Tomorrow

The liar and her hauntedness, and I was wondering through years, how she would be affected by the way that she had treated me with those lies. And tonight I await the bells, as another year far away from the time that I was in with her, ends once again. Feelings and affection can be devious in the wrong hands. And that unseen gift may well be abused,and the multi affections for an apparently lovely young lady, can drive a young lady to extremes. Today,I cared about the memory of pure feeling,inside of myself there was commotion, and it frightened the trees. And the sun can shine in December,it can clear away the memories of the cold of spring. And what are those bells anyway? and what do they really mean? I think that the truth lies within the solitary mind, or the way to it. And even then, the day lies still and will not reveal its truth. Beauty sometimes deserts itself and seeks to confuse, it can take the easy way out. And I can only see beauty as a simple thing and as a precious thing away from hurt and its offsprings. And away from hurt, lies the power of friendship and togetherness, and there is an evening where the shadow cannot cross the picture, where it is disallowed, where it may not enter. And I saw a lady today and she smiled on me, and I have her in my mind this evening. There are stars in the gentle feelings of affection and they avoid untruth, they are the places to reach and they are places of love and truth. And tommorow is a new year, and tomorrow will be a new day and tomorrow will be a new time.

December in a Cold Country

The King and the Queen have become like phantoms, they both have returned to the way that they previously were, in their comfortable versions of repetition and existence. The book is speaking of departure and memories. Winter looms, there is no food on the table, and the hunger lies somewhere at the back of the heart. Predictable conclusions are screaming their truth, whilst life remains in deathly eyes. Extraneous loving feelings try to persist somehow in their confrontation to the dark reality. A world has changed, it is no longer on fire, there is an empathic smile nonetheless towards the place where weakness appears, as perceived by convention. The electric landscape is showing urgency and its dynamism is aggressively suggesting a new and extravagant freedom. In the city, the lion has succumbed to truth and has awakened to the idea of tranquility. Nothing is new and change is repetitious in itself. Dogs bark and prams are pushed, there are new people born, the continuum remains intact. December skies with the prospect of a new year. A new year with a new number, a change. In this room, the sound explodes, there is no requiem, as there is no death, just a deviation from a constancy that scared itself away from permenancy.

How to Fix a Dream

In the dream you looked a bit different from the way that you really are. Your hair blew around your face somehow and I brushed the offending strands of it away. We became closer than before and talked of our histories. It turned out that we had come from very different places in life, and our smiles were empathic. There was no time to rush away from the moment for, time was gone and was standing by and listening to, and watching us, and smiling over us. I then walked outside of my dream to find that things had changed, and that you hadn't really been here with me at all. I wondered about how to fix a dream. I hadn't had to deal with this kind of thing before. I was thinking about the relationship between dream and reality,I was sure that there had to be one. And your words played in my head,and they spoke to me once again. Your words have a habit of doing that, I wonder if my words have the same habit of doing that to you? And I wonder if I appear somehow different, in the dreams that you have of me? And still I wonder about how to fix a dream.

Let the Darkness be Gone

In the morning when you awake, when there is darkness in your soul, try to take the time to remember your true spirit. Search into the memory for your real self, the self that means the most to you. And search with spirit and soul and your light will shine. Your darkness is not a conclusion, it is not the end, it isn't final. It is just a visitor, look at it in the eyes and know that it is an enemy, to be overcome. Accept time, and time will accept your patience and together you will succeed.

The Mysterious Stranger

The mysterious stranger, walking in life's underground, his eyes express indifference and his look unresolved. He walks between light and darkness, through his remembrances. There is no joy and there is no sorrow for him, he walks alone, and his secrets are dear to him. and each moment has a particular colour and he seeks to capture its hue. Sound is not the greatest meaning, and words not the greatest truth. And in a city full of strangers, he is the stranger. He is out of time and out of place with a certain kind of reality, the physical kind, the obvious kind. He walks alone and is conspicuous in his aloneness. The mysterious stranger walks in the dark and accepts its relationship with him. There is no imposition, no rebellion, no trying to make the world to come around to him. His eyes are tired and he senses the time of the ages. He feels and senses about the natural elements, he is in touch with creation and he is silent. Somewhere in the past has magnetised him and drawn him and wont give him the usual regular freedom. And he is close to freedom and he is close to not being drawn to attraction, whether negative or positive, but there is a power greater then even the mysterious stranger's, and he collides with antipathy.

Differences

The Lion tamer addresses the dancing horses, and among the spectators, a rose in the hair of yesterday's bride. She has questions about reason, and she stills. Images float around the arena, open to personal perception, there for all to see, and to relate to, or not to relate to. There is a world of make believe and there is a world of reality, and they dwell together in the same place. Illusion attempts to gain control, it gathers its potency and it stands there open. Midnight dancers in colourful garb, undressed and provocative, except for the the angels. Summer has remained and there is guilt in its demeanor, there is a sense of ages past everywhere from Kings' College Cambridge to the night sky to the little church on the corner. And the daughter of the messiah, she has expressed her desire for freedom and she stares at the moon, and if you look, you can see it reflected in her eyes and in her soul. Life is on edge, it is uncertain, it has made no decision. Love is up for grabs, however it can be interpreted, there's an ocean of differences, although the world clock ticks out the same time. And time stares from itself and lies aloof from the moment. And the moment is of an open mind and is given to dream. And within the dream, imaginings, nothing is certain,it is itself open to possibilities and feeling arise,and again they create a world of possibilities, nothing is right and nothing is wrong in this world, when there is nothing certain,and God is open to interpretation and I wonder if he smiles. Guilt can happen to the searching, it can cause comfortable people to estrange themselves, they may prefer to depart, return to a comfort of their easiness. Its all in the realm of mystery,and truth sides with the unknowning, although in neutrality, they still haven't discovered the direction to pursue. Soul has invested power in the mind, and waits for response, waits for enlightenment, waits with time,and throbs in anticipation.

To Sylvia, for the Breeze and the Wildfire

Bitter memory, keeps me/you close to me. Intervening years, and the ones on the journey, obscurely, they don't threaten the memory. Not a touch and hardly a word between, yet, somehow there can be no release from the grip of your achievement. Somewhere inside of the psychic self, I know the truth of you and your progression, but truth is difficult to find in embitterment. What kind of connection was this? when all that it suggested was confusion? In the days, when love was a lie, and lies were piled on lies? My brightness, which is my spirit will not let you colour it. Affection expressed and then denied, and turned to anger and mockery, from mind to mind, in the telepathic way, and if I had forgotten you, you would completely belong to the past, and to your own past, perhaps your lonely past, and songs sang of you at your own behest, songs that I couldn't touch, couldn't look at. I wonder of the trouble in your soul, and I wonder where you are, if indeed you are. Strange how time has a moment riding on its wave, can't seem to be able to free itself. And it seems that for that day, there was to be no new tomorrow, freedom remains a far off place, from hauntedness.

Warm Winter

A long time ago. Fiery youth, telepathic nightmare, in the name of romance. A rape of a certain kind of innocence, by a certain kind of opulence, a certain kind of popularity. Suggestions, for vain creation, in the hands and the pen of another. Darkness in a heart that sought for love. And so far from love, her deception and deceit, or were these things related to love? So long ago in December, in a cold country, whose present was emptiness without art. And the art, the attraction, it tried to kill itself and move away to a peaceful and easier place, today in a different December the same feeling, at a different time of life, youth has given way to age, and age is a rebel here, it smiles at time and looks in reverse at the wrongs. And today, this memory is unnecessary but it is alive nonetheless. There is no darkness in the clear sky, and the sky has brightened, attempted to kiss the truth of personal experience, and anywhere to look, is just a place where electricity should be, art and love and living. And living is the highness, it embraces, and it enfolds, and it seeks accompaniment. And there is warmth in the winter air, a warmth that will not be denied, and it smiles in a warm way, and it senses love, and it wishes to convey the same.

The Fantasy of Truth

In the middle of the not knowing of knowing, distancing from the delusion, the fantasy of truth, foolish love and the memory of innocence, and a virtual explosion of colour and incandescence, intended and dreampt of, closing in to the magic of her beauty, surrendering to the captivation, remembrance of her irregular touch, my heart smiles on her still, and is at home with her,and it all comes to the point where I wonder and question the thought of memory, and if memory should consider the present, if a memory is a consideration of the past, she in her armour of status and acceptance and convention, and I consider the darkness in her sky, but no, I sense that there isn't, and yesterday was a dream that forgot about tomorrow, when there was no real tomorrow, the picture was exactly of the moment, the focus was on the now, and then on a frosty Friday, in the barbed wire cafe, the ruins of affection controlled by insincerity, and in the middle of not knowing, distancing from delusion, the fantasy of truth.

Just a Glance at a Moment in Time

Crowded into the corner, eyes searching for release, the loving heart and the electric eyes, powering, looking for their place, the muzak and its emptiness, and the vibrant force, and the living spirit, and life without touch, and looking to the sky for answers, and where is the sky anyway? and why should it provide answers? On earth this evening, descendants of the people of the ages of time, their colourful smiles and the vigilant love, and the walking of progression, and love making, life is bright and is searching in multiple directions, and the guy in his knowing, is lost to its truth, his world of black and white reality doesn't exist. I read about him in a newspaper article and he wasn't the person that he pretended to be, still, the target is in sight, and sometimes it likes to be evasive, it prefers to conceal itself, and when it conceals itself it can only make itself more visable than before, questions, are the beginning of the shattering of illusion, pictures tend to want to express some kind of definition, they look for some kind of solution, but alas a picture is a single moment, it can't provide any lasting answers, it is just a glance at a moment in time, and the mind is electric and it explodes, and it rapes conveniency, and eyes are on the moment, and the moment lies still, and it accepts.

Night of Dream

Night of dream, you are not afraid. You are a wild kaleidescope of my life. Yesterday suggesting the motions of tomorrow, and in the memories in the darkness. In the morning at the wake up, that's when decision begins. That's when the fear arises. And there is the journey from the power and the certainty to the questioning and the conclusion. And in the day, the reality is born, within a dream that was embraced and expressed, and in crazy sanity, the knives are out, for the unacceptable, the originality, the nerve of the dream. The question persists though: Should I forsake my dream for the sake of acceptable reality and ease in communication? Oh let me have the nerve of my dream. Let my consciousnesses merge, Let them be truth.

Thoughts from a Drowsy Evening

In the drowsy evening, boozy regret, the naked trees of late autumn, passive, without expression, there is nothing to be known from them, seeking to be inside of time, to lose anxiety, the flickering flame of the candle, teaching tranquility, within, complex simplicity, it mourns in a particular guilt, concerning feeling, and yesterday still appears to be present in the today, and freedom urges abandonment, and a smile rises, and there is something in the picture that speaks of time, and all that it can mean right now, and speak of, is of ages, and this is the kind of time, that has no government nor movement, an eternal thing without beginning nor end, And God is lateral to the life, and the movement increases without recognition, I guess, that however God is peceived, would prefer it to be, there is now no light, nor is there darkness, this is a place of wonderment, and there is silence there, and it is dignity, and it is alive with compassion, and there are no questions, and there is no conclusion, not now, right now.

Magic, the Beautiful Extreme

Extreme beauty enters into magic. Becomes miraculous, for the pure of heart, the true lovers. And in the place of magic, the world explodes, and for the discerning, the seeking, a homely place in on hand. And all kinds of love are available in this place, that you have arrived at, the love of lovers, and the love within friendship, the key to the magic is love. I was informed of this, and I will never forget the wisdom of the lady who cared to share it with me. And I abandoned her and set myself free, just like I feel, that she had wanted me to. She believed in prayer, and she prayed for me, and I wondered if prayer was also the casting of a spell, a psychical wish, an act of love, asking for magic, to colour the spirit of the cared for.

Almost Twice Upon a Time

Almost twice upon a time. The collision of the sameness. And separation in the sense of the real. And yesterday, long ago, the simple love and the simple sorrow of the young, and later on, a smile of kind understanding. The same things arise. They feel the same embrace, they have the same need, but development has made things richer and greater. And there can be no condescending to youth and its age, and its mind. And December just before Christmas has a sense of time about it. It seems to stand still and wonder. The chill and the people in haste, the traffic in the city, the fired eyes, the expectation, the dream, the imagining, the anticipation, There was strength in the feeling within me today, I turned away from her, and I turned to truth. Somewhere inside of this wilderness, there is warmth, and it speaks from the heart, and it loves. And nighttime darkness, is shy on cheer. It asks to be considered for the way that it obviously, apparently is and no more. But within the darkness, stars shine in optimism, seeking not to be ignored. It may be winter in the seasons of the year, but blinding to the dark, the sun shines within, smiles, and provokes. And the cold, can only still one into warming. And the warming air envelopes, and challenges one to prosper. There is something in the air this evening, and it cares, and it desires. It refuses to stand still, and it prompts, and it teases, and it looks for answers.

The Dawning of Tomorrow

Far away, the future, my intention, my being in another place, temporarily. Beckoning, I gaze into the eyes of wonder. Dreaming I gaze into the eyes of unreality. And then there is the distance between the dream and unreality, and the distance between the dream and reality. And the mind, the thinking mind, is short on truth, and it stills in this awareness. And in the world of spirit, the feeling rises, after a world of living in a world of pretend affection. And the attraction lives, is still wanting to embrace me in its apparent lie. And in an ancient time of life, a face reemerges, clearly before the eyes of my memory. Truth, is on its own, in its purity, in itself, in its perfection. And I look into the eyes of her heart, and all I can see is delusion. Love is nowhere to be seen, and inside of me, springs unease, and springs antipathy. And I have seen the words and the feeling of the words that her apparent soul spoke to me, and I'm stirred somehow to reject any kind of anger. And the music is silent, has changed its course, and is searching for itself, quietly yet again. Inside of life, the eyes are firing, and everything is yesterday, and tomorrow, must be managed, entered into. And I wonder why she was there at that particular time, and why I was also. And I look away from yesterday to the dawning of tomorrow.

Witchy Love and the Priestess

Witchy love and the Priestess, on the Sunday morning stand. We go our very different ways. I stand alone in a world that she does not know. I remind myself not to close in on her. Still, I have to remind myself of what might have been. It was all some crazy dream or was it some possibility? And did she listen to the words and the music? And did she understand the things that I tried to say to her? And did she realise that the things that she said to me, spoke to my soul? Turning away in the aftermath, if there really is an aftermath, and if it is really a turning away, haunts my commitment, my honesty, my truth. And I was thinking of her appropriateness and I cared to think that she was going to be ok. I had heard the word the word before, and I was informed that it meant destruction. And tonight, all the world in my world wants me to care for her and hold her in my caring dream. Somewhere, away from a certain reality, I sense her, and feel that she senses me also. And is she dark as the nighttime? And is she apart from love? And am I a part of her truth? And where is truth as regards the magic? And what happened to that magic anyway? Did it disappear or did she ignore its possibillity? I guess that the end is the end, but my feeling can have no end. My feeling is real, and it is with her always.

Monday Morning

The angel cries, the mirror beckons, a reflection that is not of another's success. Dark haired Hispanic bella, and she is so inviting, and I greet her with a sympathetic smile. Yesterday faded into today. The morning sought to awaken me away from comfortable simplicity. And on Sean McDermott Street in the middle of the morning, I recognised a face as it recognised mine. She says I should visit, be familiar, and I smile, and I remember that she remembered, with some kind of impressiveness. Dark is her beauty and light is her heart, and loving is her countenance. Memories of ancient love, envelope and the sun comes to play, looking me straight in the eye. And in the dream there was a Spanish Galleon, and in the dream there was fire, and outside of the dream, all was illusion. And the dream and the reality found unity with themselves. And I heard a sad song on the radio, of love that had walked away by itself, where destiny had refused. And on O'Connell Street, she stood there wondering, about her memory and the words that she spoke to me with. And I tell myself to be easy and turn just slightly from her, to what I believe is my truth. And the authorities were on the raid on Moore Street this morning, and they were weak in their strength, and I was secretly pleased. I walked my way home in the early afternoon, with a smile and a memory of ancient times. Love was in the air and its colour was magic.

Prayer

Paint me with your love. Let your soul close into mine. Eyes to the sky, and seeking the gift. And this moment of this day, let it exactly be all that there is. Let there be no nighttime. Let us be indivisable, let the moon enter our hearts. Let there be love, and let the love be righteous, and let it strengthen and let it run wild and let it be free. and let the music listen, and let it find harmony, and let our love be a prayer, and let the prayer be heard by the God of love. And may the God of love embrace our togetherness, our selfishness, our aloneness, our oneness.

Yesterday

The changes of her heart invade her mind. And I discovered through her that romance was a spiritual thing. And fleeting seems to be truth within her apparent insincerity, that I accused her of. And had guilt thereafter and couldn't be easy with conclusions, which were never meant to be conclusions. I can't quite manage to steer clear of yesterday, when she was around and around me in her prescence. I thought that I could look somewhere for answers when in reality I knew in the truth of myself, that the truth was all within myself. And yesterday has moved on, and has taken its own course, yesterday doesn't dwell in today, it has turned its back on the present, and in the present, she is around somewhere, although nowhere to be seen, without the prospect of being seen. And I wonder if today can really be true of yesterday. Yesterday when there was the feeling of love. Yesterday, when her eyes shined in mine. Yesterday when she was here.

The Music and Me

after all the muzak, I am in a Godly place listening to the delights of the art. And at the fingertips of my good fortune, I luxuriate in the beauty that is close to me. Still though, I haven't given myself to the beauty of it all, like I have and I can. Somewhere a voice is calling, as in the words of the old John McCormack song, or at least the song that he sang, and am wondering to myself, 'just how suggestible am I?' I am provoked by my non compliance, and my thoughts turn to love, the love that dwells deeply within the art of this beautiful sound of sounds. And the evening envelops me and looks at me in a precarious place, and it gazes in the eyes, and it wraps its arms around me, both in comfort and in warning me to go to the place where it feels, and possibly I, feel where I belong.

The Question

I remember when she told me that 'the only magic you will ever need, you'll find in love' and in that moment I wondered if Christians believed in magic. And I wondered then and I am still wondering now, and I believe that she has shared her magic with me, and her eyes told me to pursue the magic that she held within her, and in the distance between our eyes, the magic spoke to me of love, and she walked away on that holy evening and my eyes followed her as she left, she had given me enough to make me follow her, and I went home in the evening, to find myself alone with her in my mind, and my mind consulted the heart for feeling, and the feeling spoke to me both of mind and heart and the oneness of both, and then there had been a question, a question that I didn't realise had been asked,

Children in the Rain

Children in the rain, with no eye on the past, a thought explodes, causing a momentary ambition to be fulfilled. The old people now are but illusions, attempting to destroy the brilliancy of childhood. They are largely ignored as they should be. There is thunder in the eyes and the spirit speaks and screams and the spirit dwells and is present in each moment. Children in the rain, where there is no darkness. And the rain is but a cooling concern, the sky is yet not crying but gently embracing in empathy. And in a swingpark there is excitement and togetherness, and communion. Laughing eyes explain to the world, that the world has got it wrong. And I think that the world had better listen, because this world that the children have hanging over them, does not know. And I look in at the children in the rain and I remember when I was a child standing in the rain, but didn't realise the power or the beauty that I now perceive.

Waiting for You Impatiently

Standing within the shadow, Headphone sounds and the rain is trickling on the outside. There is guilt in the heart and its beginning to turn to a mild kind of anger. Her face is on my mind, and I sense her smile. The distance is close always, she is near to me and I feel her around me. Wondering where she will lead me to, and if it a real place to be. Defining who we are what we are, she said to me, wondering if I was to go back in school again, and the heart smiles in a sardonic kind of way. Waiting for the future, I am restless, and the heart beats in anticipation and it quietens again and I relax. The streets are made for heroes and I am on the inside and gazing through the window of my life. I am haunted by my need of her and I must endure, I brighten, I can't allow the depths to darken me. I have told her that I could tell her in the truth of my heart, and yet I am questioning my own motives. It has turned now to Autumn and the sun is largely gone, but the moon can be so beautiful in the peaceful nighttime. So I wait to discover about these definitions she had spoken of, and a smile arises. Its going to be alright I convince myself.

Mandolin

Been treating my Mandolin like a stranger, and in turn the Mandolin wont allow me closeness. Music indeed has distanced itself somewhat, and I plead for mercy, and I then have to enter my memory, and the scenes of times when there was oneness and the days had no end, and all of heart was in tune with the magic.

Strangeness

Women are strange, or is it just her? Or is it me perhaps?

Isn't it Strange?

Isn't it strange when something happens when nothing happens and when the silence speaks to you disturbing you to understanding?

Nighttime Love and the Time that Never Ends

nighttime love and the time that never ends, there is hunger in the eyes and the feet can't stand still. A cool wind blows and the heat is getting soft. Rainbow dancers swing to the rhythms of esoterica and I in my memories of telepathic nightmares am gazing in the window of my soul. A dog barks, the candle burns out, there is a feeling of complicity, how many times must there be a return to the same story? And in the mind, are thoughts of strangers, and wonderings of the times which are to be, or not to be. Someone came close and looked me completely in the eye, I don't know whether to suspect her or not, and she waltzed into the eyes and she sang into the lamplight of a song, and the song turned its head away wondered to itself in the restless nighttime. And the nighttime was non-committal and just stood there looking at the moon, and all around the stars were on fire and birds escape to the comfort of new found tales of ancient history. and the rhymms can't let go and dig the beat as only rhythms can. And the music stands on edge, checking itself on every note, not being easy, not letting go of itself. looking into its own eyes for comfort, and I walk away with eyes turned back to the action, and reckon that I might have somewhere new to turn on.

The Fade-Out Cannot Erase the Introduction

there is death in every moment and perhaps that particular moment is gone and has died. Today you walked right there beside me when you were nowhere to be seen, and I held you close to me but I knew somehow that we couldn't be apart like this forever. And I wondered if it would be correct of me in perhaps my selfishness, to say goodbye to you and our time, our not quite connecting in the conventional way. And your song was singing inside of me and I couldn't keep the beat any more. There was brightness still. I knew that there could never be tears between us and that picture that we made together could not disappear completly and the fade-out cannot erase the introduction.

Pat Ingoldsby

Pat Ingoldsby is still alive and selling his books in the city centre. I saw him other day and he saved himself yet another Euro by remembering my name (the blaggard) So he still hasn't published the book that he mentioned me in. And he has been warned that I will sue for libel if there is anything less than wonderful about me in it. So should I remember him in a song? or a Short story? Or one of those little philosophical things that I write? Hmm I am kept on edge. One of the most famous of the present day poets and he is a truly nice and gentle man and his wit and his kindness when I have not always been receptive to these things spurs me to the point where I feel I should recognise him in print also, but alas, it is my own personal snobbery that makes me turn from him and walk into myself again. He said that he wants my accent when I die, and I asked him if we could perhaps come to a pre-death arrangement and all he ever wants to do is smile. I missed the man for the few months he hawked his wares in Howth. And why Howth of all places? Isn't that the place where Gay Byrne dwells? And I guess he would like to be in Barra once again and frightening the sheep with his version of the Rocky Road to Dublin. God Bless him.

Celtic Football Club

Even if you care nothing for the game of Association Football here you have the chance to check out the passion and devotion of the most dedicated and devoted football fans in the world whose club is not just an ordinary football club but is the club which represents the people and their decendents from Ireland who initially came to Scotland from Ireland to escape the ravages of famine torn Ireland and suffered much antipathy and hatred in doing so from the native Scots' population. This is not the support for a mere football team it is the support for a heritage and a love from where it came.

The Real Thing

The beautiful prejudice which is love, magnetising and spiritualising. And I walk to you always, I cannot divert my feelings for you and I find your feelings for me difficult to accept. And I have had you very close to me and loved the comfort of your physical self when I have loved you so much that I am almost oblivious to the way you physically are

The Master and I

Wine in the evening corrupting dream in the morning my feet need walking and my stomach bread am thinking of names of places I may have heard of but have never really known or have visited the day stands out before me it is Sunday and life has quietened itself somehow and I changed my shoes to the shoes that I had fallen on doing myself a little physical damage and being grateful to the master for letting me away so easily and the master is the master of the gift the gift that can never be mine because I can't bestow on myself I just have to take it as far as I can take it and hand it back to the master

Feeling of the Music

The music disturbs somewhat changing the easy place I might have found myself in, somewhere, an unintentional destination, a place that just happened to come to me when I wasn't looking, and I settle into this moment through this particular sound and my eyes feel and I tighten, and the music is in me once again.

The Dark Knight Rises

The Second Amendment (Amendment II) to the United States Constitution is the part of the United States Bill of Rights that protects the right of the people to keep and bear arms. It was adopted on December 15, 1791, along with the rest of the Bill of Rights.

So following on from this: The American Constitution is partly responsible each time some crazy decides he wants to shoot up the whole world. When is this issue going to seriously be addressed, it is barbaric to even imagine that all your citizens can bear arms responsibly.

Political Correctness

It is extreme ignorance in my opinion. People are different from one another, it is one of the beauties of creation and to try to understand the nature of the difference in others is to try to understand life itself.

The Song of You

and its like: I create about you when you aren't there, and the art tries its best to make you real, and then I see you and its like you are the physical representation of a song I have just written, and you are alive and breathing and the song is an invisible thing that only I can give life to when I play and sing it. In reality the song I have just written doesn't really exist, it just exists in my dream of you when you are gone. I don't want to write another song about you.

The Indigestible Kiss

The indigestable kiss, the mystery of her emotion. My feeling surrounds her in dark romance. Oour eyes locked in their embrace and can mystery be blamed for fantasy? And can there be no arbiter? And can there be no just conclusion When we leave to go our settled separate ways? And can the heart remember well and the be kind always in its memory>? Lost in just a moment her memory surrounds me. Freedom is hard to find and I look another way to another direction where she can't be found. Quiet memory appeals to me. It warms me with its thought and the thought of closure. It is almost summer and the birds are singing, they punctuate my silence until they grow silent themselves. And there is music in my reflections and the songs sing of love and the song was from the heart when the heart was filled with truth.

Today

Another place hides in its darkness, secreted from my knowing. I dream a dream to it in blankness, and the evening is still and the birdsong is no longer. A name is on my mind, someone I am not acquainted with, only their words have spoken to me somewhat, when I have read over them. I focus so slightly and wonder if this is the direction for me to turn to, to discover something that I almost sense that I have to find, that I somehow seek to find, without being fully conscious of it. I allow the idea to drift until I see more of these words tomorrow. Today there was strangeness in the day and I felt myself lost within its shape, I was a stranger to this particular day. It didn't present itself to me. It sought to ignore me and I sat in the evening of this day wasting time, passing time. I wanted to still avoid it, and I wanted to look into its heart. I wanted the truth of it all no matter how much it didn't want me, nor didn't want to appeal to me.

Remembering a Particular Feeling

Je me souviens et sais que vous ne vous souvenez pas de moi. Je revis notre amour et sens votre contact. Vous êtes réels à moi aujourd'hui. Que je ne sois réel à vous plus, me signifie peu. Peut-être je n'étais jamais très réel à vous. Mais l'amour est l'amour et il ne peut être nié par aucun d'entre nous maintenant, bien que je parle pour seulement moi-même.

I remember and know that you don't remember me. I relive our love and feel your touch. You are real to me today. That I am not real to you anymore, means little to me. Perhaps I was never very real to you. But love is love and it can't be denied by either one of us now, although I speak for only myself.

The Crutch

The crutch I need, I have decided, is not alcohol or religion or listening to a particular person or adhering to a particular philosophy, it is some place inside of me that I have to explore.

Now

This moment is right now. In the history of the world and of creation this is now. And I am honoured to be in this moment in the history of life, and now I must honour it........

Facebook

Here the phantom angels reside. A world apart, becoming together. And the cymbals clash and the people stand. The world has changed and the music is dancing.

Mind Guitar

Now I see that Art is God and my mind is not so much all fingers and thumbs except when they are on the guitar.

Me and Charlotte Bronte

I am presently luxuriating in the craft and the art of the greatest writer whom I have ever read: Charlotte Bronte

God

Reality stands before the eyes, physical in shape and deceptive in its truth. Spiritual mind lies behind the curtain looking for the feeling to make it real. And its realness lies with spirit and soul in the place where facts no longer figure. Love lies here also and it calls you home and to become entuned. And the music has the good people dancing, eyes are in eyes and there is no distance apart. Soul is created, silent soul, no appropriate words. Life smiles provoking engagement. You can either take it or leave it. Art lies in soul and is its own reward. God has seen to this, for he is the gift of soul and of love. And in a moment there are magical occurances, bright eyes and memories colliding with the present, and the present looks at itself and it notices a figure there. And the figure stands over all of truth, because the figure is truth, and the figure is GOD.

Advice to Myself in the Night

You want to be free? You want to excel? Well, first you have to lose your mind and keep your sanity. Be in touch with spirit and soul and forget about 'knowing'

A Turn to the Right

Feel I've been on a journey to another place, looked around and stayed for a while, enjoyed the view and the people, and yet still don't know where I was. I only know I wont be back there again and I may just try to tranlate this experience into reality sometime perhaps soon, when my mind if free, and the time is right

Kiss

Words of soul,eyes searching eyes, accidental romance, and then the tantalizing kiss of a moment that can know no tomorrow.