The Nature of Daylight

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If we could first know where we are, and whither we are tending, we could then better judge what to do, and how to do it.
:Abraham Lincoln

Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.
:Albert Einstein

I find hope in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest. I do not judge the universe.
:Dalai Lama

We are not afraid to entrust the American people with unpleasant facts, foreign ideas, alien philosophies, and competitive values. For a nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation that is afraid of its people.
:John F. Kennedy

When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself.
:Wayne Dyer

Children begin by loving their parents; after a time they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them.
:Oscar Wilde

Whoever has witnessed another's ideal becomes his inexorable judge and as it were his evil conscience.
:Friedrich Nietzsche

Judge of your natural character by what you do in your dreams.
:Ralph Waldo Emerson

Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers.
:Voltaire

No accurate thinker will judge another person by that which the other person's enemies say about him.
:Napoleon Hill

Let the Lord judge the criminals.
:Tupac Shakur

A judge is a law student who marks his own examination papers.
:H. L. Mencken

If two friends ask you to judge a dispute, don't accept, because you will lose one friend; on the other hand, if two strangers come with the same request, accept because you will gain one friend.
:Saint Augustine

You say that you are my judge; I do not know if you are; but take good heed not to judge me ill, because you would put yourself in great peril.
:Joan Of Arc



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"This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."
:Walt Whitman






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Take the poison of your age,
Don't lick your fingers when you turn the page.
----

"Drink up dreamers you're running dry!"

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Wordsmiths, fisherfolk of words,
cast your nets
cast them wide over a billion tea lights bobbing on the tide; swimming stars aflame.


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Translated:

"I ask you father inouva, open the door
O daughter ghriba, shake your bracelets
I fear the monster of the forest father Inouva
O daughter ghriba, I fear him too

The old one is rolled up in his "burnous" (traditional trenchcoat)
in the distance, to warm himself
His son is scared to earn bread
Looking at the days to come
The grand-dauhter-in-law sews
Without stopping putting the cloth
The children around the grandmother
learn the teachings from the old days

The snow pushes up against the door
the stew in the large cooking pot
the elders begin dreaming of springtime
the moon and the stars being the canopy
the oak tree replaces the view
the family gathers together
ready to listen to the story"

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Like the ceiling bowed under the weight of overflowing relaxation
The sky droops heavy and wet held aloft by eyes alone it seemed.

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eleMEnts:

I can feel it.
Flowing through me, twisting, taking root.
In the mirror, my eyes blaze green fire.
If you snapped one of my arms, it would smell like dew, new
Like fresh green twig.

I am surprised that passerbys don’t notice.
My hair sets the air afire as I walk down the street:
Not even tears of rain dampen the burning strands.
They say you can’t mix fire and water,
But I whip both into a glowing froth and emerge reborn.

You wouldn’t recognize me now.
I am pure spirit, stripped earth air sea and fire.
True, daily I smooth on calm agreeability, pleasant smiles.
But do not be fooled. Look closer, the phoenix rises in my eyes.
Nothing can touch me.

Can you feel it?
I doubt it. You who tried to trim me back with pointed words
And thought you’d won.
Well it’s spring now, the spring of my soul.
And I am laughing, bursting into bloom.

But I am more dangerous than any flower.
I am raw soil, sharp breeze, foamy wave, searing flame.
All the elements are alive in me.
Bubbled up from the womb of the earth,
I am uncooked power, newly-picked strength.
I am Woman
Goddess
Gaia.

:shes blowing in the winds.

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"It's all right, it's all right, all right
lift my days, light up my nights
Love"

"There was a time when I did not care
And there was a time when the facts did stare
There is a dream and it's held by many
Well I'm sure you had to see
It's open arms

Dream on white boy
Dream on black girl
And wake up to a brand new day"


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[link to www.youtube.com]

Some black hole hearts could swallow up the sunshine and never spit out a star to grace the sky for such a theft. Thankfully they can’t fly, or wont, not like the dreams and dreamers of higher realms do; but who’d believe the shiniest peaks of existence are pitch as tar and oil while under a blanket of moonless night, in keeping equilibrium? That’s right isn’t it? Yet the shiniest peaks glisten all of their own don’t they, well, so one would believe, so, so many say.

Have you ever noticed how flurries of snow band together like bleached out locusts? Creating form, animating the posture of the wind, it pursues its self absolutely, a body of snow, I bet it chirps if the wind blows it hard enough and its cold enough; cold friction or something.

Just as the heat on the desert plain ruffles a transparent satin sheet over ripples of arid road and plains in the heart of summer in the heart lands, an endless loom burning hot with turning out cloth good enough for the emperor; ruffles melting to a lake, quenching its own thirst. Yes, it’s such a visual contortion, it’s completely understandable anything solid animates our world before our eyes and we want to reach out and touch it at some point. Only to dissect it with science into pieces latter on whilst at the same time building something that was already finished. But its far more of a dreamy journey to ponder really, how nothing creates something to tear it all down again.

If at some point you knew, everything but everything was going to slip between your fingers, what would you save if you knew of something so threatening, if anything could ever be so threatening? What would be the one and only thing you would save, if it was but one thing you could grip? Would it be your own life? Would it be a whole moment in time? Your first kiss? Or that other person thats washing out tiny little hearts with simple soap until they’re an empty, pale but living cadaver ready to drink up anything that will make it warm again; that person who builds scaffolding to a larynx, and then by some miracle, flesh then cartilage?

Maybe a place, maybe you would save a place that few people even know of. No, in reality it would be too hard to choose a thing. Did anyone in the end stop the moving sands? I imagine they would rasp away at every soul through to the marrow, slowly but not so painfully beyond the first layers. But still you can only ever lose so much before you again begin to build, or nothing matters in any case.

But move us away from the sands that so easily strike the roots to roses yet bury forever the wisdom we could never understand now as it was never understood then, yet still lingering after so many years. Let’s leave the bogs that birth the lotus as well, and find the plains, there, where ghost horses run their swift paths through chattering spring grasses reaching to the bellies of dwindling buffalo and their flaking coats, all so surreal today, as the felt I pined to create a younger world on story boards in days of yore, all so surreal.

Such vague memories play on the senses, perhaps they resist forgotten and rest in an eternal moment. Have you ever watched the clouds on the water morphing into equations? Without them how do you piece together pleasing sequences and clouds, tunes, simple harmony, those individual snowflakes? the increments of this journey we call life?

Yes, and just how would we count back to a time of kings and castles, princesses and wrapped tight parcels? Well everyone knows we try, everyone tries, perhaps too hard, perhaps its something we just slip into in the end when all the trails have been lost, and there is nothing to hope for but nothingness.

A “better world” how does one work toward that which was always perfect, in some distant time gone by? The best of human spirit, what is it? How do we define it? As any society, generally it's built by the citizens of society shaping the law to urns plates and bottles, and as always there are outliers to every society born every day, to ourselves, inside the box of empty thought, belief, direction. So, are we stepping into this brave new wilderness with a predetermined set of values to be implemented to merely crash down like a brittle hollow egg at a later stage, once the acid of time and trial has showered for a cycle or two? Or will this world be entered bare like a child in a wading pool? Comfortable with all the little shivers all the large shudders and discomfort, and still, despite the lack of temperance, become warmed easy by the sun in June?

It’s somewhat of an exciting and daunting predicament, blowing in and out and back again to familiar territories. Time is a strange thing, allowing things to shift and change, become decrepit and to sprout different forks on the same old roads like a strappy leaf curling away toward lemon coloured homes with blue trim, white homes with green trim, scattered like wildflowers, they’d sprouted up in the past seasons of absence, quite possibly blown in on the same wind that blew the odd person away on a whim. What was there here that couldn’t be found in the snowy hills?

It’s a long long way to sated, blisters, smooth foot pads of companions, and nothing to write on but the trail alone, a transient print upon itself and more lasting ones behind the eyes. Was it a familiar dream never found, never clambered but mourned over and over in bloody sunrises, a silent eulogy living each day to die and fall into that comfortable sleep all over. Does that beckon a person on that inner compass hardly felt or heard? There is no perfection in the challenges braced into natural tides, but there is freedom of releasing to their two and fro, banded like foam in a collective churning, all growing and popping yet again, each tiny bubble an atmosphere unto its self in a shiny temporary skin.

People are just like that, the towns people chatting, release one thing to each other yet think other things much alone to themselves.....

:siteless

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...Smelled like a saint
bleached sandy pale in the sun,
like hearts and minds overcome by
crisp Chardonnay aged in stainless steel;
Never once a hint of strong oak or
variant notations singing on the tongue;
simply unblemished perfection.
However did those glasses spilling over
end up crushed underfoot?

when love comes to call
I want to set Her free and listen-
marvel at the light bestowed
write songs about the sweetness
that She brings

I let Her tame me
and trust that every wish
will be given, from far away
and long ago, the visions
once denied in love's past
journeys become whole and just
if I simply listen


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yes, I admit
I wanted to take you
to the core of your soul
I was there and saw you
shining, as though you had
forgotten any need
for just a moment

the moon gave us
a moment of sheer clarity
that echoed:
we had noticed the ocean
for the first time

sad news
I don't believe you can think
yourself into happiness
or gain one morsel
by remembering
what you don't have

God was not finished with us.
everyone reworks their own clay
as needed
and I, like the fool
have tried to repair
the gaping holes
of those close to me
who refused

you see, there isn't any use
mermaid that I am
I swim in the oceans
of my beating heart

Columns of Light:


They cannot see these calligraphic columns of light dappled with voices and hope. They cannot shiver at the feel of cracks flaking off with years of ruin and love, cannot grasp that erosion, that affair of these grounds, the light.

Leave me to write!

When will the face branded hot, hot religion crumble, the beards scorch off, the robes possess lightning and illuminate more than a flash of barren land thirsty for rain? When will prayer be a ritual of light, a dare of fire, a construct of Forces celebrated with wine and lovemaking, seashells and the comfort within ourselves, our birthright voices hissing . . . and responding?

Love . . . it was the moment. Do you understand?

Columns of Light. From intimate trenches of night, a temple emerges. Then you. Domes in our mouths, domes in our ribs separate the aura from the stone. Tracing skin with skin, a presence trembles like love’s religion in this naked garden. If only the moment and the moment alone would stay; if only the man and the man himself would remain a statue to be treasured and touched without the blinding light behind him shivering godlike and unreal—
I will celebrate when it fades, await to write pure calligraphy where flowers can bloom from his creases and

lightning can illuminate more than a flash of barren land thirsty for rain.

I am always alone in this place, but there is never a lonesome convulsion felt as echoes in an empty palace. I hear secrets and whispers that blow away the locks of hair around my ears. There are no iron gates. There is nothing to lock away. Breathe with me now as Autumn leaves swirl in gusts and tickle my chest, tricksters of darkness and light. Your shadowy fingers and defined pen. A journey of linkages, stones upon pathways to hop like children only to love the place. Alone. As long as we love light together, our love for each other will . . .

Fury, see with me. Walk with me. Now the fountain is flowing and nothing could be grander than a misty sunset caught in a web of colorful skyline. When rain hurries a spider to create, creation itself pours down and winks prisms in a silken gallery.

Adore me, preserve me,
for they cannot see this omnipresence, this duality of love, of light.

:A H


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In a day when performance was illegal
and the actors, magicians and performers were murdered by saints and gladiators;
what great, mysterious and wonderful things remained aside destruction and conquest had they left to remain holy?

now there is a silly notion.

"Upstream the brush is heavy, reaching with fingers of green well into the outer quarter of the rolling water. On days when voices alarm me, I find a sojourn into the prickly, expanding growth to be of great benefit."


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"Moments within moments, like folds within time, enwrapped this vision, preserving it in great detail more than a simple memory, yet less than one singular, musical note disturbing the mood of time."

Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen? ~Friedrich Nietzsche


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In every city office around the world the elevators still play, I'd love to see people come flying out of an elevator all Fred an' Ginger. How marvelous.

le sigh

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Post scriptum

Once upon a time about three years ago in a sleep deprived state at around 4am I chanced upon an angel in my room, it stepped through the window of darkness, brighter than the sun and as motionful as an oceans ebb and flow, it grew and receded and grew, all I could do in a new found vigour out of lethargic stupor was lay and watch and take in the utter curiosity and delight, and bathe in the core peace while puzzling as to the compleat absence of fear!
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I know what I know n' I'm no teach, just "passing the cup we call life".

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Understand; the essence of poetry is not in rhymes, not in the verse. It is there so that the eyes can be seen, and so that something can be seen in the eyes -- Sergei Esenin said to another, arguing about poetry's bodily receptor, in some cafe somewhere. Moscow, 1918.

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This poem wants to be a photograph...
an oil
a pastel
a watercolour, but not an acrylic.
This poem wants to be a song...
This poem wants to swear allegiance...
This poem wants to grow like vines...
This poem wants life breathed between each line...

tbc...

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Heaven Heaven:

It’s when glass crashes down
to crinkle the seas of a prismatic floor
in folds soft enough to dance upon—

Speak!

There’s a frame hung on the wall
where corners meet
like rolling sand dunes,
where abrasive textures
claw at a crow’s croaking caw—
her feathers splayed
across murals of the meek.

Her masks are tribal
in their ancient burial of ritual surrender:
Cries of distant rumbles,
tumbles of clouds between crevasses—
Off-white creams flow
as a broken light show
glitters on the ground.

Speak!
Tell a tale once sung by herdsmen
who tied stones to their stomachs
to keep their hunger a wolf to stabbing beaks.

Dance upon the edges of an urn
crafted with falling lace
so graceful
like hair brushing onto an upturned face—
welcoming eyes spilling false disguise
as the longing for her song
burns ever on and on . . .

Speak!

Dear Angel of the Caves,
will your dust wave upon the surface
of wet skin, punctured
by the bark of your harp?
Will the shattered stains paint
a reflection for all the rainbows
to glisten like a dove’s distant gaze?
Will the folds flow freely,
the walls break easy,
and will he come with the moon at night?

Speak!

Heaven, will you take a harlot?
Heaven, will you, will you take a harlot?
Heaven, heaven, will you take a harlot?
A.H.

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Emotions

Nobody
has taught me
how love feels.

I feel
emotions rumoring
waiting to be unleashed.

How dare I,
my educated spirit
won't loose control
"Give it time
and make it slow"
he says,
that bloody bastard.

Random poem:
Escher Painted His Path

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I Give thanks this neighborhood BBQ day for EVERYTHING that has ever been so fortunate

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Be happy when your teenager builds up the courage to challenge you and challenge you hard, revel in the fact you are teaching them the art of confrontation and that others don’t always know best, and if you teach them right, they will never become somebodies door mat, but rather, they will be well respected. Rein and check.

:siteless

I know we were birds once,
The fragility of heart and lightness, remnants; deep in our bones where the marrow sometimes aches to breathe cool air. Then there are these eyes, these eyes are glazed in rainbows in rainbows swirling like this planet and in you.

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Amandara
:Fiona Benson

Everything is new. Even this morning
women were still planting seedlings between rains,
pressing in orchids with their bare hands;
even the palm trees, imported from the mainland,
are still surrounded by darker cribs of earth.
We meet and order Singhas. The cicadas are ringing,
shell-pink geckoes twitch on the ceiling,
while bats flicker in at the fringes, picking off moths,
and the workers' dogs pat at bugs and toads
just beyond the light. We're given rice
and steaming curries laced with lemongrass;
the beer bottles knock against our teeth as we toast.
We can sense them in the dark, exiled but listening;
a stiff, wild current of salt and longing.


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Peace on earth and mercy wild.


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Spiced mead, fat sultanas and love all around

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" A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."

- J.Keats - Endymion




'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

- Ode to a Grecian Urn J.Keats

A Christmas Greeting
by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)


-------------------------------------------------------------​-------------------
Welcome, Brazilian brother--thy ample place is ready;
A loving hand--a smile from the north--a sunny instant hall!
(Let the future care for itself, where it reveals its troubles,
impedimentas,
Ours, ours the present throe, the democratic aim, the acceptance and
the faith;)
To thee to-day our reaching arm, our turning neck--to thee from us
the expectant eye,
Thou cluster free! thou brilliant lustrous one! thou, learning well,
The true lesson of a nation's light in the sky,
(More shining than the Cross, more than the Crown,)
The height to be superb humanity.
-------------------------------------------------------------​-------------------


Sweet Justice

love


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"Hope" is the thing with feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

:Emily Dickinson


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The Barking Cacophony and the Sparkling Flippers

first i flipped
and then i flopped
to newport where i stopped
to see the seals.

the whiskery heads
their bodies spread
across a line of lumber beds
submerged in the sparkle of the sea.

and all above and all around
the constant bellowed barking sound
until i felt my ears had drowned
in crashing seas of cacophany.

:Danielle Hughs


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it's still community choir time.

A darkend moon looks down upon all of those in the night, their faces lit against the satin void, bright as exploading stars of pink and blue and mauve and green and orange and gold, eyes as liquid as champagne in crystal glasses held in an unsteady hand.


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