the earth's wild fairy-dance

each form of beauty's but the new disguise

of thoughts more beautiful than forms can be:

sceptics, who search with unanointed eyes,

never the earth's wild fairy-dance shall see.

(words from: "the unimaginative") madison cawein

all the pictures enlarge to fill your screen when clicked on

the trees are in their autumn beauty

autumn days can be clear and cold and rich.

the eye fills with golds, russets, crimsons, all the shades of orange.

the air is thinner.

see the clear weak blue of the autumn sky.

smell the wet wood, the damp leaves, the early steel-blue edge of frost.

feel the thin fingers of winter already reaching down from the far north.

i love the way the russian artist isaak levitan brings all those sensations together in his paintings.

isaak levitan golden fall

the trees are in their autumn beauty,

the woodland paths are dry

~

under the october twilight

the water mirrors a still sky

isaak levitan the lake

(words excerpted from) "the wild swans at coole" william butler yeats

happy birthday lexie!

on this day thirteen years ago

our doctor - rick - said hey! it's a girl!

and my heart skipped a beat

and my dreams came true in one moment

and in my arms was lexie

- named alexia brooke by us -

but as with all honourable births,

she has found her own names

as she has emerged

into herself.

the blessing of my daughter

(and the blessings of my two sons)

have been difficult at times,

but then also

the most magical stunning gifts i have known and shared

with this place that we all pass through

- eyes half-closed, hearts half opened -

until such an event

renders locks and keys and other such fripperies

unnecessary and spurious residues

of a world bent on seeing itself

only through surface manifestations.

in my children i experience

the magical present whole now of being.

in my daughter

the clean pure wholeness

of womanhood.

thankyou lexie,

for being so far inside the

loving wholeness we know

as a dad and a daughter

sharing a small space for a while.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain,has such small hands

by e. e. cummings

ali's flown away

"i've gotta fly away"

she laugh-called.

and it was

the middle of the night

so i lay awake

and thought of all the

sort of things

i knew her by.

her life

was lived

fast -

and beautifully.

a blur of movement

pinwheel colours

skip dancing

to the drum circle

and i'm not -

not quite

the sunburnt crazy woman-child

you might have thought i was

in my multi-layered

thousand-scarved

technicolour

inner and outer

rayments . . .

but i'm leaving now

leaving you

and all the others

not the same

but pretty much the same.

hey listen

i'll not leave you

just as i found you.

only wiser.

larger in the ways you can live with

and especially

in those ways

you can't live without.

ali's flown away.

leaving behind

her

kaleidoscopic glasses,

dust from the playa

at burning man,

wishes and dreams

and wild thoughts

that scattered from her

like confetti off the bride's dress

at a wedding.

a fleeting vision

of life lived

as if every facet of it

is a dance -

which it is

according to the cosmology

that ali and i share.

facing the rain

i saw these pigeons

clinging to the wires.

facing the rain.

do you know that feeling . . .

clinging to the wires

facing the rain.

buson's poem paraphrased:

an evening cloudburst

pigeons cling desperately

to trembling wires

prayer flags

there are songs

that enter my head

and i recognize them

as songs from my heart -

let's call them prayers.

prayers were jobs once

bedtime postures,

words sent into the air

with pictures of people

in my head.

people i loved

and wished good things for

through my words.

with time

prayers became associated with repression.

a way

of acknowledging a relationship

with a less than benevolent person

who sat high up

somewhere

and doled out

sorrow and kindness

depending on who or what or why

you were.

i knew this was wrong.

but it was what i knew.

so one day.

i don't know when or why

i let that go.

and prayers became

a way of connecting

to the big forces -

the big real of what is.

and they were present

as songs

in my head

freely given

and filled with love

and gratitude

for the creation as a whole . . .

last week in october

so here it is, the last week in october. i love the autumn and you might be getting tired of me saying that but i love the cooler days, the rain, the occasional fog, the clear nights, the leaves, the suddenly bare trees and the unmistakeable urgency around preparing for the winter.

i was wandering through some works by russian impressionists and came across two paintings that open out the thomas hardy poem below.

the rays of the setting sun vasili baksheyev

golden autumn isaac levitan

the last week of october

the trees are undressing, and fling in many places—

on the gray road, the roof, the window-sill—

their radiant robes and ribbons and yellow laces;

a leaf each second so is flung at will,

here, there, another and another, still and still.

a spider's web has caught one while downcoming,

that stays there dangling when the rest pass on;

like a suspended criminal hangs he, mumming

in golden garb, while one yet green, high yon,

trembles, as fearing such a fate for himself anon.

thomas hardy

a sky like this

it won't rain

with a sky like this.

somewhere

sails are filling . . .

a lake is mirroring

the crosshatched silence . . .

the scent of herbs

and wildflowers

is filling a man's experience . . .

much as these clouds

passing overhead

fill my eyes

head and heart.

i roam the woods that crown the hill i live on

the sun is low on the western horizon.

time to go and see the woods

before the rain and winds of the coming days

convince them to shed their summer dresses

and prepare for the wintry blasts

that are surely coming our way!

'neath you crimson tree,

lover to listening maid might breathe his flame . . .

"the summer tresses of the trees are gone, 
the woods of autumn, all around our vale,
have put their glory on"

i roam the woods that crown 
the uplands, where the mingled splendors glow . . .

forever in thy coloured shades to stray . . . 

all text (in pale grey) william cullen bryant

october

october breathes in and out

through dove grey skies

painterly oranges and golds.

nightstories are written in

the translucent spiderwebs of

frosty residues.

leaves drift from spindly inkblot branches.

the days end in salmon grey skies

seba by hiroshige

in the autumn i know my subdued self.

the quiet one.

the shadow who dances

through

the wheel's distant reaches.

i know the dark frames

of my kaleidoscopic self.

the lines between the coloured speckles.

the coloured speckles of pure light, pure joy, pure love,

that you and i share

on our passing through this place.

i celebrate - excerpted from "song of myself"

i celebrate myself, and sing myself,

and what i assume you shall assume,

for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

walt whitman

an opportunity

when i raise money for cancer research ~

to honour the flying away of my best friend peter

who was taken away by lung and brain cancer.

the suffering of my essence sister ali

(handfasted to my bruvver david)

who is fighting brain cancer out in vancouver.

to celebrate the incredible recovery

of my student destiny

who fought brain cancer and won!

i shave my head.

it's worth a thousand dollars.

or more.

i'm not a handsome person to begin with

(being graced with more goodness than good looks

but you know what?

i'll take what i'm given thankyou!!!).

so baldness doesn't help the cause of my ego!

but i do it

because i wish for people i love

and people i don't even know,

to have their time

in this beautiful place.

and to know it

in a good

happy

way.

for as long as is possible.

or for as long as is necessary

for their soul's journey.

so why am i sharing this horrible photograph on an otherwise notoriously peaceful and lovely blog?

well.

i was just visiting

the blog

of stacey j warner.

and stacey j

has a very cool idea

that i'd like to borrow . . .

and share here.

i'd like you to feel free

to ask me a question.

about whatever you're curious about.

you see, i've been posting

as the golden fish

since august 2007,

and i've said a lot

but not that much

about steven.

i'm circumspect

about the details

of my existence.

and perhaps,

just maybe,

you're curious.

and if not

that's very alright!!!

so i'll start the ball rolling here with some pics:

here's my son from my first marriage standing next to me squinting on a bright hot summer's day. . .

alan garnet rigel are his first three names.

one for himself,

one from his paternal grandfather,

one from the star at the centre of orion's belt.

he's amazingly bright, creative, and insightful.

here are my three children.

lexie alan and dawson.

each posing.

in their own space.

utterly connected

by my love ~ their love.

each astonishingly creative, expressive, sensitive. kind,

fun people whom i wished i'd known when i was their age.

but i'm their dad instead.

so i experience each of them as gifts to myself and to the world!

so the questions . . .

well, ask them now.

i'll read them through and answer them right away!!!!

how's that . . . oh and if you think this is too too solipsistic

then let me know and i'll put this post to rest!!!

steven

the promise of tomorrow

this evening spread wide into prussian blue

and violet

and inside those sheets of glowing clouds

were threads of salmon and pale butter yellow

that smeared and melded into one.

and my heart

softened like the day

and was grateful

for this everything . . .

inside and outside

this moment.

as low my fires of drift-wood burn,

i hear that sea's deep sounds increase,

and, fair in sunset light, discern

its mirage-lifted isles of peace.

excerpted from "burning driftwood" by john greenleaf whittier

here's some beautiful music from david sylvian entitled, "come morning" . . .

"God is in the silences
between the rhythms
rise and falling
the starring of the skies of blue
the promise of tomorrow's calling
hey ho and away we go
hey ho come morning"

love fain would hold them fast

i went for a walk in the woods and on the way out i came across this,

the sorry remnants of part of our community garden.

but.

there's promise in the soil.

that will wait

patiently

through winter's blasts

and spring's caprices.

as will i . . .

a song of summer days

as pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea,

these rounded summer days fall back into eternity.

into the deep from whence they came; into the mystery--

at set of sun each one slips back as pearls into the sea.

they are so sweet--so warm and sweet--love fain would hold them fast:

he weeps when through his finger tips they slip away at last.

virna sheard

what will it look like?

i ride by this tree lined hill each morning.

it faces east.

for months i've wondered:

"what will it look like

in early autumn?"

i'll keep you posted if there are any changes!

the swaying moon

it's a funny thing but after teaching for nineteen years and with six, seven, maybe eight more classes coming my way i'm starting to really feel the call of the life after teaching. it speaks to me almost every day. to say that it's a strange and unexpected experience would barely begin to describe my surprise.

i'm what you would know as a dedicated teacher.

that's how i know myself.

that's how my community knows me.

i've been alright with the fact that this work precludes the pursuit of many other experiences i love.

so thoughts of not teaching seem almost sacreligious to me.

as if this is a game to be played out.

the real life - the one i have "earned" awaits me.

so yesterday the thought passed through my mind

that perhaps it's not so much the wishing for time to pass

and for me to be living the life i saw for myself as an artist -

as much as it's a wish for it to be filled with a different sort of goodness,

and that i continue to be able

to share goodness with this world in the time i am given.

martin johnson heade sailing by moonlight

thoughts while night traveling

slender wind shifting the shore's fine grass.

lonely at night below my boat's tall mast.

stars hang low as the vast plain broadens,

the swaying moon makes the great river race.

how can poems make me known?

i'm old and sick, my career over.

drifting, just drifting. what kind of man am i?

a lone gull floating between earth and sky.

tu fu (712-770)

(translated by tony barnstone and chou ping)

the natural habitat

when my class and i get to school,

the first place we go is the playground.

"the yard" as it's also called has a few different areas:

a soccer field,

a couple of baseball diamonds,

two sets of climbers - you know - swings, slides . . .

and a very special area called "the natural habitat.

this has been a part of my school's green mandate -

which began before there was "green"

or a "mandate".

if i sound proud it's because i am!

for more than twenty years

my litle school

has composted,

recycled,

reduced,

turned lights off,

created a video on helping our planet that won a european video award,

won all sorts of prizes for our efforts

to come to school in a way

that doesn't cost our environment its health

and most magically . . .

created a special area of the playing field for nature.

the natural habitat.

come on in . . .

the sumac is especially beautiful at this time of year . . .

it's a beautiful quiet gift.

back to nature.

through the day

(peter scott canada geese coming to the marsh)

early this morning

i parted the curtains

and pressed my face against the cold glass.

at that moment,

a small flock of canada geese flew by the house

at window height.

heading north.

not quite a perfect "v" yet -

but at least they're talking!

the morning air has been edged with woodsmoke these days.

a small fire takes the edge off a cool beginning to the day.

in the nearby fields,

the corn has been cut down to stubble.

shades of tan and faded gold.

on lawns, sidewalks and streets,

leaves are drifting red, gold, and dry.

curled inwards like old hands

holding tightly onto the last rays of warm sunshine.

(karl heffner autumn evening on the thames)

a song of an autumn night

under the crescent moon a light autumn dew

has chilled the robe she will not change --

and she touches a silver lute all night,

afraid to go back to her empty room.

wang wei