Milky Way III
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Christmas Past
Orange Barney’s flurry feline coat
So cool and damp from a walk
Amidst barren, silent limbs
Winding in the spiral flakes of waltzing snow.
At an oaken table
It is second breakfast
Butter, warm breads
Juices, eggs and bacon.
Here is health and life!
Here is music for my health!
Tchaikovsky’s “Winter Dreams”
Distant children’s laughter
Before the sparkling Christmas Fir.
Shreds of paper,
Gold and silver ribbons,
Tea cups,
Wholesome life!
I wait
I listen
As in a bath
As in the green-blue sea
In open sight
Words spark to my ear:
“Time for breakfast!”
Sweet perceptions clamber to greet my lips:
The symphonic, percussive offbeat hoofed bass beats---
an offbeat sleigh
Drawing down the road, now veering, now racing
Patterning the fields
Beneath the boney knuckle and creaking branch
Water sprouts, the green sap grows in Winter’s strong grip.
Here I am!
Beyond the pale of words
My boney hand winds another line.
So cool and damp from a walk
Amidst barren, silent limbs
Winding in the spiral flakes of waltzing snow.
At an oaken table
It is second breakfast
Butter, warm breads
Juices, eggs and bacon.
Here is health and life!
Here is music for my health!
Tchaikovsky’s “Winter Dreams”
Distant children’s laughter
Before the sparkling Christmas Fir.
Shreds of paper,
Gold and silver ribbons,
Tea cups,
Wholesome life!
I wait
I listen
As in a bath
As in the green-blue sea
In open sight
Words spark to my ear:
“Time for breakfast!”
Sweet perceptions clamber to greet my lips:
The symphonic, percussive offbeat hoofed bass beats---
an offbeat sleigh
Drawing down the road, now veering, now racing
Patterning the fields
Beneath the boney knuckle and creaking branch
Water sprouts, the green sap grows in Winter’s strong grip.
Here I am!
Beyond the pale of words
My boney hand winds another line.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Photos: December 28, 2004
I want to comment on the photos posted today.
It is said that "the camera never lies." This is not true. It is the phenomenon that never lies. I prefer the phenomena in all of their myriad qualities, multiform colors and substantial being to the technically and digitally reproduced image. The trunks, and ice dripping, green, orange and white algae only appear in just this light and the photograph miraculously "stops" the event of these things coming to pass. But it is the event of these things coming to pass that amazes me.
The camera always lies is more accurate.
Even if I were to step into the wet mud every day until I die, I would never step in the same mud as I did today. All is flowing as Heraclitus has said and you can never step in the same river twice.
Indeed, it is far behind me now, the bottle I tossed into the green rushing river. To where? Like a scroll unfolding (from what to what?) time allows the scene to unfold and be revealed in the sunlight as phenomenon, from the void into the void, or from the plenitude of being into the plenitude of being, which description fits I know not.
All things seem to linger after we have gone like the ancient weathered milestone photographed below, and even permanent markers are changed if only because the scene keeps on changing around and behind the stone.
Other things are more ephemeral like the algaes, or the mud dipped boot like a fat brush in a pot of golden brown oil paint.
It is said that "the camera never lies." This is not true. It is the phenomenon that never lies. I prefer the phenomena in all of their myriad qualities, multiform colors and substantial being to the technically and digitally reproduced image. The trunks, and ice dripping, green, orange and white algae only appear in just this light and the photograph miraculously "stops" the event of these things coming to pass. But it is the event of these things coming to pass that amazes me.
The camera always lies is more accurate.
Even if I were to step into the wet mud every day until I die, I would never step in the same mud as I did today. All is flowing as Heraclitus has said and you can never step in the same river twice.
Indeed, it is far behind me now, the bottle I tossed into the green rushing river. To where? Like a scroll unfolding (from what to what?) time allows the scene to unfold and be revealed in the sunlight as phenomenon, from the void into the void, or from the plenitude of being into the plenitude of being, which description fits I know not.
All things seem to linger after we have gone like the ancient weathered milestone photographed below, and even permanent markers are changed if only because the scene keeps on changing around and behind the stone.
Other things are more ephemeral like the algaes, or the mud dipped boot like a fat brush in a pot of golden brown oil paint.
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