Pictures

Pictures of different areas of life, they confront and perhaps they ask, perhaps they question. I guess that they could intimidate, if one allowed them to. And what is a picture anyway, but a moment that has chosen to sleep. So away from pictures, life continues in its motion, and this motion that life has about it, it tempts and it provokes a person to get in touch with it, to deal with it, to be alongside of it. There is golden in the memory of sun. The sun seems to overwhelm the day, and its pictures. And then there are pictures that are inside the head, and often accompanied by words, perhaps foreign to them. I guess that they try to get in time, attempt to create understanding. And alongside those pictures that are in my head, are the people in the pictures, and the memory of them. And sometimes along with the words that wish to accompany the picture, comes some kind of music, perhaps, it is a song, or perhaps it is just a melody. And electric eyes, firing their way into another soul, when the other soul has nowhere to turn or to go. The only place to look sometimes is future memory, just to get out of this place as it happens to be, now. It could take a long time to escape, it could possibly take a lifetime. Fortune deals its cards. One by one they are picked up, and one by one each of us is identified. Isn't it strange, how the things of life, affect one different from the next? So I guess, to be in touch with reality, you have to be in touch with possibilities. And horses dance and lions lie down with tigers, and scenes of the city, are embarrassed into feeling alone. The beaming sun radiant in its style, just ask for acceptance and again the question reaches the mind.

Thoughts on a Winter's Day

Vibrant music playing through the wild evening, and through the cold in the January air. Some part of inside, creates a warmth, makes one, want to investigate, to be one with its source. And unremembered dreams, seem to want to still me in their aftermath. I got up this morning, thinking I should return to my bed and try to return to them. In winter, colour seems to retire, seems to be submissive to the climate. And different kinds of love provoke me, and I attempt to search them for understanding. There's a hunter and all he seems to be is circular. The beginning reaches the end until it reaches the beginning once again. Stuck inside of this moment of the day, my mind and its remembrances, deep guilt inside the reason why. Moral debt, and a youthful attraction, in a far away world of yesterday, remains clear. I never understood the reason for this particular course, I never wanted to understand perhaps. And understanding will still be in the department of unknowing anyway, outside of black and white reality, and even the word reality is questionable. I can understand the necessity for comedy and horror and the things of escape, when they probably couldn't understand me, in my complex simplicity. And ultimately the heart wants to only deal in love, and it dwells on the vagaries of it. And romance is a universe of a picture, when the world seeks to envelope and define, within mystery. And mystery has no answers, but colour, and its colours speak to the heart again, with suggestion and some kind of expectation perhaps.

Poetry

Empty so called poetry, rejoicing in its nothingness, turning from question. Fanciful expressions, sometimes, but not every single time,tolerable. Tough reality, gazing straight into the eyes, refusing a certain kind of innocence, just this once. And in this moment arises the thought of worth. And in this moment arises the idea of excellence. And in this moment, arises the idea of true expression. The true expression of understanding. So don't tell me that what you write in your unknowing mind is poetry. And don't expect me to judge the things that you do, kindly. If you want to make your poem, then you will first have to get in touch with your soul. There is no easy way, it can't be done otherwise. And God is the master of creation, soul would appear to be the intermediary, there is no place higher to be, than to be as a servant. And the focuses, are in their way touched and blessed by God. And the God of life is the God of art and this God is the one who allows. So vanity will lead you to delusion, and if you feel that this delusion is a comfort then you turn away from all of art and from all of God. I am a messenger and am given gifts to give. They aren't mine and they don't belong to me, and they aren't yours, and they don't belong to you either. From this gift of God, there must be return. It is inescapable, it is reality, it is truth. So if you would care to believe in the world of art, then you I believe, would care to believe in the world of love. Love is alive not just when there is music in an embrace, and when the touch is real, but when the feeling needs expression.

From Sparkling Wine to Sour Grapes

From sparkling wine to sour grapes lingering too long in my feeling, she escapes back to the world of her true reality. I move on, connecting to the light. Rainbow visions in Chinese evenings, gently aware of where the sun has gone to rest, and life begins to recline. There are sparks on the horizon and the waves cascade on the watching ocean. Extravagant colours in changing patterns, awing and provoking creation, having nowhere to rest and seeking toward infinity,new lighting is given to all of experience where understanding isn't prepared to settle on. A world explodes, it will not give its secrets. It will look you in the eye urging activity. And in the intensity,spirit is in the air, married to soul, and there are no such things as answers, only solutions to inactivity. The world is a ball of fire, ever changing in colours of insanity and expression. People pray to Gods they have never known, and they pray within to their soul in discomfort from not being able to face the truth of themselves, for fear that this particular vanity might be going a little too far. And in this wonderland magic can be the only thing obvious, to attain. And how could magic be 'an only thing?' and indeed a thing? Eyes collide with visions of dream and reality, the temporary and the old. History has only itself to blame for being certain. Truth knows better and deals not in delusion. Truth is quiet within itself and accepts itself inviting visitation.

January Song

The invading spirit and guile of the sorceress, mystifying the early morning moments. Tired eyes, with hardly the energy for question. And the day suggests. It gazes into the tired eyes and it appeals. And after a walk on the outside, some kind of understanding occurs. The mistake is to find the same smells of the same people and the same time in the same city streets. It could all feel so eternal, if it were to be accepted on the face of it all. To be alone, is to be free, and to be free is to look freely at the day. And the day, seems to watch from some kind of distance, tempting and teasing in its tantalising way. And the day is not alone, and the day is not free. It stands over the picture available, it has its mind made up already, and it may look in a kind way and it may look in another way on its subjects. And memories stand defenceless prompting imagination to explode. I saw it in a dream that not everyone is in comfort. And anyway, there are changes and within the changes there are new people dancing, they sway to the rythmm of a new departure, they have each other, if they can't find anything else. So the city drums its beat to change. And change can hear the beating, and it stands apart. And I wonder if it really wants to know. I wonder if change really recognises the recent past, and if it has boundaries. Indeed does change know the reason for its being? And is its life in touch with life? Or is change just a wild and carefree thing that only believe in itself? And belief? Is it real? can it be enough for commitment? Can it be everything in the satisfaction of a mind, of a heart of a soul?

Acceptance

From youth to agedness, the perversity of what is life. And from age, to look back to youth is a rather poignant thing. And to the images of the moments and their outcomes. In another kind of love, a spark explodes, fiery eyes and a reason for being at this point. Time seems to come together, there is no past and there is no now, that isn't of the past, life is one, and the light fuses with the dark. Memories have exploded their way into the present time, it is all embracing of all of the living time. And neon lighting electrical dream, has its truth to tell, and still and quiet as a museum the moment stands on its own, and the evening falls to dark, and there is the memory of the day, and the thought of the bright tomorrow. And within another kind of love, love itself enquires within, movement continues to live, it will live, it must continue on its way. There is the will to be free and it will be accepted as freedom. And winter days are warm now, tradition seems to have disappeared and be gone. Time and the world and it ages have colluded to a new acceptance, to a new now. Books are dead and have passed to their rightful time, only music and art are alive in the gallery of today. And there was a thinking girl, and we smiled, I wouldn't have believed that she could've been, but she exploded in a moment of my comfort. Today there is peace in the sky, and it reaches to earth and it seeks acceptance, and I, well I, accept.

The Dream Meets Reality

Imprisoned in that dreamy reality of romance and spirituality, when telephones don't ring anymore, and time increases. Memories juggle for prominence and interchange. And music diminishes to a song about your being gone. If I could erase hurtful words and their meanings I could smile on you again with an open smile. And yet, I remember an unspoken message, telling me that there was to be no disappointment within our star. Seems to be that love doesn't blossom on a plateau, seems to be, that a love is in a world all of its own. And a world is a total thing, and needs no help or assistance. And love in its world expands to the boundaries of that world, when that world will not stand still.

Mediocrity

Metallic eyes, distancing that self from society. A memory comes true, it dwells again in the day. And there were appropriate people in my little world today, and it was pleasing to accept. And there was a dream of another lifetime, where understanding went awry and in the dream there seemed to be a gift of wanting me to gain understanding in its distant aftermath. And the memory of dream is oftentimes like the memory of a happening of long before, in the awakening and the haze. In the see-saw jungle, nothing is clearly determined nor defined, and tomorrow can easily change the truth that I seemed to see in today. So outside of this, life and truth lie in fog, and that same fog will clear sometime, until it returns again. And dreams sometimes step out of the sleeping self and enter into the present consciousness, in a quiet and invisible way. So the comforter invades. The spirit cannot deny, it isn't really aware, and has no question, no debate with either dream or reality. An explosion of radical change seems to have occurred to the world, and I can only observe it from the little part of it that I am in. I forgive my narrowness,there is no guilt. And the longing of the heart is no longer intense, it has settled somewhat in some kind of ease of acceptance. I question my interests nonetheless, and why I should take myself to them. Perhaps now I should believe in mediocrity in the true sense of the word, in that middle place.