they know me as their son

here the blue river

robert spencer flowing water

and these the fields

over whose flowers i chased the butterfly

where overhead the ancient crows

hold their conversation in the sky

berthe morrisot grain field

these are the same, but i am not the same

these trees and stones are audible to me

these idle flowers, that tremble in the wind

the wind that rustles down the well-known forest road

the stream, the trees, the grass, the sighing wind

they know me as their son

arthur wesley dow at evening

text comprised of reassembled elements of ralph waldo emerson's "the river"

far away

she is so close

and yet

so very

far away

she sees the game

and plays it

"i see you"

she sees me not

but see me she will

and so

i accept her knowing

knowing

that it isn't me

she sees

at all

sophie anderson far away

fairies are like the girls of boy's imaginings

the good fairies bring gifts

and not always

the gifts

you've asked for

more often

they're the gifts you need

the gifts you've wished for

without hearing yourself

say those words

without knowing yourself

think those thoughts

and they weave like fog

into the forest of your life

becoming

what you know

of what you know

fairies

are

like the girls

of boy's imaginings

slipping

in

and out

of moments

like fog

seen

and yet not seen

felt

and yet not felt

known

and yet

not known

bringing

their gifts

in perfumed

handbaskets

that leave their

heady

soft fullness

lingering

like

fog

in the air

august malmström dancing fairies

august malmström alvalek

passing through

i stood alone

on the curb

as evening sank

to the earth

like rain-soaked curtains

carelessly draped

in deep violet folds

and smeared

with the slight stain

of the night train's

hissing

pale fire

"train station" willis adams

the crystal escalator

i was in a mall recently -

the sort of place i rarely enter

i was drawn to the people

or what was left of them

sales clerks

playing roles

consumers

also playing a role

they all have to

otherwise

the whole thing

falls apart

there was very little left

when i got home

i had a piece of music

in my head

by yorkshire boy

bill nelson

here it is

soft sentinels

the river carries

me on

the back

of its silver-blue body

passing through

eddies and whorls

whose satin voices

whisper

dream

sleep

.

.

.

.

trees arch

overhead

and as i pass under

their outstretched arms

they ask

in leaf whispery voices,

"are you alright my love?"

rounding a bend

i can see

the terracotta roofs of

the twin gatehouses

soft sentinels

heralding my arrival

at the land of ever after

charles warren eaton french river scene

two taxonomies

two taxonomies

upstream flash of sockeye school;

hard-driving toward a natal home.

a vermillion sea: spurred by the fat

of their own cells.

each summoned through this intrinsic cycle:

alevin, fry, parr…

now, in the heavy last light,

a shared ritual of birth:

a steadfast collectivity of red.

from my sofa, what do i know about struggle?

awash with “he’s and she’s,” and “so-and-so’s”;

soaked through with the weight of small news.

taxonomies are more turgid here than in the stream.

filing home,

the tide of workers

kill their ignitions;

standard also in their phases.

soon the night will fill with the noises of their rituals:

bored plates resigned to their beige placemats;

the drone of grey dishwater;

hard-drives and remotes will yawn to life.

the ragged shorelines of fitful sleep…

in the stream, the upstart salmon embraces its work.

probing with its tail: planting its hopeful spawn

in the shoals of the streambed.

waiting near these gravel nests until rest subsumes it.

peter mullins

may 2010

(thanks for the contribution peter!)

gonna get wet

here's an end of the day view

out my classroom windows.

my boys are laughing . . .

"you know you're gonna get wet!"

they're right . . .

sailboat pond

i sailed the world

in the course of my life

my dreams the wind

on which i glided

'cross waves

flecked with foam

past islands

rich with my imagining;

lands soft with silk

and glorious with gold

gifted with spices,

cakes, sweets untold

i knew the dreams

of which all men were made

sang the songs

the women taught me

and finally

i came to rest

as

a little boy

of my own imagining

setting sail

in

the mystery

of my own becoming self

the great romance

sometimes

i am overwhelmed

by the simplest things

a cloud

drifts across my line of vision

and somehow

in its passing

between two trees

i feel the deepest sense

of hope

for this planet

a belief

that this will always be

that rain will fall

that trees will grow

that the great romance

between earth

and sky

that alludes in part

to the deeper love

contained

in the allness of everything

will be available

forever

and always

the hollow log

i like that my life

allows me to say

with my heart

let the river

carry me

under the trees

let

my body

be a hollowed log

carried

from

eddie to whorl

and

let me

drift

under a sky

scattered

by branches and leaves

let me feel

this quiet river

broken

into tiny ripples

on the bark

of my passing

twigs and branches

dragging like fingers

and let me

drift

forever onwards

turning

and shaping

and feeling

and being

this tiny space

whole and alone

entirely connected

to the all of everything

in the little universe

of my knowing

the morning whispers

the morning whispers

"time"

and the world

takes a sort of shape

my little world

of burgundy robe

and carpeted stairs

strong organic fair trade coffee

and you

each

of you

i sit

in the middle of the house

windows

to the west and east

the eastern window

absorbs

the morning sun

today

the world

passes through

a smear

of misted glass

here comes the sun . . .

the work

the intricate

interweavings

of life

as i imagined it

are nothing compared

to those i experience

convolutions

distortions

fuzzy forms

that come into focus

and then just as suddenly

meld into

something

incomprehensible

at their centre

is some sort of purpose

for i believe

that each and everything

exists

or comes to exist

to allow for

understanding

the work

is to see beyond

the entanglement

of perception

three white petals

my favourite woodlot

has bloomed

with trilliums

an annual event

much quieter

than the riotous

return of birdsong

but equally joyful

and easily as beautiful

simply

beautiful

be thirst!

i took this photograph two summers ago.

the little parts of this plant

that you can see

are emerging from a garden

that could be described as "well-ordered".

there's nothing wrong with that.

what appeals to me

is that

this plant had ideas beyond its place.

i liked that then.

i like it now very much more.

for your dry soul

thirsting

clouds of mercy are gathering

ready to burst open

if you would hear

the heavens speak

be thirst!

rumi

the little ecology

i like that trees make spaces for the rocks

cradling them in their roots

and that the rocks

hold the warmth

of the sun

and the goodness of the rain

giving the soil

and the little creatures

a place to gather

and grow

it seems like such a simple

agreement

such a fundamental understanding

reciprocal care

kindness without condition

all there is

when time

has no relevance

or place

sitting

in silent contemplation

as if you were

simply being

this moss-covered rock

is all there is

last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street

there is always time for music

particularly music

that steps out of time

and tells a story

that is older than time

~

this is music

that fills this space

on rainy mornings

snowy evenings

empty

whatever the weather

space times.

join me

and listen

with open ears

to the

voices

of these men

taking its title from the words of the sufi poet rumi,

jon hassell plays trumpet in a piece of music entitled

"last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street".

here's the full text of rumi's poem:

drunkards fall upon each other, quarrel,

become violent and make a scene.

it is the rule.

like the drunkard, and

worse than the drunkard, is the lover.

to be in love is to enter a gold mine,

but what kind of gold is found there?

the lover, king above all kings,

is not afraid to die and cares nothing for a golden crown.

just as the dervish, with a pearl concealed beneath his worn out cloak,

is not ashamed to beg from door to door.

last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street

“get up,” i told my heart, “and give the soul a glass of wine.

the moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden,

to taste sugar with the parrot of the soul.”

i have fallen, with my heart shattered

i have fallen on your sacred path and broken your bowl

i am drunk my idol, so very drunk

shield me and take my hand.

a new rule, a new law has been decreed.

break all the glasses and fall toward the glassblower.

rumi

an old rock

the morning bloomed

warm and tender

not a soul stirring

anything more than

the life they lived in

in the woods

a somnolent hum

borne not of insects

but the contented

solace

of a clear sky

beaming

great swathes

of golden sunshine

through a sweet young canopy

not yet two weeks old

i sat

in the simplest luxury

and dreamed

slow

day dreams

as shadows drifted

their soft grey fingers

across the moss

of an old rock

day dream

the waking

and the dream

worlds

are so

closely connected

so intimately connected

that they find places

to hold each other

in their arms

and whisper

sweet wishes

that look like this

i sit on the shore

remembering

my place

in the slowly flowing

daydream

of which

i am

one small part

goin' to brownsville

forty years ago i sat on a plane

- a b.o.a.c. boeing 707 -

and put on a tiny pair of earphones to skim through the six channels of music.

on one channel my ears were caught and dragged under by a piece of music that i hadn't heard before.

i kept circling back to it.

over and over.

the way a piece of music

that's meant for your ears does.

that it was the blues was undeniable.

i didn't listen to the blues that much

but i knew enough from my exposure to rock and jazz to recognize it for what it was.

the lyrics stayed in my head for forty years

- "i'm goin' to brownsville, gonna take that right hand road"-

i'd be in the middle of all sorts of activities

in all sorts of places

and those words would sing their way into my mind's ears.

at one point i spent time trying to find the source of the lyrics.

i had no idea who the musician was,

what the song was,

nothing.

then,

as is the way with these things

i woke up this morning,

hauled up youtube on the macbook

and there it was.

so here it is.

do you remember what it felt like when you first discovered that

people were that good, that cool, that talented, that present and inside their craft.

little birds

i'd rather learn from one bird how to sing

than to teach ten thousand stars how not to dance.

e. e. cummings

may my heart always be open

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living

whatever they sing is better than to know

and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry

and fearless and thirsty and supple

and even if it's sunday may i be wrong

for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully

and love yourself so more than truly

there's never been quite such a fool who could fail

pulling all the sky over him with one smile

ee cummings

mother's day

on this - mother's day in north america -

i honour my mother

no more than i usually do

ask my friends

ask my colleagues

ask my family

i have a deep respect for my mother

who was difficult

when i needed a "difficult" mother

but didn't know it

easy going

when i needed

easy going

but had no clue why

was loving -

without condition

whether i knew it

or not.

it's very cool

to arrive at a place

of genuine appreciation

and admiration.

happy mother's day mum!

steven

warm shadows

to remember

the basic goodness

of this place

walk down a path

of copper brown pine needles

on a warm day

and

stand

in the shadows

of their mothers and fathers

the gift from the manor (in spring)

not long before christmas

a gift arrived

from willow of the manor

an oleg cassini crystal paperweight!

in my letter of thanks to her

i included a commitment -

to photograph the crystal through the seasons.

here then

is spring.

my blessings and gratitude willow!!!

to see the crystal in winter go here.

flowers in her eyes

i was biking home the other day

and these words

came through my mind.

so i wrote them down.

~

flowers in her eyes

petals for dreams

the lights of the fireflies

the whispers of streams

john singer sargent carnation, lily, lily, rose

the big ride

here's a pic of me on my street

every year i add my name and body to the lists of people fundraising for various causes in my town. this year i'm helping out the local chapter of the huntington's society a handful of times, the jamaican self-help group, pedal for hope, jump rope for heart, and teachers for kids.

the big one for me this year involves a ten day bike ride around lake ontario with the africycle team.

the distance we will travel will be over 1000 kilometres.

this is what lake ontario looks like from space

getting 'round this'll test my physical and emotional stamina and willpower.

am i nervous - oh yeah!

to be a part of this team i pay $250.00 to cover expenses (already done!)

and then i have to fundraise $1,000.00. that's where all of you can come in.

first. if you're anything like me, you might want to know a bit about africycle so if you pop over here

i think you'll find a lot of helpful information.

these guys have done three previous rides. i have met people who've been on those rides and they are all over-the-top blown away by the experience.

second: If you decide to go ahead and sponsor me then you can pop over here.

i'm really excited and looking forward to this challenge,

which is going to be huge for my scrawny 53 year old body.

but i'm going for it and i'd really appreciate any support you can give me.

as i mentioned a couple of days ago, i've started a blog to allow me to write about bike stuff and my preparations for this big ride. it's called "cycles: the journey within the journey" and it's right here. i'm also hoping that somehow i can blog en route and if that doesn't work out then i'll upload the day-by-day pics and words when i return.

i leave on july 2nd!

steven

plainsong

the sun warms your back

as you kneel down

before a pool of water

and watch the reflections

dance

shimmering

prayers

of gratitude

in

echo

of your own

recent developments

hi everyone,

i thought you might like to know that i have started up two incidental blogs.

where the golden fish is a daily occurence, the other two are occasional.

really they're like fractals of the golden fish. or layers.

the first is named "gone to earth".

it's a very quiet place.

very.

i like being there very much.

on the sidebar are little coloured boxes that contain links to other places.

they change every so often to reflect my interests and curiousity.

~

the second is named "cycles".

it's about my bicycle-based life.

i get to use my daytime conversational voice there.

i'll post there whenever the cycling comes together with photographs

or if there's a story to tell.

eventually the entire africycle journey will be posted up there.

(more on that later this week).

if you like visiting the golden fish, then you'll find aspects of it in these two places.

steven

carmine

i live on

the outer skin of this world

with

these people

these things

i know myself

by what i'm not

it's not

so much about beauty

as

a statement of place

the place

of this moment

you

see me

in my crumbling

carmine monochrome

joy