Tag Archive | beauty

The Infinity Of Life

Flower and Iron
eye each other
across the room
their appreciation
and love for eachother

unknown

For now
a placeholder
disdain
and foreign
and admiration
of beauty
and function

But can a flower
admire
what it doesn’t understand

And can iron admire
what it doesn’t
know

Flower and Iron
across the room
in the service of
eachother
without knowing

Such is the underlying
infinity of life.

Beauty

I look.
My eyes
have filters,
they color the
focus of my looking
changing beauty and love
and the deepest wonderment
into an object that requires my time.
Even into an object of annoyance and angst,
these are powerful filters, magic filters, they slide
back and forth with their mechanisms tied to my feeling.
The ropes and chains of their movement slide and withdraw
as the heavy feelings wind, grab and chew and release and give back
the filters move one after the other one back another on layer after layer
until all that’s in front of me is my angst and objects that keep me from love.
And so, one by one, I cut the cords of the mechanism, to heavy complaint
from my habits and my pride and my comfort, no one wants to be cut
and yet I want to cut, I do not want these filters to keep hiding
the beauty of my life, the wonderment that sits or stands
right in front of me, so available, patient and calm
the wonderment mourns, but not giving up
it remains, desirous to be recognized
and knows what it is and waits.
My filters slide and break
their ties un-bound
I see clearly the
wonder that
is always.
I look.

Hate to Love

I hate you
so that I can love
you

So young when
I developed
these tools

And part of growing up
is seeing
that the old tools
don’t work
and
never did

At least not in the way
you thought

I am not separate from you
you are me
I hate you
I hate me

But not all is lost
nothing is lost
except that
which you are ready
to leave behind
to sink and dissolve
in the ocean of your
past
and swim on

lighter
in fresh, clear water
you are invigorated
and no longer struggle
and fight
to love

I am unbound
and my burden…
I have laid it down
others have helped
me to unstrap it

I do not have to hate
to love
I see the keyhole
there is bright light
shining through

I do not need to open
the door
it dissolves
from the center

Catching Up

I painted the sky that was out of my reach
I wrote the words that could not support the heart
I loved so painfully and could not fill love
I am hungry and cannot be sated

So, perhaps, that is not hunger at all

But something else dressed in hunger
an old trick, well worn
like ruts on the backroads in Spring
you yank the wheel and the ruts yank back

So, perhaps, it’s not hunger at all

I can’t catch up to the painted sky
and the heart and love
I can’t get there
but it’s the joy of my life to try

It’s the joy of my life to try.

The Beauty Of Writing

When I’m riding the river
it’s like there’s nothing else
I am the river
every drop and rock
tumbling down
and it’s only when
I step to the side
and ground my boat
that I see
there was no me
it was just me

As for my mind
reluctanly I go back
first dipping a toe
then more
but not yet, not yet
I walk the edge now
between river
and shore
a place where answers
are irrelevant
a place where smile
and touch
are the language

In time I will return
the pull of the tides are strong
and I will analyze
and seek
and the resentment will come
heavy and as attached
as my desire

Maybe I won’t spend as much time
maybe I’ll be on the shore
with my feet
perhaps up to my knees
or waste
in the river
not going anywhere
with nothing to deliver
with no haste
where smiles
and touch
are the language

Beauty

I’m am a breathless 46 years

looking at you straight

as if I’ve never seen anything like you

because I haven’t.

Somehow I have kept my innocence

against such terrible odds

and such fiends, friends and foes

Your beauty means much more than you know

in fact – you are stupid to your beauty

and clumsy and careless with it’s responsibility

but it matters not

I will look into you, straight

and possess the thing you don’t know you have

and from my arms I will show it to you

so you can meet it,

tears beginning, a soft caress and awestruck love

It doesn’t matter if you look at me

that way you do

You cannot become more, no matter how hard you want to

Yes, I am devastated.

And yes, it is your fault.

A morning with my son…

James Arthur and I left the house at 7:30. It was time for daddy to take the child out of the house so the girls could get some sleep. Time for daddy and son to have a little adventure time. Not sure what it is but there is something, for me, about going out to breakfast with my son. It’s not like lunch or dinner. It’s quieter, it’s the beginning of the day and if I’m prepared I get to treat myself while sharing time with my son.

The diner was typical, that’s what makes it great. Stainless steel, mushroom like counter stools with vinyl toppers and crowded booths. But the best part is the people.

I couldn’t help but listen; even when there is no one sitting around you – diners are like giant listening tubes. Two men sat at the end of the counter, old men, whom if they sat quietly would give off the dignity of age. One was trying to sit quietly but it wasn’t quite his nature and the other was proclaiming “that if he were president, when the troops left Iraq he would leave a big sign that said, ‘We’ll be back’ because it’s just not right what’s happening over there. We should wipe em, wipe em clean. They’ve got these families and they all live together and they fight and we can’t attack them. Wipe em clean, I say, wipe em clean”. The old man brayed with the kind of laughter that makes you wonder if something’s wrong, even after you’ve heard it a few times.

The quieter man, I think, felt it was his duty to sit and listen. He gave a couple of resigned “yes’s” and “Yup’s”, as if he had nothing better to do with his time and he understood that any other response would prompt a reply he really wasn’t ready to address. He was comfortable where he was.

Another old man came in, alone. He asked to no one in particular but with the assumption that it was me “why is that car getting so excited out there?”. I looked at him, looked at my son and looked at the car keys in his hand. “My son likes to play with the buttons on the key, he’s the one exciting the car”. The old man laughed. His good, stoic nature coming through. He had gotten a jolt when he stepped peacefully and un-interrupted from his car this morning, perhaps thinking of his day or of the pancakes and sausage he was about to enjoy in peace. What does a random honk and flashing lights from an unmanned vehicle to do your state when your state is peaceful pancakes? It must have jared the man and he brought with him the remnants of his fight or flight reaction to his question but seeing it was a beautiful, smiling, rosy cheeked child who was responsible for the disruption of his world, his good nature took over with a smile and he was back to pancakes in peace.

We ate our breakfasts. Yogurt shake with blueberries (or in Babyspeak “Yohgit sheek”) and omlettes with diner veggies, potatoes and rye toast, a hot, black coffee and ice water. The two old men continued in their way. The bray-er and the comfortable one. And the solitary man waited for his pancakes, he wore a hearing aid in his left ear, a winter flannel and horn-rimmed glasses that all the hipsters are wearing today.

As much as I got the feeling of a terrified child when listening to the old, braying man, I got a feeling of deep, solidity from the pancake man; he was a man who had worked earnestly all his life and in his older years his confusion at the world was tempered by his understanding of himself and his values.

And so there we sat, a young, curly haired, bright-eyed child, an in love father and three old men living in the world their way. James-Arthur stood up in his high chair and proclaimed “Tractew, daddy ah see tractew” and I knew it was time to go. I smiled at my amazing depth of fortune and of the blessed life I’ve chosen to live, picked up the check and said “Good Morning” to all. I lifted my son in my arms and all eyes followed us out in silence…wondering. As we stepped into the blowing cold of a coming New England winter we both saw what we had really come for, what we had waited, patiently, to see. The old, yellow bulldozer sat across the lot. That was the the “tractew” and off we went into the wind and the world to see it.

The Canvas

Drawing by:  Alexandria Heather

What do I know

I have something

I have an experience

I perceive things

I perceive a world

sunshine, sounds and son

around me

There is something

Otherwise there would be nothing

there would be

the absence of nothing

how could there ever be non-existence

once one second of existence

exists

there is something

once there is something

there can never be nothing

This has something to do with love

love has something to do with this

if we must belong

we must be locked

in a small room

adorned as we see fit

like a small house

with too many things

the same things

for comfort

If we make ourselves attached

to the earth

and the trees

and wind

and ocean

and animals

and breath

we must be locked

and the world becomes

a prison

of our own imagination

and what a beautiful

and confounding prison

we tell ourselves

like urgently hanging another picture

in between the two

that are already there

this is the best I can describe it:

there once and for all

was a blank canvas

there was a canvas

there is a canvas

a cosmic

4 dimensional

100 dimensional

canvas

there once and for all

was a choice

(because you are not aware of a choice

does not mean there isn’t one)

there once and for all

was a choice

-such a beautiful, wondrous exploration –

to put it simply

the choice was to fly

or to walk

and we chose to walk

and we must be sure

we must be sure

because surety is the only

thing we know

and if we weren’t sure

what would we be

(in that question lies the mystery, the furthering)

what would we be

if we weren’t sure

what could we be

if we weren’t sure

and so

we make our choice

celebrated

right

taught

law

tradition

human

and we become our choice

and from that attachment

everything must build

everything must be built on

that choice

on that surety

and that’s how the multi-dimensional

canvas

becomes

an ever narrowing

tunnel

and we find ourselves crawling

slowly

confined

and because we are most most spectacular

we make our confinement

our comfort

and we teach it

and celebrate it

We do this because we are so spectacular

so built for joy

and life

and experience

that we find smallest joys

in horrendous oppressions

of self

eventually making our world

around our foundation

even if it means

a life of suffering

we, our human-ness, we

always know there is something more

that we are something more

that we can be something more

that we can feel something more

that we can live more

that we can love more

that we can be ourselves

that we can be our life

our experience

we know this even and especially

when we don’t live it

and it is that knowing

in the face of contrary action

that allows us to suffer

and yes it is true

we are wasting ourselves

because we can be

and have

more

and we choose less

but wasting is not bad

it just is

it is a choice

our choice

to walk, to run, to fly, to mist, to explode, fade into the leaves of pink flower

or the folds of a lover, to dance with electronic sounds…

you see we have it backwards.

It’s about the canvas.

Thank You Henry David Thoreau…

I love this quote  by HDT and was inspired to write today after reading it again.

“…and instead of studying how to make it worth men’s while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them.”

from the chapter “Economy” in Walden, H.D. Thoreau

And so this is my wish, pipe dream though it may be.  I have a child now and naturally am becoming more of a child myself; recognizing what is never lost but only covered by convention and fear.   And so I wonder, as I sit and type my music on this glorious, blue-cold winter day, watching my son explore, I wonder what he can expect from society and I think to myself…nothing…if I do my job right as a father, as a parent, he will expect nothing.

I think I am done with wondering why people do a certain thing, why life and times are the way the are.   I think yelling and anger about perceived (or real) ills is the best solution for not changing them.   I think I’ve probably spent too much time in the comfort of my anger and indignation and been rewarded with the consequences of that comfort – more of the same.

I have awoken into a world that has forgotten what it is to live.   Into a world where magnificence is just a word, a world where technology is held up above the human spirit, a world where paying for life is now the norm.  I can leave the questions for my son, the “why’s” the “how did you allow this”; I don’t deserve them.   The world is the way it is today because we’ve all decided that this is what we want.   It is not complicated.  I think about what I can do, what action I can take to help align the world to my values and then, thankfully, I catch myself, chuckle and grin at my beautiful ego and all it thinks possible.   Align the world to myself, HA!   As if there is an alignment possible that will somehow relieve me of my own responsibility in living.   Of my responsibility to the recognition of my values and my value.   Of the responsibility to uphold my values no matter what the world looks like.   How many of us have used the excuse of the world to justify our actions, to allow compromise in ourselves…it’s no wonder we live in the world we do today.  And yet there is the most tremendous beauty.  Still.  Always.  In everything, everywhere.

I think where we have forgotten ourselves is in our compromise and there is no despair necessary to correct this.   I have no doubt (and little consolation) that we small and infinite people have been like the frog in the pot.   There has been someone at the stove controlling the temperature, turning it up, slowly, it’s been hard to notice, especially for those multitudes who have been taught from such a young age to take authority as truth.   After all what foundation is there to be discovered if one doesn’t know to check underneath the foundation.

And so I look into my young son’s eyes and there is only the staggering joy of life staring back at me and I am either open or closed to it.   I choose to be open and in that openness to the joy of life I see many things, many things; some painful, some pleasurable and all, all joyful.  There is one thing I don’t see however.   I don’t see authority for authorities sake, I don’t see control for powers sake and I don’t see selling for money’s sake. And with this my friends I wish for you peace and good fortune but I know that you…we…will all get what we want regardless of my wishes.

Let’s see where it all goes.

Call of The Ringing Cedars | Reality Sandwich

“According to official statistics, in 1999 more than 35 million families 105 million people, or 71% of countrys population owned a dacha or a subsidiary plot and were cultivating it… The 35 million plots of these families occupy more than 8 million hectares and provide 92% of Russias harvest of potatoes, 77% of its vegetables, 87% of berries and fruits, 59.4% of meat, and 49.2% of milk.”

via Call of The Ringing Cedars | Reality Sandwich.

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