the golden fish

let's hope it's slow

2012-01-27T00:07:00.001-05:00

is it more

than a clustering

of flesh and bone

a bringing together

of the lines

of us

you my love

the last name

on this dance card

my bruvver's birfday

2012-01-26T06:23:00.002-05:00

my bruvver david was born on january 26th 1960.

1960 was a busy year but my bruvver was too little to really know what was going on around him.

so here's what was going on in 1960!

here's a pic of when i first really knew him . . . he's the little dude on the left!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE BRUVVER!!!

love from steven

this real wish

2012-01-25T00:07:00.004-05:00

what are the real wishes

of this plant

this snow

finessed slur

2012-01-24T00:07:00.001-05:00

so very like air

so very like water

so bringing its cluttered edges

into the moment of this

finessed slur

the stillness

2012-01-23T00:07:00.002-05:00

carried along

by the headlong rush

of every moment

i hold one long enough

to be closer -

to feel its glorious enveloping chaos

their own stories

2012-01-22T00:07:00.000-05:00

they listen to their own stories ...

the so very practiced

echoes

of this place

fly from

2012-01-21T00:11:00.005-05:00

the blue of a morning

gives way to the red of an evening

little lanterns

2012-01-20T00:07:00.004-05:00

i respect and honour

the very brave

ittle lantern lights

that hold away the dark

hovering

so very like soft eyes

wondering

and so curious

about all the little whisperings

and the wind-hurried goings on

around

and within

the gnarled branches

of the winter-bare trees

it tears through

2012-01-19T00:07:00.000-05:00

the wind

hovers like fingers tearing

the crisp cut edges off

the paper of a day

be the light

2012-01-18T06:33:00.003-05:00

sometimes

you

have to be the light

i took this picture by pressing a pair of prismatic glasses

(that my cool essence sister ali brought back with her a few years ago from the burning man festival)

against the lens of my camera.

all the thoughts

2012-01-17T00:07:00.002-05:00

in the tangled weave of the skin of this place . . . .

all earth’s memories

are there,

all the thoughts

of heaven, sacred

(italicized words excerpted from "19th march 1823") vasíly zhukóvsky

settled in among

2012-01-16T00:07:00.005-05:00

try to find

(let alone follow)

the threaded and woven possibilities

settled in among

the soft clusterings

of a day

of a minute

of a moment

remembers

2012-01-15T00:07:00.000-05:00

i know the art of evoking happy moments, and live again my past curled up in your lap.

for what is the good of seeking your languorous beauty elsewhere than in your dear body

and in your so gentle heart?

i know the art of evoking happy moments

baudelaire (from "the balcony")

this

2012-01-14T00:07:00.002-05:00

this day i ran along a snow-covered trail through woods and marshland

the sun danced soft and warm

through the trees

and so like fingers

traced tender echoes

of the summer

across my face

everything changes

2012-01-13T00:07:00.002-05:00

the weather changes

the inner and outer atmospheres

the skin of the sky

the face of the earth

the horizon disappears

behind the imprecise movement

of millions of small crystals

faithful indeed

2012-01-12T00:07:00.004-05:00

two souls drawn together in this incarnation as tiny purple flowers!!!!!

a summer shot . . . i'm swimming through these in a sort of cathartic meditation . . . . .

faithful indeed

is the spirit that remains

the spirit that remembers

such a spirit

returns

over and over

repeatedly

asking the same questions

offering the same possibilities

but with fresh words

softer brushes

gentler

more knowing ways

a kindness

grounded in the essence

of goodness

i wrote this while listening to this beautiful piece of music "the spirit that remembers" by the astonishing yorkshireman bill nelson from his new work "realms of light"

sunrise

2012-01-11T00:07:00.002-05:00

in the slow stumbling morning that dances in floor bound piles under my dragging feet, i catch a small thought passing by. i am failing to see the shifting of a glorious opportunity as in the mid-winter, the sun rises later, negating the need to further upset my fragile body (upon which i already place so many demands) by getting up exceptionally early to see this daily event! and so mother nature, mother earth, sister sky, brother sun and to all the stars who glitteringly gather just before the unfolding, the unfurling, the grand revelation

of this glorious and wondrous event, a heartfelt thankyou.

you're all beautiful!

really, you are!!!

with

2012-01-10T00:07:00.001-05:00

as i slept

i could feel her

brush against my face

i dreamt of wings

and small moths

a candle that guttered timorously

i even saw my own eyes

wild and glittering

gone to earth

all filled with scent

and wish

and the wholeness of her

late by myself

2012-01-09T00:07:00.000-05:00

claude monet the studio boat

late, by myself, in the boat of myself,

no light and no land anywhere,

cloud cover thick. i try to stay

just above the surface,

yet i'm already under

and living with the ocean.

rumi

gone . . .

2012-01-08T00:07:00.003-05:00

in the early evening of a cold january

the house is suddenly so very empty . . . my bedroom window shakes with the wind . . .

its glass is fractured . . . moisture leaks through the fault and freezes

forming a pale film of ice through which i watch a flock of small birds race across the sky

like so many smeared pencil lines . . .

the trees turn inwards . . . in the winter, they keep their thoughts to themselves . . .

the maps of me

2012-01-07T00:07:00.003-05:00

each day

i pull the maps of myself

on like so many clothes

pick a map

i'll be that terrain

keep the map

and memorize those contours

hold me to them

as i'll hold you

to yours

so very flow

2012-01-06T00:07:00.006-05:00

you flow

so very far

past the horizon

and the ache of distance

draws the wires of us apart

i stand here in this emptiness

feeling the last breath of this night

pass through me

and turning to return inside

i breathe out the space we contain

to the scattered and far-flung places

we call home

i got scared

2012-01-05T00:07:00.008-05:00

i knew you

and for that reason alone

i couldn't look

directly into your own knowingness

and yet,

from our tiny entireties

we spoke the unspeakable

"i know you"

and began

again

sharing all that we could

of what we believed had passed since last

we had known each other

and the details were like points

on a map so vast and so detailed

that it passed through and beyond us

and drawing that map about us

with the thoroughness of our eachness

we named it love

from memory

i was listening to a very brief but beautiful piece of music by "clouded staircase"

called "i got scared" when i wrote these words.

love, in a very cold climate

2012-01-04T00:07:00.005-05:00

serendipitous and chance events arrive

because they're intended to

and most especially they arrive because

there's some sort of necessity

about life being filled

with unlikely possibilities

i came across a sweet story that i'd love for you to read and look at.

it's by 23 year-old isabel greenberg.

i sure like this story.

light falls

2012-01-03T00:07:00.003-05:00

light falls

into the cupped hands

of a snow cloud

skyward

2012-01-02T00:07:00.000-05:00

the most unimaginable complexities

are so simply

and beautifully expressed

in trees

wave

2012-01-01T00:07:00.010-05:00

in this life

we are compelled to live

so thoroughly

and completely

together

there are

so many wishes

so many hopes

and so many dreams

racing across the skin of us

and as each holds our hands

or kisses our eyelids

or whispers brave words in our ears

they wash across the body of us

so much like a wave

smoothing

and softening

the edges

of who we are

and given time

we become

an inseparable

and polished singularity

a point

of completion

a place of peace

a locus for the energy

that draws us together

simply because the universe

loves

love

and so wishes for us to lose

ourselves

in its love

that it draws us together

into deliquesced forms

and says:

"this is

how it is ...

this is how

it must be ...

leave everything behind,

and become"

with love

as one year ends and another begins

one of my favourite pieces of music - wave created by david sylvian and robert fripp

here are david sylvian's words for this song......

i'm also very fond of this instrumental rendering of wave which appears on the 'camphor' collection

and i knew

2011-12-31T00:07:00.003-05:00

i was walking through nearby woods when i came across this branch.

it had been lifted and moved slightly, revealing a shadow of fallen leaves.

a memory.

an echo.

a sense of uplifting.

a passage across a great open space.

and i knew.

"i feel my boots

trying to leave the ground,

i feel my heart

pumping hard. i want

to think again of dangerous and noble things.

i want to be light and frolicsome.

i want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,

as though i had wings."

mary oliver

words by mary oliver excerpted from starlings in winter

stone eye

2011-12-30T00:07:00.001-05:00

i went to the sea

in search of my father

and came

to this place

where a single stone eye

stared skyward

through all the small details

of coloured pebbles

and meltwater

winter sea

2011-12-29T00:07:00.000-05:00

i walk in the winds

brightness and darkness

santoka taneda

its terrible beauty

2011-12-28T00:07:00.000-05:00

you'd need

to know the very real

gap between what is

and what you wish for

to know the truth

of the word

suffering

and then also

you would need

to spend some time

living inside that word

to come to know

and value

its terrible beauty

breathe

2011-12-27T00:07:00.002-05:00

i can

breathe the breath you just breathed

and feel it pass through

my bloodstream

as surely

and as fully

as if it were my own

alleyways

2011-12-26T00:07:00.000-05:00

the sure

and certain

- like a well-lit corridor -

holds no surprises for me

it is entirely laid bare

and there's a sort of comfort in its familiar barrenness

that somewhat softens the edge of the discomfort

that attends my living as and who i am

in this iteration of the world

perhaps this explains why

alleyways

hold such charm

and distraction for me

with their furtive

and unexpected

comings and goings

windows and doors

suddenly opening and closing

the soft uncertain rustle of angels

in the shadows

holding onto the ever-expanding moment

they are intent on creating

as they draw their bodies away from the here-and-now

and dance into the nothing-and-everythingness

of each other

i was listening to nicholas jaar and nina simone when it wrote these words

christmas day 2011

2011-12-25T00:11:00.001-05:00

hey!!!!! it's christmas day!!!!!!

so a big happy christmas to all of my readers no matter where you are.

i remember one christmas holiday

travelling around with a group of my friends to sing christmas carols.

our goal - fun - pure and simple.

i recall that we had sucked back more than our fair share of riesling

before heading out to share the results

which only served to enhance the joy

for the singers

if not the listeners.

singing isn't one of my strong points.

so rather than share something

personal but capable of ruining this morning's magic,

i'd like to share with you

three carols sung by people who know what they're doing.

starting with my favourite . . .

i saw three ships

next up will be good king wenceslas

the lyrics for this carol are rich with images in my mind

connected to my last christmas in england.

i was eight years old

and staying at a holiday home

in saltburn up on the yorkshire coast.

at the time, my dad was three thousand miles away

carving out a life for himself and his shortly to be arriving family.

it snowed while we there

and i recall one journey out into the countryside

that filled my mind with

(what have become)

archetypal images of a magical christmas.

i wish i could put the sensations of that particular day into writing for you,

but the effect of seeing snow,

moorland, waterfalls, rivers,

and the pennines

filled my head and heart

and to this day i can recall and feel

the very same childlike wonder at it all inside me.

and so i'll indulge myself further

by sharing the lyrics of good king wenceslas

with you here .

good king wenceslas looked out, on the feast of stephen,

when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even;

brightly shone the moon that night, tho' the frost was cruel,

when a poor man came in sight, gath'ring winter fuel.

"hither, page, and stand by me, if thou know'st it, telling,

yonder peasant, who is he? where and what his dwelling?"

"sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain;

right against the forest fence, by saint agnes' fountain."

"bring me flesh, and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither:

thou and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither."

page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together;

through the rude wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

"sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger;

fails my heart, i know not how; i can go no longer."

"mark my footsteps, good my page. tread thou in them boldly

thou shalt find the winter's rage freeze thy blood less coldly."

in his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;

heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.

therefore, christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,

ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.

to learn more about this carol then you can give one of my old posts a read!

and of course last but not least, the holly and the ivy . . .

a very happy christmas to each and every one of you!

steven

i know this long open place

2011-12-24T00:07:00.001-05:00

i know this

long open place

it's

so like a field

without fences

unfurrowed

unconcerned with the urgencies of artifice

and that long open place holds

the imperative of life

as it is meant to be lived

holds it

as gently

as it holds

the certitude of death

so very like a found feather

brought to ground

after rising sunward

on a soft warm thermal

and then settling unexpectedly

onto the soft loam

of a ploughed and fertile field

all we want

2011-12-23T00:07:00.002-05:00

we want and wish

then we hope and dream

at first we hold our own hands

kiss our own reflections

run our fingers across our lips

hold ourselves closer than almost anyone might

then we put on clothes that say more than we could ever say

are seen in circumstances

of our own design

and still

we aren't recognized

for who we are

because we haven't given ourselves the opportunity

to recognize ourselves

it's the letting go

the leaving behind

the willingness to drop all pretense

that opens the door

to the fullness of our presence

to ourselves

and to each other

variations

2011-12-22T00:07:00.001-05:00

the sounds - fragmented and then closed . . . drawn together so like the details of life . . . somehow connected and then also hovering, independent of each other . . . hope? it's embedded but requires some sourcing out with no guaranteees . . . . this boy's 21. he know far too much about life and music. and then i love his intuition and serendipity. it so mirrors the many stretched thin and torn little pieces...........

this unfurling

2011-12-21T00:07:00.004-05:00

the very big

and the very small

the unknowing

and the knowing

the oblivious

and the entirely aware

are all meeting

side-by-side -

sometimes wrapped around each other

in a dance

of consonance and dissonance

each finding its place

in the turning of this great place

you wonder

as you look about you

you wonder about choices

who was i then

and why am i me now?

who holds the purse strings on the expense account of my soul

is there reason

to all of this

or am i perhaps

asking too much of a process

that is so clearly so much larger than the life one man

can describe in words or pictures?

letting what will be

a request

that asks more than i might be capable of

and yet there it is

in the form of an unfurling sky

enough of words, come to me without a sound

2011-12-20T00:07:00.004-05:00

i stopped my bicycle and stepped off to see this beautiful place where the autumn leaves were held

with all that was left of them beneath the ice

and the pine needles held their place above the ice

as if they were looking into each other . . .

as if they were speaking without words

so much passes inside our words, and then beneath our words, and then especially without words

i am so deeply grateful to the angel who is looking over me

we see the leaves beneath the ice

2011-12-19T00:07:00.000-05:00

snowflakes star the icy skin

of a leaf-lined pool

come and go

2011-12-18T00:07:00.001-05:00

the layering of winter over autumn is so gradual.

the morning arrives rendered as tiny frozen islands that hold their form ever so briefly

until softening and returning to the puddles and pools they emerge from

each night these little spaces breathe in and hold the moment of winter

each day they breathe out and hold the moment of autumn

ebb and flow

swell and deliquesce

it's so much like knowing

and understanding

so much like wishing

and doing

the arrival and the return

braided one into the other

soft heated sky

2011-12-17T00:07:00.003-05:00

this sky's skin

brushed against the face of my heart

and then

drew its fingers

across my soul

pressing

reaching

drawing out the essence

of my wholeness

challenging me

to tell the story

of our encounter

this day ends gently

2011-12-16T00:07:00.002-05:00

the soft tongues

of the end-of-this-day's sunlight

gently

brush their tangerine paint against

the river's steel-blue mouth

deep autumn

2011-12-15T00:07:00.000-05:00

the nights are now chill and thin

filled with the rustlings of

dry-veined leafy bodies

tumbling and colliding

across the thin skin of snow

the music of their puckered mouths

a hollow

whispering

reaches

into my sleep

and draws its notes

across the page of me

i reach for your warmth

the old coat

2011-12-14T00:07:00.001-05:00

i wrap her

in the old coat of myself

and she says

"where are we going then?"

"home"

"which is where?"

"where ever we are"

music by underworld "witness" from "lovely broken thing"

out and across

2011-12-13T00:07:00.002-05:00

image by mostafa habibi courtesy of tess at magpie tales

secure inside the finest softest sand imagineable

my body washed by the memories of waves

i stood entirely still

my heart beating purely out of obligation

i was capable of being and doing

nothing more than was necessary

until one night

the moon

drew her body tight about the ocean

and running her fingers across it's liquid body

with greater conviction

and effect than usual

she caused the water to pull back layer upon layer of sand

until finally

by chance and happenstance

my eyes

were exposed

and an entire world

of sky and ocean expanded before me

i felt its fullness

in my own becoming self

and even now

as i gradually withdraw my body and my self

from the comforting clasp of the somnolent sand

i feel my heart beating

a rhythm it hasn't played for decades

and wish for nothing more than to feel

the simplicity of the sand between my toes.

the small voice

2011-12-12T00:07:00.002-05:00

in a small corner of this world ...

left behind

through some oversight

i found a voice

a small voice

and that voice

(which sings a song each of us knows

but that for some strange reason

we don't sing very often)

said

"there's nothing to be left unspoken . . .

there's no reason to be silent,

especially when it has to do with

the truth of your existence.

because as long as you hide your true voice,

you will suffer unnecessarily.

and all those

who love you truly,

will also suffer unnecessarily.

and so,

as an act of kindness and contrition

i beg you, to open your mouth

to shape your breath

and to form the words ...

i am not perfect, i have no wish to be.

i could gain nothing by trying.

i am entirely my self

as i am intended to be.

and i am grateful

for the allness

of who i am

and for being who and what

i am loved for."

falling behind the horizon

2011-12-11T00:07:00.001-05:00

my heart

i ask it to be so strong and so brave

i ask it to give so very much

and especially i ask it to be patient and understanding

ever since i was a child,

my heart has always been so very open

always letting everything and everyone in

the wind, the sky, the trees, the little animals

running in and out alongside those who gathered and gather to know its love

- honest and without condition -

this evening as i write

i find the eyes of my heart caught in the spaces between these branches

letting in the faint distant loving light of the sun

i miss its fullness

so thoroughly

i watched the stars

2011-12-10T00:07:00.007-05:00

i watched this afternoon's snow

fall like so many little stars

the sun scattered

and all its light was hidden behind the hills

then there was nothing left

but the rich echoes of you

flowering across the emptiness

of your absence

tightly

2011-12-09T00:07:00.001-05:00

there's a little yellow flower

beside the river

hugging the ground so closely to itself -

a hope fulfilled

in the dance of its subtle body

the slender fingers of a breeze

draw across its flowered lips

my words and eyes

drift across its tenderness

we are lost to each other

in so many different ways

there are small lines

2011-12-08T00:07:00.002-05:00

there are small lines ...

wires running through

and out of my hands and my feet

my eyes and my mouth

filaments that tether me

to the ground

i know this

because i've seen them

twice in my life:

once when the earth wished to swallow me up

and take me back

and once when i saw in your face that the earth

wished me to be more than i am

and i bet you know the small ways

in which those filaments can be brought to make music

much as the sun knows the snow

that settles around the tip

of a dried goldenrod

and teases its tongue around that

crystal circle

of containment

i hear the music of you in the rushed whispering

of the thin bodies

of the young trees

as we pass

i feel the songs of you in the small melt

of an ice-clouded puddle

somehow your words hold the whole

of the pieces together

and the formless scatter of my passage

melds with the flawless calligraphy of your voice

into a dance that brings the trees closer

each bowing in to see and to hear

what will be?

what will become?

looking back, i saw my path

2011-12-07T00:07:00.006-05:00

i'm wrapping my self

in the soft pale clothes of late autumn

this morning, i came across this beautiful piece of writing by the eighth century chinese poet li bai.

"down zhongan mountain to the kind pillow and bowl of husi"

down the blue mountain in the evening,

moonlight was my homeward escort.

looking back, i saw my path

lie in levels of deep shadow....

i was passing the farm-house of a friend,

when his children called from a gate of thorn

and led me twining through jade bamboos

where green vines caught and held my clothes.

and i was glad of a chance to rest

and glad of a chance to drink with my friend....

we sang to the tune of the wind in the pines;

and we finished our songs as the stars went down,

when, i being drunk and my friend more than happy,

between us we forgot the world.

three years

2011-12-06T00:07:00.014-05:00

what i can remember

is the fullness of presence

in my mother’s voice

caught in the unreality of a phone call

so subtly enunciating the words

describing

the flying away of my father

the man

who first dragged me into this world

lost me in the process of his own becoming

and then thrust me forcefully

into the mire and glory

of all that he knew and had subsumed

into his becoming self

later, our trajectories

separated sufficiently

that we could see each other

through the fog of our histories

so clearly

that respect

and an acknowledgement of all that had passed

and all that might be

entered into the hugs

we bracketed our meetings with

perhaps most painful

and most daunting -

were my mother’s words

(and later her eyes)

full of the empty wonder and ripe sorrow

of the loss of all that she had known

all that she had worked for and with

despite and against

my mother and my father -

so very like the most unlikely dance partners

seeing each other across a crowded dance-floor

and drawing together to bring concordance

to the music of two orchestras

and in the worlds i had collected to that point . . .

well, with his flying away

a world ended

in the slow dying

of the knowing of him

contained in my own children

whose lives lost all at once

an open doorway

and a containment

in my father’s flying away

unravelled

2011-12-05T00:07:00.003-05:00

scenes from margaret's garden (iii)

i am

no longer

tidily wrapped and ribboned

parcelled and delivered

i am now

entirely unravelled

and blowing in the wind

the golden fire

2011-12-04T00:07:00.005-05:00

i hold her slender body close enough

to my own

to feel her pulsing self rising and settling

in the golden fire of her allness

so like silence

2011-12-03T00:07:00.006-05:00

this entire feeling moment

across an open sky so cold and then so bright

stands so like silence

i bet you've already figured out that there is so little of us left behind when we leave -

not much more than small pale emotive jewels contained within the dried husks of memory

each holding the water of tears that fell so very long ago

and somehow containing the softness of kisses that closed the shortness of a night

but right now in this moment that steps so very far outside the skin of this place

to an otherness where tears and words have no substance

we are here

and we know

that we are merely signposts

for something far greater

and so i dig beneath your sweet soft skin

for the soft welcome of soil and roots

and embrace it as something other

that holds the little strings of me and pulls them tighter

offering love and an understanding

that all of this is more sign than place

so like so many little wings, so like clouds

2011-12-02T00:07:00.009-05:00

there's a place in each one of us -

a small and hushed place

so like the forest floor

where all the pieces

of the sky and the trees

gather and sing

their songs of return

i bet you can feel that place

in your body

as it flutters

like so many little wings

as we pass so much like clouds

through the each of our otherness

and when you rise

from that place

scattering dust

and sunlight

every which way

your body sings

the wordless song that is

the slender echo

of its own becoming

in the small cry

that escapes your mouth

in place

2011-12-01T00:07:00.003-05:00

i'm thinking and feeling the great fullness of walking

beside someone else

in their entirety

within the possibility

2011-11-30T00:07:00.004-05:00

i fold

and curl

and throw myself back to the earth

even as the earth

rises to meet me

but, while held in the sun's hands

i feel an invitation

to stay

that is hard to ignore

every morning

every night

and every moment

that flowers in-between

i am pulled

and stretched

between

the straining hands of the here and now

and the feathered edges of evermore

i was listening to the music of harold budd and brian eno when i wrote this

little bridge

2011-11-29T00:07:00.003-05:00

when swimming

from bank to bank

is not an option

the little bridge

(which takes more time

and more effort to build)

repays its existence

over and over

which is why

(when i stand on it

and stare upriver

and out across the bay)

i feel gratitude

dancing alongside

wonderment

rain in the night outside my open window

2011-11-28T00:07:00.006-05:00

the air is alive with rain-silvered words

scraping their vernacular in coarse ciphers

that bisect the night air from sky to ground

like so many sentence threads

drawn together

as much by coincidence as by chance

and how

can i

ignore the stories

that slowly flow

inside

each little drop

as if each

were the first

and the very last

note

in a song

i wrote this while listening to thom yorke's "and it rained all night"

evensong

2011-11-27T00:07:00.004-05:00

i'm so like a kite

soft-papered and soaring

catching the soft and wild winds of the moment

and ripping across the sky

with fluttering tail

and cross-haired body

seeing and feeling and knowing

the detail of every thing

so minutely

so precisely

and as i turn

and see the sun

its red heat brings me

to the horizon's edge

to the edge of my existence

and i call out

"please

if you choose

to bring me back to earth

please

let me fall

into the arms of the one i love"

wind song

2011-11-26T00:07:00.004-05:00

the air i breathe

becomes a song when

the wind flutes words

through your leafless arms

i wrote this while listening to the golden gate quartet singing some righteous gospel from the late 1930's ...

the skin of this place

2011-11-25T00:07:00.001-05:00

rising in unlikeliness

from the forest floor

how long can i hold myself

in the hope

that my return

will be more splendid

"small metal gods" by david sylvian (remixed by modesto muniz)

distance (for the very idea of love)

2011-11-24T00:07:00.002-05:00

cresting the once and foreverness, i see inside the view a stillness. it sings with unmoving lips, a song, told on furred tongues, of a time when the ice and the snow was all that was known. it sat and moved in rhythm with the moon. the tidal tongue so deep and long it covered almost all and everything until, receding it revealed a landscape as barren as nothing and so in all conscience it couldn't restrain itself from becoming life in all its rich fullness and it filled everything with the colours and the smells and the textures and the tastes of ripeness and when i came into this place i called my world - or my world as i would come to know it - so many distractions and opportunities and possibilities swirled about, that in their essence i came to know as my world through their little fingers, their small constellations, their bodies that sometimes stood and sometimes ran and sometimes even and especially held me close and so often i think in my head how grateful i am for those brief moments when the very little details of this place revealed something to my becoming self of how the whole is held together and especially how it's represented in the very tiniest way by pieces of wholeness that rise up out of the ground of it all and speak in their own sing-songy way about what matters and what leads to deeper places and especially what holds its form as a way-marker in the journey of my own becoming.

ascension

2011-11-23T00:07:00.003-05:00

barefooted

i lean into

the side of a tree

stepping on pieces of small shelves

turned sideways

bringing the possibility

of ascension into play

we can be

2011-11-22T00:07:00.003-05:00

the sky is full today - like a room filled with smoke -

there's no definition to it

no edges

here on the ground there's constant movement

as leaves in shades of ochre and pale yellow

move on the breath of a capricious wind

that holds no single point of contact

no attachment to anything

it simply is movement

undefined

a title

2011-11-21T00:07:00.003-05:00

stop

and hold yourself closely.

entirely.

listen

to the words tumbling

from your soul's mouth

your song

so needs to be heard

that it will find voice

in the most unlikely places

life doesn't start with a title

the one

man show

we are water

and return there ........

words excerpted from "a title" by brian holland music by brian eno (from "a title" drums between the bells)

you can listen to the entire album streamed here courtesy of wired magazine online)

for erin

2011-11-20T00:07:00.005-05:00

each of us try to fill this space

with possibilities

and it's no surprise

that like all vulnerabilities

it wavers in uncertitude

a fragility

that i see in so many too wide-open eyes

so many thin and tightened lips

and i don't know why

but when i think of you writing

i see you

bent

arced

disturbing

the stillness of a duckweed covered pond

as you draw a wooden bucket

across and beneath its skin

skimming its wholeness

into the small hollow space

i wrote this while listening to music created by ingrid chavez entitled "exhale"

2011-11-19T08:08:00.005-05:00

the last tree in the area to hold her leaves

- my beautiful black cherry girl -

felt the soft knives of a winter wind yesterday

a wind that brought with it the blanket that will cover the skin

she has so reluctantly shed over the last few weeks

i gave her a big hug

and wished her good dreams

new love (for jj)

2011-11-18T00:07:00.006-05:00

we travel

through strange sometimes beautiful lands

seeking out the places

where the imagined and the real

hold hands

and look into each other's eyes

with the unabashed frankness

of new love

the reflections telling the story

of worlds unfolding

one beyond the other

(best wishes jj!)

steven

a stranger turn

2011-11-17T00:07:00.002-05:00

in the later thicker depths of night, a door opens.

a thin wedge of moonlight makes its way across the space between the window and the doorhandle

it crosses my face

and as i turn to watch it pass through the air

i see the handle moving

as a rearrangement of shadows and light.

i'm transfixed.

is it my imagination?

is it really happening?

the air is electric.

every tiny element of the moment held

in the fullness of a blackness

gently pierced from somewhere

within which there's light ...

a tiny pinprick

almost blinding

in its intensity ...

perhaps it comes from inside me

perhaps

it's merely passing through

still,

the handle

continues turning.

do i move closer to see who is opening the door?

do i stay in bed and pull the covers closer to my eyes?

"come in", i say.

"come in, and tell me your stories".

this

is how love

enters the world

i was listening to "krishna blue" by david sylvian when i wrote this.

elevation

2011-11-16T00:07:00.001-05:00

above the lakes, above the vales,

the mountains and the woods, the clouds, the seas,

beyond the sun, beyond the ether,

beyond the confines of the starry spheres,

my soul, you move with ease,

purify yourself in the celestial air, drink the ethereal fire of those limpid regions

as you would the purest of heavenly nectars.

soar up towards those fields luminous and serene,

he whose thoughts, like skylarks,

toward the morning sky take flight

— who hovers over life and understands with ease

the language of flowers and silent things!

words excerpted from the work of Charles Baudelaire (Trans) William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

reading baudelaire and watching this unfolding sky i was compelled to listen to "i am a bird in god's garden" with words written by rumi and adapted to the world of music by french, frith, kaiser, and thompson

pale yellow becomes gold

2011-11-15T00:07:00.000-05:00

the sun is moving lower in the sky much earlier

in its light

pale yellow becomes gold

travel safely

2011-11-14T00:07:00.002-05:00

our lives, our work, our becoming ourselves

"the journey" is really so many journeys that last a moment

a lifetime

several lifetimes.

it really is so much easier to draw it all under one umbrella

and protect its fragile rice-paper self

from the weather of this sometimes-harsh

sometimes-kind world

by calling it

"the journey"

thus sparing ourselves the trouble

of unpacking it in detail -

first for ourselves and then for the curious (and who can blame them) onlookers

who are eager to see that suffering and joy

and everything in-between and outside of those two little brackets

are not entirely an experience exclusive to them

but are commonplace to everyone -

and then what?!

then what!

my words - written with love...

break out.

break out and travel safely.

fill this world's roads with your soul

i was listening to the beautiful music of "a produce" and loren nerell when i wrote this

softened edges

2011-11-13T00:07:00.006-05:00

i am

so like

the wind-blown

soft edge

of my bedroom curtains

the air moves through

and plays me

i was listening to brian eno's music for 77 million paintings when i posted these images from my bedroom

the call

2011-11-12T00:07:00.003-05:00

it was so quiet

all i could hear

was the echo of your voice

little rising cloud

2011-11-11T00:07:00.001-05:00

my eyes

held this little cloud

on the line

between darkness and light

until it rose

and became both

and neither

this is a day when so many of my children are immersed in their experiencing of the manner in which their ancestors are honoured and thanked. today my class will gather for the first time in my career at the cenotaph alongside several soldiers and honour in a very direct way the sacrifices made by so many on both sides.

it is hard for young children to connect directly to something so vast and old and so my work this year is to bring them as closely as possible to a nexus point of remembrance from which our questions, our empathy, our sympathy, our puzzlement, can be centred and then cast into the great gathering of energy around the world that finds its focus in the hope that war can one day come to an end.

rain on unshuttered windows

2011-11-10T00:07:00.003-05:00

woodblock print hasui kawase "bell tower in the rain at okayama"

i see you coming down the street

the suddenness

of a door opening

i close the window

the field, the trees and my body

2011-11-09T00:07:00.009-05:00

i am standing in an old field

inside the house of me

having weathered all manner of storms

and days that i wished would never end

now the trees set their leaves on the ground

i feel the soft fingers of the sun

tracing their loving calligraphy

across my body

there's always more

2011-11-08T00:07:00.002-05:00

i'm so careful when i write

that i shouldn't be surprised

when i hear

the remonstrations

spoken

with my own voice

the quiet indignation

that once again

i left so much

unsaid

as a courtesy

to the image

i project

of myself

pressed against the glass

looking in

my angel gabriel

2011-11-07T00:07:00.011-05:00

i'm pulled

like a leaf on a stream

to sudden flarings

whirlings

spindrift

they call me

speaking the soft language

using words without form or definition

and i'm absolutely powerless

to ignore them

no amount of experience

or knowledge

of the possible consequences

can deter me

i've always been excited

by possibilities

and incongruencies

by moments left lying around

by doors and windows left open

by the contents of

cupboards and drawers left ajar

by people unfinished

because each moment,

each possibility,

is tied by a slender thread

to the wholeness

and they cry

(so very like a newborn child)

to be held

nurtured

drawn closer

and then

- with the cutting of the cord -

someone

anyone

must lay bare the very real cord

that frees and contains in one experience

this being here in this place

this reason

this artifice

this dance of light and shadow

this awful leaving

this laying bare

and in the very best of all possible possibilities

the someone

the anyone

is a portal for love

the one love

that knows itself in opposition

and in symmetry

and in all the states in-between

this piece was written while listening to lamb - "gabriel"

when the future presents itself

2011-11-06T00:07:00.005-04:00

scenes from margaret's garden (ii)

i'm at an interesting place in my life and i'll tell you what i can about it

i believe that the work i do is honourable and worthy

and that

(through a lovely and serendipitous coincidence)

it brings goodness to me

just as i bring goodness to it

in fact both

exist

almost entirely

without condition

and yet

i already know

the name

of the work i need to do

which in my strange iteration

of my experiencing of this world

melds into

"the work i need to become"

i can feel its fingers on my shoulders

i can see its eyes

feel its breath on my face

smell its perfume

even as it stands

wings held still

not moments away

from me

and my heart

holding its own wings

as still

as still can be

flutters

like a small bird

cupped

in my own hands

looking inwards

and outwards

i was listening to "i dormienti" by brian eno when i wrote this piece

i like to use this piece of music when i paint

riding in november

2011-11-05T00:07:00.010-04:00

the sudden blur -

the quickening

of the wish

to hold

and entirely sense

the fleeting

edge

of the thoroughness

of winter

is contained

completely

and minutely

inside their wind-borne fire

quietude (for shaista)

2011-11-04T00:07:00.006-04:00

all the silence

and all the completeness

of an uncharted space

the darkness

the roughness

softened by the layering of accumulated dust

time lies thickly about

thickly

ticking

passing

absently

and then sometimes

completely

thoroughly

and utterly

making this

a place to wish

and sometimes

to dream

of worlds

turned outwards

and inwards

all referent points obscured

the cartographer

acting

out of kindness

and then also

as if

there were a gift

to give

i was listening to music called "like pictures" by brian eno and jan peter schwalm when i wrote this piece.

the boat of we

2011-11-03T00:07:00.007-04:00

edward brian seago "fishing boats - honfleur"

time washes against

and over us

each wave a measure of our becoming

and our leaving behind.

you and i

and the boat of we

between us

slide

2011-11-02T00:07:00.003-04:00

each step upwards into the sky a test

each footfall's hollow metallic ringing

like bells marking an ascension

and standing at the top

with the wind catching in my hair and my eyes

i stop long enough

to see this place

the you

of this moment

expanding

no need to return to earth

for now

i was listening to "indian summer" by riceboy sleeps

wonder

2011-11-01T00:07:00.007-04:00

ordinary wonder.

well . . .

the little joys

i find in

the scattered sparkles of you

when

your eyes hold me

until i am

tossed casually skyward

and i'm brought to feel

the ripeness of recognition

as i find myself

suddenly placed

inside my own words

where i find a song

in which each note

is so like

the opening

and closing of an entire universe

and you know

there are days when i could happily trade

all of this in

for the tumbledown stony thatch of a gurgling stream

the soft tangents of

wind-stroked seeds

floating

hovering

looking for an entryway

into the latticework

and i would say

in that moment

"load this light bound silence

and fill it with those simple wishes"

oh you trees

you solemn clouds

oh you dried and colour-bound leaves

tell me you care

about any of this?

no matter

i shall be this way

if only for this very human

being

that i am.

i was listening to michael brook and pieter nooten's music "searching" as i wrote this.

inside the emerging moment

2011-10-31T00:07:00.002-04:00

let's

give this space

a moment

to emerge

to pull its pressed lips

apart

to loosen

its hold upon

the breathless containment

then

don't rush

this moment

let it

breathe in

let it step into this place

to find its fullness

and then

breathe out

feel the space

opening

like my eyes

i was travelling along highway 28 just south of peterborough when i saw this tree.

i was listening to "boy 1904" by riceboy sleeps when i wrote this

while the water rushes by

2011-10-30T00:07:00.007-04:00

john singer sargent on his holidays

my waiting

pensive

somnolent

never tiring of the rush of life

always passing me by

with its outstretched fingers

reaching and

flicking little droplets of possibility

on the face of my self -

each so shockingly cold on this very hot day

each so entirely welcome

in their hopefulness

i was listening to ralph vaughan william's "serenade to music" when i wrote this

all the skies of today

2011-10-29T00:07:00.004-04:00

all the clouds

crossing the skies

are flying southwards

like all the wings

i see

through the windows

of this day

i was listening to jimi hendrix "the wind cries mary" when i wrote this

now the great wheel

2011-10-28T00:07:00.001-04:00

scenes from margaret's garden (i)

now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds
whirs and whirls in the heavens with dipping rim;
against the ice-white wall of light in the west
skeleton trees bow down in a stream of air.
leaves, black leaves and smoke, are blown on the wind;
mount upward past my window; swoop again;
in a sharp silence, loudly, loudly falls
the first cold drop, striking a shriveled leaf....

words excerpted from conraid aiken's poem "now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds"

i was listening to gil evans when i assembled this piece. something in the colours of the text and the colours of the music found a common voice in the basin of rain water and leaves.

"bilbao song"

light

2011-10-27T00:07:00.001-04:00

on the surface

(the skin of this place)

it falls

in waves and packets

and forms

into lines and shadows

dividing the whole

into parts

and giving shape

to the shapeless

deeper yet

it emerges

from me

in hope

and wishes for a place

in those who define the terms of their presence here

as hopeless

a way of being

that seems reasonable

despite

its strange covenant

with the deliberately obscure

the seemingly unattainable

the unmeasurable

being

without form

it can't be directed

it simply is

like the air

like the water

like the earth

a process

i was listening to harold budd and brian eno - "flowered knife shadows" when i wrote this.

leaving the beginning behind

2011-10-26T00:07:00.004-04:00

we wind

and then we unwind

our hands flinging first skyward

and then earthwards -

each lost in our own small dance

the music i listened to while writing these words is by omar faruk tekbilek: "whirling dervish"

on reflection

2011-10-25T00:07:00.010-04:00

image lee friedlander, from "america by car" provided by tess at magpie tales

on reflection

his world

fell to pieces

when

standing at the window

she thought

she saw him

watching her

watching him

they were quickly

and easily

drawn together

then inseparable

mirror-images

of each other

destined

and designed

to shatter

rainy day commuting

2011-10-24T00:07:00.006-04:00

this is the time of year for cold rainy day rides. i commute to and from the school i teach at and until recently - very recently in fact - i've been riding in shorts. temperatures are hovering around the single to low double-digits in celsius so it's been a manly character-building exercise in something that when asked to explain, i simply can't, not even to myself. i simple feel the need to do it.

however, those days are passing by as my hands now have gloves on them and my legs (no matter how hairy)

are also covered, by riding pants.

the bike looks out onto the driveway ."oh no. not again".....

yep! get your nose out there .....

it ain't gonna go away

and i've gotta ride.

every day, the road unfolds under my wheels. on these days when it's rainy and the roads are often slick with leaves, i read the road even more carefully than usual for anything that could make my ride -

and maybe even my life - less than pleasant . . . or worse!

but i'm careful and so (touch wood) nothing overly untoward happens.

i love the early morning streetlights reflecting in the rain on the streets.

they're the hidden gift of a rainy day ride for me.

i tell bicycle stories over at my other blog "cycles".

right now i'm wrapping up the day-by-day telling of my latest fundraising ride around lake ontario.

we rise

2011-10-23T00:07:00.006-04:00

painting by daniel merriam

i cradle

in my arms

an idea

that was birthed

long ago

when i lived in a small room

that i called my own

the idea

that fell into my lap and my head and my heart

is that the world

is a good place

a very good and kind place

no matter what else

and of course i grew older

and learned

the terms of a parallel world

filled

with distractions

that exist to draw the goodness away

and replace it with easiness, suffering, unhappiness, stress -

not simplicity.

all

propped up,

and contained within

this other world

that exists inside

the one i love

oh, and by the way

the terms of this sad parallel world (simply put)

are that it is easier

to ignore the truth,

easier to look away

and much more desirable

to achieve or hold in your possession

that which others hold as worthy

whether it be a person

an object

an idea

or even

and maybe even most especially

that which contradicts the insight

that marks the signpost

for anyone

wishing to move beyond the surface of this world

because i want to remind you

that there is

beneath the material,

beneath the allegory, the metaphor, the simile,

beneath the parables held in place by angels,

and then beneath the lives

of the many

who have seen and see beyond everything

to nothing

this knowing

- this very simple knowing

that is the beginning

of unknowing -

that we can rise

so like the sun

so like the moon

so like the sound

of bells

above what is simple

or easy

and work

to welcome the goodness

of the real world

that holds all other worlds

like pearls

in mirrors

reflecting each other

into endlessness

and forever

and evermore

late october

2011-10-22T00:07:00.007-04:00

the sun

is sleeping

in the leaves

so much

is being

held

so much is being prepared

for its return to the earth

i hold

their thin cold bodies

and feel something

of their reluctance

and their acceptance

in my own thin body

it's a dance

a slow moving dance

that embraces the moment

and holds it for evermore

thin line of colour (ii)

2011-10-21T00:07:00.004-04:00

i fall

in a thin line

of colour

days

tumble

like leaves

down the fence

of myself

until i am

gone to earth

----------

-------

---

this piece was written with david sylvian's "gone to earth" in my mind and ears ...

and in my eyes, david's lyrics, still strong and fresh after all these years:

with a burning candle

a book of holy things

they'll throw you up against the wall

bind your hands with string

caught in this sudden shower

our host of heavenly kings

they're all victims of circumstance

of ancient bells that bring

all the fear in the world, naked and shy

down upon our heads, with no reason why

and though voices may holler

for all they're worth

the rabbits have fled their burrows

gone to earth

david sylvian

flail

2011-10-20T00:07:00.006-04:00

i find myself

(like the shadows of a plant

in the breeze

of an open window)

sometimes

flailing

within a wave

using my eyes

for arms

and hope

for a whistle

watching

the surface

bubble above me -

its pale green foam

ribbons

wrapping around

my body

like so many wishes

"take me with you"