You knew it was the cry of my breath and you knew you would ignore there were so many cries for life but none that gave you breath
I came from a distant place a place of horrors and peace where the demons shout with glee giving us flight, while we run in terror bleeding in our lost souls
Chase me in the absence remember me when the clouds break I’ll not be there in the lightning in the cacophony in the… hmm … I might be there.
Short life bleeds into years no sense in setting clocks all read the same all chime last call
A monkey churns a tune grinds on I pop when time is… ….. time is ….. time is ….. time is… when you have become the dancing monkey you dance it rains it plays the sounds of the carnival and if you dance the dance
ah!
”Have a nibble. It won’t last but it will bait you along.”
I watched the sun my eyes wide open blistered my vision opened my mind and if it mattered we’d all play the violin and pretend the world was flat
As it is I’ve forgotten my name (thankfully, the Son remembers) fifty-nine years and the plague of our dreams Sai, we know not why skips past and dreams of a better day.
Bring me my life. Bring me my breath. I will live yes I will live
YES
Black, white, and other shades of gray. These are the colors of our mind these are the color we see….. ….. I am blue.
Dora asked me to paint the windmill that is in her yard. At the time, I must have been drinking, because I said, “Sure. I can do that.” The canvas is 2’x3′. Big… As Dora commented, “Go big or go home.”
So, we took a picture.
Then I made a first attempt that did not work out, so I made some notes for the second.
I painted this bit almost two years ago and then set it aside. I had no idea how to proceed.
A few weeks ago, Dora took a picture of something, then commented on the empty space, apparently reserved for her windmill. This weekend, I went to work on it and actually finished. I’m very pleased with the end result. I hope she is too.
The earth again like a ship steams out of the dark sea over The edge of the blue, and the sun stands up to see us glide Slowly into another day; slowly the rover Vessel of darkness takes the rising tide….
This is one where I looked at the picture that I painted and then wrote the poem. Hope you can see it.
When you watch the sunrise alone The sun not touching the sky When you see a star But not one that belongs When you breathe And the air escapes you That is when you know Love Love in the green and blue Love when the red speaks To the black But should you touch the center Where none are known Then you will Bleed
I saw the sky come down on the dawn I saw the sun set upon itself I watched as night attracted them all But then the sun rose On a beach while I was alone And there was your hand Reaching for mine
We should escape to that place That place of silence That place where I watched The sunrise alone
It is there that the silence Wraps us in the caerulean sky And the only star Brightens the life of so many souls
Here we meet Release me Release me Set me free to wander the night The places where hate roams But has no power The place where pain screams But has no feeling The place where I have no voice But the voice that is you
Drops of rain on the path No matter
I watch the sunrise alone And the star fell I wake
The Magi made a clandestine visit and we listened for the drummer.
This is a picture of St. Anthony in Torment by Michelangelo with a watercolor overlay.
Then you realized your rainbow was full of demons….
I’ve been doing the “dry” January, which has turned out to be a semi-arid environment with the occasional shower. It has been good and I have dropped more than a few pounds. It is good.
I’ve been reading more than usual, but when you have a 1,200 page book, it takes more than a few days to get through it. Yes… The Stand. There truly is not a more remarkable book outside of the Good Book. And whether he admits it or not, S. King knows more about God, the devil, Holy Scripture, and everything else in between than most of us folks who run around in fancy robes (or skinny jeans) on Sunday mornings. You can’t paint the picture unless you’ve seen the original…. no what I mean? Yes. Yes you do.
The Priest work is going well. It is good to hide behind my robes, but I’m guessing most can see the hypocrite in the shadows. It is the reason for the failure. My friend Brennan ( what a great name) says that Jesus comes along side each of us and says, I know your whole life story. I know every skeleton in your closet. I know every moment of sin, shame, dishonesty and degraded love that has darkened your past. Right now I know your shallow faith, your feeble prayer life, your inconsistent discipleship.
Funny I can never remember the rest of it.
I should just go to sleep now and wake up…. later.
Life is good. Yes it is.
Ah… The Queen. Her Majesty is a Royal…. um… yes… Hinney! LOL. She has her moments, but it is a delight to come home from the day and find her waiting for the scrub under the chin. She is Rain, but she lives into her “title”.
There are many thoughts and so many things to say, but they seem to wander off on their own and find other places to germinate….
Do you ever just not want to go to bed because it is the first time in many days that you have the opportunity to think, write, paint, dance, listen, etc.? There are days that this is the way we roll around here. I’ll stay up too late and listen to tunes, paint goofy pictures, think of writing, pray (yes, I do that), wonder who I would be if I let go of control, and then sleep…
…. No more—and by a sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep— To sleep—perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub! For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause—there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
Tired.
… but still………… let’s stay awake for another hour or so.
Candle in a Cave 