-
It Makes Little Difference. . . .
Excerpt from a journal entry of July 20, 1981. . . . I am responsible for who I am. The responsibility cannot be assumed by an other. I may be an alien in this world, but this world, this beautiful world is not an alien place. It is here to sustain and nourish…
-
Think It Through. . . .
Men may live lives of quiet desperation but is it not better to punch out the heavens and settle the fight? ***** Some people prefer to sit on hot rocks. ***** The path for the journey…
-
Rolling Thunder. . .
Back in the ‘70s when I awakened with notes written during the night with the words, ‘the past is still happening, the future has already happened and here in the Now we race to catch up with it’ I barely understood what the words meant. It was only in the past year I learned…
-
The Wall Of Night. . .
Nothing To See. . . You dropped a kiss on the top of my head as you headed out the door. I wanted to hold onto what the night had brought and the morning promised. . . Too late, I think, another chance missed, to gather to ourselves what time would bring in another lifetime…
-
Sweet The Arrival. . .
The Necessary Journey Breath was taken as wind whipped itself to a literal frenzy and the waters ripped the edges of shore. The moss flew at right angles from the branches of the Spanish Oaks. . . so beautiful the eyes could only tear with awe. The girth of the trees no tape could measure.…
-
Toward Greater Life. . . .
Come Dance. . . As children we are taught that unless it can be touched, or tasted, or weighed or measured in some way and above all, tested in a laboratory, then it isn’t real; it is imagination. And yet to dismiss the emotion that has our heart and mind expanding to give us a…
-
I Am The Tree. . . .
I Am The Tree. . . In man’s history, there was a time when his consciousness with Nature melded. Man did not look upon Nature as object to be observed, outside of himself, but was at one with it. It would be saying ‘I am the breath that blows through the trees and wind we…
-
There Are No Words. . . .
There Are No Words There are no words in this limiting lexicon to tell of the place where heart proceeds to the precipice to touch the face of eternity. To tell of the unsteady stance ready to drop the knees at the altar of worlds begging for recognition. This they say, these giant oaks in…
-
The Night Before We Put Beau Down. . .
As family members separate to find their independence, or to find work in a mobile society, the premises from which these souls wander still requires a caretaker. We found in our domesticated animals an adaptability to our need for companionship when these members left. These sweet creatures become part of the family. For those…
-
Sweet Morpheus. . .
In reading today’s post of Maria Wulf’s fullmoonfiberart.com she talked of dreams and how one does not question the dream nor truly its significance. Or one’s presence in it. It brought to mind my own questions during my life’s journey at about the same age as Maria and a poem I have not thought…