from where we are
we mind the moon.
it brings to the surface a hidden love.
make note of your internal thoughts…
is it the fervent company of the howling wolf?
is it the alluring perfume of the blooming midnight orchid?
is it the damp grasses growing under foot?
is it the innumerable cloud variations passing between?
is it the corn on the cob, roasted on a campfire?
that stops you in your whatever and has you saying
“look at the moon.”
i sense that it is a hidden love for the moon.
yet visibility under moonlight requires indirect sunlight,
a subtle dependency in the darkness.
what do you do when the moon is new, in darkness?
when the laws of darkness are binding the moonlight
to the reality of oppression,
will this oppression fail in nonviolent exposure to indirect light?
yes.
don’t be afraid.
i challenge you to watch the sky
as the moon is present
both day and night
exposing the newness and fullness of the moon
in distant degrees of promise, the inherent beauty,
horizon rising, the orange, the red, the yellow
the black and white of it.
in varied modes of existance
the moon changes colors, yet we admire all colors;
devoid full racism.
in the sleep, our dreams,
in the wake, recalled
beauty, the flesh of all mankind,
see it as one.
Author's Note:
I usually don’t share my writing unless I’m happy with the entire piece. I feel this piece is a bit awkward in some spots. I have been reluctant to do anything with it. However, today we are celebrating Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his dream. I don’t care about my happiness with this piece at the moment. I think for my peace, the need to share the overall message is stronger than the condition of my happiness. The moon is something everyone on earth can see. I assume everyone accepts it in its varied modes of existance. Why can’t everyone do that with people?
2012/01/16
2011/11/30
sunset conveyed
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/6431225989/
this ephemeral sunset conveyed
to you.
the lamp post casting light,
the vacant footpath walkless,
the boulevard unseperated,
the passing truck barreling oblivious,
the altostratus clouds so thin and uniform,
the sky in fleeting twilight,
the silhouettes of trees uncolored,
the idle cement factory conveyor belt,
the stark wind into my face,
the flared nostrils of my breath,
the smell of industry punched out,
the ambient silence hearkening
the sound of colors abound,
this entrance to the melding night…
this pleasing moment
in my life,
of neither past nor future.
but, to succumb
within this moment.
as if surreal
they were all there.
2011/06/11
elegant sentiment
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/5828278565/
bedew, elegant sentiment.
drooping into nightness, wherefore vigor and freshness spent in task.
become somnolent. coolness, darkness, all but shade and blades of grass;
sustaining the white noise of night i am absorbing all quiet.
doth fully still; my soul pulsates, my breath confesses desire.
and heavenly dew finds me, my jaded nooks and tattered cranies
patient dew, quench my folly, douse my sullied conscious, settle thee
i accept thy lingering bath, saturated and washed of haste.
elegant sentiment, refreshed.
Author's Note:
I spent so many years wallowing in discomfort. A struggle at times to feel normal, and writing about it. Seemingly to always be looking back at the pain. Even when looking forward to something in the future. I know discomfort awaits; i know when and where. Some time ago I started concentrating on wallowing in relaxation. Striving for the situation to harmony. How does one get there? You don’t. You are just there, like the dew. Dew just is. When all conditions are right, dew will collect on everything outside. I can’t demand peace of mind, freedom from discomfort or absence of want. I can however, get outside of my head and prepare myself mentally to allow for dew and a peace of mind to enter. This elegant sentiment is an exercise in that preparation.
I shall share this poem with acquaintances and strangers. I shall read the poem out loud. I shall ask them to walk across the dew in the morning without haste.
2010/11/28
take me to the place in the sky
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/5211040376/
Take me to the place in the sky
where hands are held.
Take me to your bones.
Feed me your gravy - the marrow
of your mind keeps me alive.
Take me to your attic of broken furniture
holding memories of spent Sundays and
the beauty of wood. I am your glue.
I am the cobwebs on your longing.
It’s my toes, they told me so.
They’re waiting for you at the door
with open arms.
They see you
as the footsie queen.
Take me to the place in the sky
where feet run free.
Take me to the blue in your eyes.
I am your pupil.
Feed me your seasons, I will taste
your ever changing moods.
I will learn your recipe.
Take me to your pic-nic.
Your red and white checkered sunshine wicker grass basket
and I will take you to my shady tree.
I am this fresh new day
and you are breathing.
Author’s Note:
folding away my forgotten journal in a desk drawer, that is darkness. i took out an old journal from the 90's to see what I was doing around this time of year. i was thinking about love, thinking about everything meaning nothing and nothing else matters, thinking that my future spouse is out there walking around somewhere. thinking that we've yet to meet. those were my thoughts.
2009/11/13
friday morning
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/4198790397/
singing down to the soil
beneath my shoes.
my heart beats frantic
like the wind.
it carries me to the horizon
and the sunrise listens.
there is a busy new day waiting
with a simple calm.
i can tell
by the way the sparrows flutter in the trees,
by the way the colors blend in the sky.
and I shall soon be to work.
2009/10/16
carnations
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/4036488614/
of miles past
bud vase resting
in a dash
flowers cut fresh
funerals accepted
white and blue
different colors
different days
different people
same outcome
rememberance
as i drive
2009/09/13
Primary Objective: Kill Flies
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3924574009/
Look behind the door on your way to the basement.
There you will find primary implements of death.
They were bought at a big box store three for a dollar.
Does the color make it fun?
Does the cheap price make it right?
Does the place they hang imply guilty remorse or obscure convenience?
Who would decorate their home with this carnival?
2009/08/06
be in love*
8/3/2009, 6:47 am
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3784941312/
*i waited for the chance
to meet her in the garden.
an hour consuming
summer’s beautiful display.
children play, flowers bloom,
hopscotch, blue spirea
breeze ruffles the foliage.
perfumes of russian sage
broadcast and saturate
my senses delight.
the sweet nectar attracts us both.
she arrives.
to see her fine hair
so golden by the velvet black sunlight.
to know she frequently visits
regardless of my devotion.
to admire her form and dainty sip
refreshing.
I am offered a glimpse,
a fleeting moment in the shade.
to blink not for want
for a thousand words
i silently stutter my worth;
rendered invisible, of no interest.
and as quickly as she came
she is away.
Author's Note:
I intended for this to be a poem by itself without the picture so I took the part "of my lense" off of the end of the line "a fleeting moment in the shade". The removed text appears in the original version on flickr, but not here. The poem is intended to be read while viewing the picture, but it should not rely on it. It should be able to be read by itself. Both are independent. Both belong with the other.
In the end, whatever you do, be devoted to it. Be passionate about it. Don't go about it half way with idle thoughts of other doings. Don't be concerned with what you could have done or what you should do. Don't worry about what you can or cannot do. Aerodynamically, bumble bees should not be able to fly. Do you think they know that? Whatever you do, just embark and do. The world needs more people who are in love and alive with passion.
Be in love and you will find your nectar in the blooms.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3784941312/
*i waited for the chance
to meet her in the garden.
an hour consuming
summer’s beautiful display.
children play, flowers bloom,
hopscotch, blue spirea
breeze ruffles the foliage.
perfumes of russian sage
broadcast and saturate
my senses delight.
the sweet nectar attracts us both.
she arrives.
to see her fine hair
so golden by the velvet black sunlight.
to know she frequently visits
regardless of my devotion.
to admire her form and dainty sip
refreshing.
I am offered a glimpse,
a fleeting moment in the shade.
to blink not for want
for a thousand words
i silently stutter my worth;
rendered invisible, of no interest.
and as quickly as she came
she is away.
Author's Note:
I intended for this to be a poem by itself without the picture so I took the part "of my lense" off of the end of the line "a fleeting moment in the shade". The removed text appears in the original version on flickr, but not here. The poem is intended to be read while viewing the picture, but it should not rely on it. It should be able to be read by itself. Both are independent. Both belong with the other.
In the end, whatever you do, be devoted to it. Be passionate about it. Don't go about it half way with idle thoughts of other doings. Don't be concerned with what you could have done or what you should do. Don't worry about what you can or cannot do. Aerodynamically, bumble bees should not be able to fly. Do you think they know that? Whatever you do, just embark and do. The world needs more people who are in love and alive with passion.
Be in love and you will find your nectar in the blooms.
2009/07/24
Words of the Moment
Words of the Moment 4-4-96 12:18am
All these things unwritten, passing
these moments I sit and ponder tranquility.
What is it that catches the eye
of Raphael’s little angels?
These quiet times before bedtime,
they hold the leisure
of the child angels.
Not that of great importance
but, that in part,
the necessity of sanity.
With a sip of tea and an ill idle pen
words of the moment pass.
Goodnight.
Author's Note:
Same today as it was back then. To sit in leisure with the intention to write and then to not write. The house is sleeping. For the most part the ticking clock reminds me that nothing has been written, regardless of the temperature of my tea. When tea is at the right temperature you want to sip it all. Why waste the best sipping time? I should sip it all. But I should not gulp tea. Why would I gulp Golden Monkey? It is a fine tea with complex chocolate undertones. I brew it by the cup. I enjoy the aroma. Well, writing is like that. Now is not the time to purge. I must scribe a bit and savor. Even if I don't write anything on paper, I must enjoy the weight of the pen in my hand and the feel of the paper underneath. Goodnight again.
All these things unwritten, passing
these moments I sit and ponder tranquility.
What is it that catches the eye
of Raphael’s little angels?
These quiet times before bedtime,
they hold the leisure
of the child angels.
Not that of great importance
but, that in part,
the necessity of sanity.
With a sip of tea and an ill idle pen
words of the moment pass.
Goodnight.
Author's Note:
Same today as it was back then. To sit in leisure with the intention to write and then to not write. The house is sleeping. For the most part the ticking clock reminds me that nothing has been written, regardless of the temperature of my tea. When tea is at the right temperature you want to sip it all. Why waste the best sipping time? I should sip it all. But I should not gulp tea. Why would I gulp Golden Monkey? It is a fine tea with complex chocolate undertones. I brew it by the cup. I enjoy the aroma. Well, writing is like that. Now is not the time to purge. I must scribe a bit and savor. Even if I don't write anything on paper, I must enjoy the weight of the pen in my hand and the feel of the paper underneath. Goodnight again.
2009/05/08
Blue Water Sunrise
Blue Water Sunrise
5-8-9 12:31 AM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWWkWVdLZnw
The darkness and the chilling breeze
was about as comfortable as strangers
milling about without acknowledgment.
I’m out of typical with urgency bent
Apart from anchored freight
I have no idea what to expect
But I felt like I needed to become evident
An occasional seagull passes by,
The waves continue to sound regardless,
And variations of a theme are practiced.
Aside from now, this morning,
as I situate myself observer of the routine.
A customary sunrise.
From darkness, I feel myself passing
through the blue hour into first blush
of dawn. The blue water of a new era.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3429651508/
Author's Note:
12:31 AM to 1:00am
About this blue water sunrise thing.
What’s behind the words? What do they really mean?
The darkness and the chilling breeze
was about as comfortable as strangers
milling about without acknowledgment.
It was dark and I was cold. There were people fishing in the dark who were cold. I said hey to a guy and he just stopped and stared at me without a word. There was just this blank acknowledgment between two people out on a pier, in the morning before the sun was up, without any conversation or nothing.
I’m out of typical with urgency bent.
I was doing something different in my grieving. Not because I wanted to. I felt as if I needed to.
Apart from anchored freight
I’m celebrating life without baggage.
In a way this is a visual metaphor for comparison and contrast between the ship anchored off the breakwater and me celebrating life without baggage. I mean, even after years of dealing with losing a brother, there’s still baggage. It was different to just anchor that baggage and, and do something different. To realize at some point in my journey that I may leave it behind.
I have no idea what to expect
But I felt like I needed to become evident
Just do it, even if you don’t have planned expectations and outcomes. Life is not like that. You know, if, if I never went down to the pier to photograph the sunrise, this, this wouldn’t have happened. This would have never happened. I would have done the same thing.
An occasional seagull passes by
I was there from darkness well into the morning. That is a long time to stare at something. There were many yawns and many glances around. There were many different birds doing the same thing at different times; passing by.
The waves continue to sound regardless.
And I don’t mean the…, the waves sound regardless as in they just keep going on making sounds no matter what. They sound regardless in the sense that they continue to make sounds like they just don’t care. They don’t care. That’s what I mean. No matter what, time keeps going.
And variations of a theme are practiced
Habitual and ritual throughout time, both in art, and in life, practice desires growth. In order to flourish, art and life must be active. Art and life are growing entities that needs to be cultivated...; brown crunchy leaves don't flourish even when they're still attached to the tree.
Aside from now, this morning,
as I situate myself observer of the routine
I’m doing something different. I watched something routine out of my routine.
A customary sunrise.
An exercise on how not to take this moment in my life for granted. With a glance it is just an image of a sunrise. Watching the evolution of the sunrise from darkness to blinding light, through moments of varied colors and slightly different tones, causes me to reflect upon my mood in a positive way. The sunrise happens every day. As many of them as I have watched, they are not all the same. Therein gives rise to the variations of a theme. The composure and aplomb between nature and self; above the fog and clouds, above the snow, above the rain, the sun shines. I consider that a gift.
From darkness, I feel myself passing
through the blue hour into first blush of dawn.
The blue hour is twilight. It is neither full darkness nor complete daylight and exists about an hour before the sun rises above the horizon and an hour after it sets on the horizon. This is an amazing time of day. If there is ever a way that being vivid could be subtle, then this is it. I couldn’t put my finger on the moment, but I could feel feeling different. The change in perspective was vivid and yet very subtle.
The blue water of a new era.
Things on the horizon are a bit altered and may not appear as I once knew them. There is a swelling freshness to the aroma of exploration. The changes that reveal themselves in time could be plenteous. I see this new stage of grief as a new era.
5-8-9 12:31 AM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWWkWVdLZnw
The darkness and the chilling breeze
was about as comfortable as strangers
milling about without acknowledgment.
I’m out of typical with urgency bent
Apart from anchored freight
I have no idea what to expect
But I felt like I needed to become evident
An occasional seagull passes by,
The waves continue to sound regardless,
And variations of a theme are practiced.
Aside from now, this morning,
as I situate myself observer of the routine.
A customary sunrise.
From darkness, I feel myself passing
through the blue hour into first blush
of dawn. The blue water of a new era.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/rebelwithafrog/3429651508/
Author's Note:
12:31 AM to 1:00am
About this blue water sunrise thing.
What’s behind the words? What do they really mean?
The darkness and the chilling breeze
was about as comfortable as strangers
milling about without acknowledgment.
It was dark and I was cold. There were people fishing in the dark who were cold. I said hey to a guy and he just stopped and stared at me without a word. There was just this blank acknowledgment between two people out on a pier, in the morning before the sun was up, without any conversation or nothing.
I’m out of typical with urgency bent.
I was doing something different in my grieving. Not because I wanted to. I felt as if I needed to.
Apart from anchored freight
I’m celebrating life without baggage.
In a way this is a visual metaphor for comparison and contrast between the ship anchored off the breakwater and me celebrating life without baggage. I mean, even after years of dealing with losing a brother, there’s still baggage. It was different to just anchor that baggage and, and do something different. To realize at some point in my journey that I may leave it behind.
I have no idea what to expect
But I felt like I needed to become evident
Just do it, even if you don’t have planned expectations and outcomes. Life is not like that. You know, if, if I never went down to the pier to photograph the sunrise, this, this wouldn’t have happened. This would have never happened. I would have done the same thing.
An occasional seagull passes by
I was there from darkness well into the morning. That is a long time to stare at something. There were many yawns and many glances around. There were many different birds doing the same thing at different times; passing by.
The waves continue to sound regardless.
And I don’t mean the…, the waves sound regardless as in they just keep going on making sounds no matter what. They sound regardless in the sense that they continue to make sounds like they just don’t care. They don’t care. That’s what I mean. No matter what, time keeps going.
And variations of a theme are practiced
Habitual and ritual throughout time, both in art, and in life, practice desires growth. In order to flourish, art and life must be active. Art and life are growing entities that needs to be cultivated...; brown crunchy leaves don't flourish even when they're still attached to the tree.
Aside from now, this morning,
as I situate myself observer of the routine
I’m doing something different. I watched something routine out of my routine.
A customary sunrise.
An exercise on how not to take this moment in my life for granted. With a glance it is just an image of a sunrise. Watching the evolution of the sunrise from darkness to blinding light, through moments of varied colors and slightly different tones, causes me to reflect upon my mood in a positive way. The sunrise happens every day. As many of them as I have watched, they are not all the same. Therein gives rise to the variations of a theme. The composure and aplomb between nature and self; above the fog and clouds, above the snow, above the rain, the sun shines. I consider that a gift.
From darkness, I feel myself passing
through the blue hour into first blush of dawn.
The blue hour is twilight. It is neither full darkness nor complete daylight and exists about an hour before the sun rises above the horizon and an hour after it sets on the horizon. This is an amazing time of day. If there is ever a way that being vivid could be subtle, then this is it. I couldn’t put my finger on the moment, but I could feel feeling different. The change in perspective was vivid and yet very subtle.
The blue water of a new era.
Things on the horizon are a bit altered and may not appear as I once knew them. There is a swelling freshness to the aroma of exploration. The changes that reveal themselves in time could be plenteous. I see this new stage of grief as a new era.
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