Farewell until February my dear blogging family . A journey from the northern Great Lake Michigan to the far Pacific coast is calling me into new territories of poetry and song , of order and chaos , mystery and redemption and always love .
Month: January 2016
For Shimon
And the winters are so many
and the winters are not so many
and everything feels so close to me
the Caspian Sea
the skeleton dress
the man with turban pastel
everything feels so close to me
and somebody’s on the moon as well .
And I hear your name
and I hear my name
over the loudspeaker
with a million others
white sleeping tents so many
the dreams singing , all yelling to dispel
the unexpected questions
bewilderment to foretell.
And it’s written over the land
and it’s written on a neon sign
and the fish make rainbows
and bodies scatter Jerusalem
dead , dead and soft like brown mangoes ripe
and children shoot machine guns killing the gazelle
and the winters are so many .
And into the Hall of Extinction
and into the Ship of Imagination
and into frozen lakes of Titan to dwell
where my mother is dead
and everything feels so close to me
all the fields so soft and green
and God , God a trilobite with three eyes
watching the ground swell .
And who was I
and who were you
and no one wants to give it up
and everything feels so close to me
and the winters , the winters , they are so many .
Credits :
Inspired by ShimonZ at thehumanpicture.wordpress.com
Outlook – Sara Wickenheiser Photography
Snow – Dale De Vries Photography
Running – Aela Labbe Photographies
A Winter’s Meditation
” He who binds to himself a joy
does the winged life destroy .
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
lives in eternity’s sun rise . ”
William BlakeA humbling and beautiful experience to read Michaels work …
We had our first snow the day before yesterday—a sticky-heavy whiteness you could tamp into stable shapes—then a smattering more yesterday, and this morning I am witness to wonders I realize only now have been in the making for days. The third act is the revelation. Soft golden light pours sideways across the sky from a low-lying sun, and the second ridge is garnished with fog. The air and the land are rising together, drawing thin. Closer by, bare trees in the yard are tipped with orbs of flickering color—beads of blue, red and green that twinkle and dance, then fall to the ground in lengthening streaks of glowing yellow. Beneath the trees, it is raining.
But only there.
There’s a meaning in the scene that fills me. I know what is on display, but its history eludes me. The raining tree is a dictionary of potentials. I realize each instance…
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