Water music

A photograph, the details of life, the random constellations of objects that surround us.

A plane to an is-land. A van through high, thick luminous green jungles, see sweeping oceans, gray monkeys along the road, sand and the Lombok Strait.

Waves, sand, water. A blue and white boat. 20 minutes after riding waves, all the deep currents you land on Air is-land's beach. You take a horse-cart along a sandy path.

Fresh sea air. No motorized vehicles. Music echoes from bells suspended from the horse's neck.

Water waves and bells. 

May 2009 bring you every happiness.

Metta.

Bamboo

It's just another lousy amazing day in paradise, oh my, such a comedic tragedy, such an oral transmission.

Such is the way of planting. Digging soil, edging out the supporting cast, red clay, stones, pebbles, harvesting snail shells, rusty musical instruments, soundless bird wing music on piano keys at dawn, pink light. 

Bamboo hustled in at twilight. Seven twined secure groups, some exposing green leaves. Ah, the joy of bamboo. Inherent resilient, dignity and calm way. This resilience, factored by leaf. Root word. A stem. Resiliency.

Metta.

 

Hallow's Eve

Your letters say, "A body is required. Unable to complete your request."

Waiting. 31 October. Dark is the night, cold is the ground.

Waiting for the night, for the quiet reflection shadows, waiting for you to rise and fly, to wander among friends,

Sharing stories and tales. Memories of laughter's bliss, music.

Dancing on graves smelling roses, hearing water. How you came to this place.

Bones rest in dust. Exhale exile. 

Waiting.

Sweet surrender

Early darkness at 4:32 a.m. Moon, stars frog song. 

Deep thunder broomusic. Spin colors, inside through spectrum. Pulse and signal.

The voice of water. Simplicity, serenity and sanctuary. 

Imagination's ink. Frequency and vibration. Making color poems in class. Engage your senses. 

Mind maps. 

Once upon a blue sky the yellow sun sang a long song

the voice of water played forever

dancing, creating, flowing sweet music.

Metta.

 

Star Dust

The act of writing forces me to slow down, concentrate, focus and center myself, a stranger to myself.

The old Zen fool was a writer, an artist. He loved making a mess, cleaning it up and making another mess. A big bright beautiful mess.

He was also a Lone Wolf. Free. Content. And so it was decided with pleasure. The play's the thing. This amazing risk taking adventure, all extravagant, emergency dancing word art artifact of joy, traveling along pages of mystery and delight is winding down.

A poem begins in wisdom and ends in delight.

Visions of mystical potentials. Allowing the blossoming beauty to open, unfold without purpose or product. Radiant.

Water, leaf, stone. 

Wear a star on your forehead. 

It was a gift from the night, from the ink sky when small powerful stars sang their songs, created smoke signals and one particularly curious star came down for a visit, how it was wondering, "What is Earth like?"

"How are the people there? Are they kind, friendly, rude, perhaps or do they share their time, their space, their toys - do they create amazing beautiful art full of magic using multi-colored pigments on cream colored paper where, should they dream with their eyes open, spill star colors, letting them bleed, letting them run away with their friends, feeling this joy inside the silence?"

Peace.