Thursday, February 22, 2018


                                     I died from minerality and became vegetable;
                                   And From vegetativeness I died and became animal.
                                   I died from animality and became man.
                                  Then why fear disappearance through death?
                                  Next time I shall die
                                  Bringing forth wings and feathers like angels;
                                  After that, soaring higher than angels -
                                  What you cannot imagine,
                                   I shall be that.

                                  Rumi was a 13 century Persian poet and mystic.

Friday, January 19, 2018

Warmth and Wakey Nights

A fire still amuses as it must have through the ages past.  Since lightening first struck that tree they must have sought the warm and sights to behold. Floating color, as elements burn, allows pause and sleepy meditation.
This is temporary happy.  

"Seaport by Moonlight"   A 1771 painting by Claude-Joseph Vernet  in the Louvre in Paris.
A detailed presentation (he depicted many French ports and ships):  I wonder how he painted by moon and fire light.

  I use this as desktop background and only recently noticed the fellow asleep on the anchor behind the folks at the fire.

How did those sailors keep warm on those wooden ships?

Wednesday, December 06, 2017

Muse Sleeping

Why Not to Write Poems

“I’m a poet” makes for awkward social introductions.
No one reads poetry anymore. It’s old-fashioned,
irrelevant, and adolescent. 

You don’t see the universe in the heart of a lily.
It just spits orange pollen all over your black turtleneck
and makes you sneeze. 

Grammar is confusing. Poems are unnecessary.
They make nothing happen.* They don’t even 
rhyme anymore.

You are insufficiently weird. Only goth teens, 
hippies, queers, suicidal women, and old people 
write poems. 

Poets have to read poems. You read a poem once. 
You hated it. The only famous poets are dead poets. 
There are no rich poets. 

You have no talent. You’re the wrong ethnicity. 
You don’t know enough big words. You’ve got no 
rhythm. And WTF are “line breaks”?

You’ve read that it takes years of study and practice 
to write even one good poem. The only easy-to-write 
poems are list poems. And they’re boring.
(By Sharon Brogan written on VerseWrights)

Saturday, November 18, 2017

What's Next . . .

Direction to me. 

It seems the blogs may be nearly on the way out . Too easy with FB to comment a quick retort or post a photo of your last meal than to really take some time, maybe research, and present a thoughtful presentation on the blog. 
Leaving my blog,  I fear loss of  my ability to stay with a project (may be aging but  not to the extent that I experience it) since attending other distractions -- FB, etc.  I will start something like repairing a lawn mower or sweeping up this lady bug infestation, and quit partway through vowing to return later.  Things get eventually done but only through attrition. I seem to have no staying power with a project, even reading.      Time for a change . . . .

  And  I see that poetry is still alive and well on the blogs: