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.

Peace in the World

One hand clapping in time to the music within the silence. The darkness recedes although there is wind with the rain. It is attention seeking, it will not stir. The darkness now darkens, the wind recedes, the rain takes centre stage. Candles burn as if in rebellion. The eyes engage with the view. There's a church in the distance and it is asking me for prayers. I turn to the moon, its love unconquered yet. The night is alive. It has won the day. The clock ticks on, in another eternity. Silence claws for appointment. Its a psychical moment. Earth is in control and the feeling is of strength and envelopement. And still it rains, and yet it rains in the darkness with the moon watching over in supervision. A moment is born that can not be evaded. It takes itself perfectly seriously. Memories are the only life around outside of the present world. Alas, they are but memories and perhaps were always fated to be so. Angels dance, horses play, its all in movement, until the movement returns to stillness and silence re-enters the room. And the life within adheres to the silence, not waiting for an oppportunity to speak, but for fusion. The wind and the rain have died now. The silence has taken control. Even sounds in the far-off distance now seem self-conscious and attempt to still themselves. There is oneness in the night. There is peace in the world.

Circles (Time is Alive)

All in the circle. Airport tears. Long finger, never-neverland love. The figures and the faces of the Kaleidescope gaze back in turn. The moon looks. The street is alive with Jazz. Music is yet to find a voice. Other places are entering minds as other places are exiting them. Life is silent, it has come to a stop. It looks within at itself and then runs away frightened and increases movement. There's a fight going on in an inner city street. The pubs are ablaze with emptiness and horse-racing. People are in cars and buses and taxis going places while other people are home and going nowhere but home. That's where the questioning begins. Its a lot to call yourself at home. How long can it last? Circles everythere, nobody sees them, but they are there alright. Ther's a charity collector looking for change and she has no need for money. She is on stage and away from home, thinking in public for once. Its summertime and life is hot and the skies sometimes cry. There is a little more freedom in the air. There is less explaining to do. It is a shared thing. I'm stuck inside of the daytime thinking about love, and what there is to find there. Today life is neon somehow, and expressive. It sings as it doesn't speak. There's a circle going on. Time is alive. its a shared experience, open to interpretation, but its just circles, circles, circles.

The Colours of My Day

The look, the clothes, the walk. Creating one strength, a new creation in one who was created. It was on Moore Street, though there had been travelling involved. They should have built a theatre there all of those years ago when Dublin was the capital of Europe in this way. But that was long before the journey, from the east I think, that was the direction left, departed. And the traveller must have felt quite unique in this other place, a star of a show in meagre surroundings. Money was the motive of course, the reason why. I've tried to imagine that place, but I can't even seem to be able to pronounce its name. There was a visitor here, I could see the homelessness in their scare. I said 'hi' in welcome, but no-one was there. I opened the door as a friend, with a smile and a wink, I got the faintest smile back, and a city in the east came alive for a while, early in my day. I'd been shopping for some food and going nowhere and lonely grafitti told me to 'sympathise, there's separation here, you have to realise.' And blues played in an evening where I used to live before, I mainly just listened though I can't say that it spoke to me and I'm not sure if I even interpreted it as music, and I wondered about connecting the east and the blues, and the guy in the hat with my girl, I just slipped through the curtain when the scene was played out and walked into my mind again and changed the colour of my day.

A Light for the Candle

Passion doesn't tell right from wrong. It lives in the moment. Its soul is fire and the fire has no mind. Underlying dream tells its truth in the welcome slumber. Awareness is suggested. It stands in the shadows of heat. A doorbell stranger with eyes in your eyes threatens to disturb your concealment. The noise of the street is begining to be heard. A child awakes to the suckling mother. There is war in the world and madness is on the stage, and they are dancing in the aisles. Definition is unsure, understanding is impossible. Confusion screams at the overwhelmed. What once was love has become a fleeting glance, eliciting words that should not have been said, and kisses that shouldn't have been kissed. Truth has been eclipsed in the crazy nighttime, and the day has come to hide. The day where once we cared and were loving. There is not an understanding silence, but a refusal to answer. There is nowhere to run, and passion grows red when seen in the mirror, and asks for forgiveness and offers to help. The fire turns to the summer and the summer speaks to the heart from the heart of love. Somewhere there is a warm embrace and a kiss that should be kissed and the words of feelings are tacitly accepted by a grateful stranger. The world has become undead. This world is full of strangers, its the point where music brings a light to the candle.

After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

Hunger of the Eyes

Its easier to look into the soul of an attractive woman, or try to, or pretend to. What are you doing when you gaze into the eyes of someone? What are you hoping to find? What is it possible to find there? Perhaps we get closest to those who are closest to us. Perhaps they are easier to discover. So there can be a forever stranger, someone you can't find an understanding of. You can romance their mystery, yet mystery is insincere and untruthful. But mystery is a magnet, is a lure, when it holds no answers, just possibilities. Unless of course a mystery is unravelled right before your eyes.