Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees,
It is our forefathers breathing.
The dead are not gone forever.
They are in the paling shadows,
And in the darkening shadows.
The dead are not beneath the ground,
They are in the rustling tree,
In the murmuring wood,
In the flowing water,
In the still water,
In the lonely place, in the crowd:
The dead are not dead.
Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers,
Who are not gone, not beneath the ground,
Not dead.
The dead are not gone for ever.
They are in a woman’s breast,
A child’s crying, a glowing ember.
The dead are not beneath the earth,
They are in the flickering fire,
In the weeping plant, the groaning rock,
The wooded place, the home.
The dead are not dead.
Listen more often to things rather than beings.
Hear the fire’s voice,
Hear the voice of water.
In the wind hear the sobbing of the trees.
It is the breathing of our forefathers.
Tag Archives: being
illustration 9
ants loud enough
close to his head,
reprieve of summer cool
as he lay under his cart
pushed for close to a mile
finding geography
awkward to place
despite being his city once,
his mind a squoze larvae
thoughts brief as a snakes hiss,
irritable tongue of weeds,
lying still
close to impossible,
underpass old concrete walls
tagged by youth
more used to shooting than talking
overhead cars heat and horses,
smells nasal reverberations
he would feel quieter
if at the bottom of a lake
where on it’s silted bed
with fishes as companions
devouring algae from his closed eyes,
heat would be gone
and his mind would make sense,
the moon did not bring night rain,
eventually he stood
rocking on heels
than began to walk
this time he would find the start
of his journey
infernal dialogues in response
slow burn inhalation
configured eyes to a new movement,
she spoke in slow vowels
circulating in open mouth,
eyes glowing a feral green
yet the kiss had already happened
once between damp leaves
spring days continuity
for shoots to appear
that climbing rose found window frame
thorns to sleep
shark fin spikes pierce,
subdued
lain back she showed me lace
and mathematics
angles and weight distribution
glowing yet fragile,
i did not want to break
long porcelain fingers
with nails to delve
beneath soft flesh of my chest
and close about my heart,
she would now be more than a lingering
response
in these chambers
was a place i could put her for sure,
not on a pedestal or throne
but wicker chair
as she sat on now,
after the geology of contours , gradients
and folds
secrets of flesh i had known,
wisdom burned from her pores
spectral aura flare,
legs cross uncross
no more secrets
no more visiting other places
i had found
where i belong
Bending Buick’s
morning translation,
light has a language
that breathes
it stretches shadows
burns across carpets
bends buicks in shop windows
and lights faye wrays face,
my own portion
a partition of day
comes as townes van sings,
i smoke what i rolled
drink what i poured
fragments glitter skitterish
off the glass,
diamonds to the day
abstract punctuation to my thoughts
i think of voices
carried on this light
marching along on lung feet
into my mind
and everyone sounds like scott,
even james garner in his multicolored
mac concealing all of my yesterdays
and his genuine concern,
i need a buick to drive
to see if i can find
him my morning connector
that friend of early light
who now is silent
yet converses in my mind
Remembering Scott Wannberg a brilliant and talented writer who was a part of my world briefly but made an impression today would of his birthday and i remember
Kat Candler- Black Metal (Sundance 2013 )
Funnel Face
wool cocoon,
fold hooded head
coiled into room
waiting for
sundowns wisdom
and the choking solace
without resonance loud,
bitter eyes would
shed tears if seen
burning lips,
wishing for a moment
of flesh,
to savor and devour
in own lair
I Am The Same Curse
i stood where i started from
listening to envy greed and lust,
my throat a weight unfreshened
refused to sing along,
echo around the laundromat
radio splashed it’s autumn gold,
in front of machine
behind me things i will never see,
thrum of rolling drum comforts,
hardship would one day
strike me to the grave,
for now though dead has life,
cool evening passing
food would be another sacred handout,
vinyl abstract floor
with cycle nearly done,
i had a book with words
your last fingers wrote,
the answer had been
when i kissed your hair
you a shining strip torn from me
an accident occupying a seconds space
my frenzied heart and hands
gave last touch,
before ambulance came,
now folding clothes softly
you are in me again
my sight is not wearied out,
and i will go
i must sleep
but only as a stone would
as dreams do not gather
Winter Mocked
from silken intervals of flesh
parting inevitable,
a vagrant blossom falls
upon a dusted road
the pink of a dying star
upon clad earth
brings no consolation
to icicles hung over
shallow grave,
filling the path to April
free winds follow
a creeping slope and
linger there,
can we remember the shade
and tulip bloom
cautious burning of butterfly
wing,
storms come in colored coats
indifferent to yesterday
pleasure not yet spoiled,
long fingers spread
over frozen labyrinths
iced buds squoze upon
the branches,
waxwing bows it’s head
brought by music
of a new chorus
winter will not be forgotten
Portrait of Things
a handful of ocean
to replace the tears,
that stung razor cut aqueous humor
pressured by fluid on cheeks
and tasted at corners of mouth,
in her protective nest
among the rushes society grew,
her temptation an anchor
buried in water and weeds
souring by the day,
soiled tongue darkened by
language and apprehensive pain
of words that can hurt,
she had left him behind
the one who became a shadow,
yet her cleft had known his
two fingers
and tobacco kiss ,
rising up on tidal swell
she placed herself away
into the corner
until he had definitely gone,
the powder of air
would fall and settle,
and finding strength
climb from nest
onto another’s cotton shoulders
and exaggerate her heart
artist ; Isabelle Rolles
http://withrealtoads.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/sunday-mini-challenge-dolls-revisited.html
Federal Period Style
big old clock,
bore the brunt of time
sat with pendulum sway
in studio corner,
once walnut
chipped, paint fleck, sheen
sometimes linseed rag thrown
at it in temper,
in sight the artist aware
more so now,
stagnation passed,
creations shadow appeared
she was new
very awkward,
found her on the street
in a heap,
short skirt needle holes
behind knees,
worn t-shirt and drunk,
but her face held him
unconventional yet striking,
willing appeared at studio,
clothed or naked
they shared,
she embraced the chill
screens and props,
he absorbed her body,
character, soul, shape and form,
stood still load the palette,
canvas warmed under her gaze
her scent of alcohol diminished
drinking less talking more,
her heart was full
and he unloaded it,
stripping away with a wash of color
her pain and all that she once wanted
forgotten,
skimmed over he saw her now
not as one fallen far
but as a muse,
a rare beauty,
whose looks and words
made realization
that this was not the end
as he fell in love
velvetmedia 