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.

A Closer Look at a Picture

A head full of wanderings. No singular decision. Chaos within the peace of the silence of the mind. Chaotic meanderings of imagination. I discard the bottle again. I see if this can still me. A lasting moment envelopes me. I try to define it, but it wont stay easy. She was here for a moment and she lingered right on. A slight feeling of guilt accompanies my welcome to our connection. I mused on a future, and all I could find was the present moment. And the moment is of the heart and its feeling is true. Truth is esential. It will provide content and ease of mind, and peace within the silence. And then I meditate on the truth of the feeling being true. A certain poverty exposed in weakness, in the free expression of the wants and the needs of love. And the righteous God with his righteous love and all I can do is wonder at the connection, and the human touch and the common feeling that is shared. A distance appears, a time is gone, there is newness and difference, and I wonder at her reasons, and at her truth. But yet, I believe in her and in her beauty, and that both she and her beauty are real to me. I need to believe that she is indeed beautiful, to the oneness of my self.

The Beauty of Love

To be inside the beauty of love, kissed by truth. The angel sang of her sadness. I followed along in a musical dream, and it led me to the knowing spirit of the tender feeling. It is a lonely moment for a selfish feeling. The world is at bay. The eyes see only the feeling within, they are not empty and they then look on the outside, examining feeling, and its quality of purity. The city is crammed with madness and it is cold outside. Winter threatens to keep its promise and everywhere will be somewhere to avoid. And inside the day I felt the prescence and I told my imagination to find control and I told my imagination to be bold and free. And in the midst of the evening a song stirs. It sings to the heart as it speaks to me. I think about today and what it brought to me and the difference that I may have made to it. I turn from my vanity but stay inside somehow. There is promise in the night and last night the raging moon threatened the blackness of the sky. When I saw the morning there was ease, to be inside the beauty of love and kissed by truth.

Witchcraft Mirrors and See-Saw Opinions

Witchcraft Mirrors and See-Saw opinions. An angry silence. Victorious time, and the music wants to rest. Does she or doesn't she? And I inform myself that she mustn't, as I look through the cigarette fog toward the window. I try to remove her from my thought and from the movie going on at the cinema inside. Its a lantern evening and my book is on the shelf, discarded. It has said enough for the day. I feel the warmth of a a memory and I dwell on the idea of certain moments lasting for ever. I dismiss the idea almost immediately as being fanciful and dreamy, yet I don't convince myself. the silence seems to be gaining peace now, it has looked upon itself for understanding. It wants to reach into me and gain my approval. I will not stir. this evening, I don't want to have to befriend any kind of silence and why should I? when I have known it so recently to have been angry. and she, or a version of her comes into my mind again. Perhaps there is someone to accept. The summer reclines, decides to disappear for a while. I offer to taste its warmth, although unclear. there are voices in the silence, up for discussion, consideration. Light lives on, finds a way within. Love is lateral to the light. Black is not black and white is not white. Mystery pleads for freedom. Children play, with truth in their eyes. Colours are confused, but yet invade the world today. They have looked for meditation and understanding and no matter how confused they are they are colours nonetheless. And from witchcraft mirrors and see-saw opinions a winning hand is ready to be played, to define the colours of confusion, right here in the 'now.'

From the Jungle to the Zoo

Pretty poetry swirling around in the outskirts of the wealth of the picture of my intention. And later on there is leprosy noise after the mouth knives of self-attraction. It lingers in the heart sometimes, like a pang, like a look that controls. It fades and peace is restored and peace then allows the silence, and that special type of personal freedom where you can think what you want, and you are completely ignored. And then there becomes that time, that clockless moment of truthful isolation. Peace must be a solitary thing until it turns in on its own self-consciousness. Then there is the need for simple escape to the jungle, where the clocks tick and the lions roar right on time. And inside my head is like a museum sometimes when its late and dark and the night crawls over me. The night knows my tales. I cannot evade it. It corners me, to make me do the things that I most want to avoid. Another picture for the gallery perhaps? I protest that I no longer have the inclination, and that because of this, any art I create will be tainted in mediocrity. Day is born again, gives me freedom back to me, but suggests a plea that was heard from the night and asks for further consideration. I look at the day and think of the night and wait for the clock to stop, until the moment can live inside of me and inspire me and motion me to motion. And from the jungle to the zoo lost in her shadow, cursing the darkness of her memory, yet wondering about who and how she became.

In an Evening of Star

Dancingly dreamy words ensnare. I go to them and then I come from them. I visit them and then I leave, remembering energy and strength, I look for the strength that there is left. It corrects me, it guides me to the oneness of decision. And I saw my sense of you in shadow. Our eyes loved in an evening of star. And then you left but you had stayed anyway. I remembered. I tried to enter the moment and indeed become my own moment in time, in this time of my living. I could not be a stranger although I may not have visited this place before, or for a long time, perhaps since childhood. And I saw that I had been magnetised somehow, for you to have this attraction for me. And I wondered, as the time left, and left me alone in my truth. And yet I question the meaning and the reason why. And I ask myself for comfort. And in shadow again, I see not my sense of you. You have travelled somewheree, from some part of my feeling. Yet my feeling is warm in its memory. It does not betray you. Love trips out as it trips off of the tongue. It walks in disguise. There is fear in today sometimes, within its expression. It will be true to be true and it will be real to be real. It will not deceive. And love will not remain in shadow, as eyes will search and seek and hypnotise. And I recall now that you did not remain in shadow, with my sense of you in an evening of star.