Tuesday, May 01, 2018

Spring be Here '18

Still Pond 2 Isabella Plantation, Richmond Park, London, UK

For my girl

A moment of happiness,
you and I sitting on the verandah,
apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here,
you and I, with the garden's beauty
and the birds singing.
The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together,
indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.
The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar
as we laugh together, you and I.
In one form upon this earth,
and in another form in a timeless sweet land.                               

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)