Monday, November 8, 2010

. . . . Bless This Morning Year . . . .



I sent a postcard
it told of . . . . me - and spoke to . . . . you
of many places visited
silent mornings sweeping over still sleeping people, animals and plants
oceans rare - clear crystal pure and untouched
fragile streams that tiptoed through dirt cracks along the side of the road
stars that only appeared momentarily behind clouds after the evening rain
I wrote it wet - dripping - drenched in sweat - from the heat - almost insane
I sent you memories - experiences - a majestic train ride from a now forgotten old disheveled train
I sent you all that
and sometimes - i think more
sitting along the melting oil painting sunset on this abandoned shore
I kept nothing here
my only company the moon and sun
and prayed "bless this morning year"
so besides you - I might soon be able - to once again run
I wrote this postcard
from a shore - a distant dream domain
and watched as my glass bottled note - drifted out to sea
time smile at me - but I felt - that in all honesty
she failed - an answer to maintain . . .

. . . . The Forgotten Circus . . . .



With my last breath . . .
I bring my children back to life . . .
the ensemble cast of my only family . . .
to perform once again - and for one last time - in front of no one
their curse - is also - my curse . . .
as no audience be witness to their wonder . . .
no eyes will ever fall in love - with the beauty of their physical theatre
Somewhere . . . between worlds . . . is where you will find us . . .
painting the surreal - with the movements of our lost flesh . . .
flooding the imagination - creeping in like shadows of emotions - under skin - young & old . . .
I am the RingMaster - I am the father - I am the mother . . .
and my dear-beautiful-fragile-young-ones . . . are "the forgotten circus" . . . of my family . . .
my theatre of pleasure . . . my theatre of pain . . .
it is here . . . hidden . . . between the curtain of night . . . through them
it is at this point . . . that I learn my last - but most valuable lesson
to say goodbye . . . to myself . . .

. . . The Third & The Seventh . . .



The Third
was a moment of music
a second of joy in handwritten notes
a sequence of shadows
a clean sight of lines
a saturation of color
a romance
a time of you . .
The Seventh
was an epoch of fiction & fairy tales
of clean art
of moving pictures
of sculptures of beauty
of things old - and things new
of lines that swept & blended perfectly into each other
of wind that flowed breath into cities
of wood - paper - glass - earth - steel - smoke & water
of nature in physics
of libraries of sound
of museums of light
of a single quest
of a new beginning
of my ultimate finality
of the day - and how it washes - passing over you . . .

Sunday, November 7, 2010

. . . . Kolapot . . . .



I chisel away
at those things
that keep me captive
at the stone walls - of my everyday
oppression of the mind
that keeps me from seeing - you
as you really are - inside and out
I carve the wood
and the substance - she calls out to me
begging me to release it's beauty
like a beautiful exotic bird - held captive by a cruel cage
like your voice - reaching through the wire bars
to touch the depths of me - the fragile pieces - that stir my soul
I sculpt my every-days
mold the clay of my life
into the shapes - that maintain my truth
my simplicity of existence
and with my hands - my eyes - my hammer
I wield the fire - I "kolapot" - as they say In Iceland - stir & "poke the coal"
to bring out the siren song - from the steel & iron ore under my control
and it is there - in that moment when my dance - brings out what needs to be set free . . .
in the magic of that release - in that beauty of the act of letting go
when I am liberated - like the material that I work - it is only then
. . . . that I find you . . . .

. . . . BirthRight . . . .



Part of my
birthright
is my everyday
daydreaming . . .
and in those moments
when I drift . . . to my own private Neverland
and am enraptured in it's beauty
I am surrounded with emotions - I am swimming . . .
in the clear blue warm waters under the sun
it is my getaway . . .
much like if I have a postcard of a place I want to go to - hidden behind the sun visor of my car . . .
and every once in a while - I would pull over to the side of the road
carefully take the post card from behind the visor
pull back & recline the seat - let my eyes sink into the picture
& find myself there . . .
but listen . . . for a moment . . .
It's not escaping (reality) - what I don't wanna deal with . . .
it's knowing - feeling - living those moments - that are out there . . .
just for me . . .
it is the destiny that I choose
my luck is only a matter of my own design
and my intention - my will - my determination
make it come to me - make it realized - because I already know it - to be true . . .
deep inside my soul
there is nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing
that is impossible - for those who dare to attempt - to try - to will
it is you're birthright
to soar straight - high above - all - everything . . .
even if . . . you are a . . .
. . . . "broken arrow" . . . .

. . . . Hold On . . . .



It's been forever
once before
you wrote me letters - in the sky
the seasons - celebrated - the name - we chose
you- once then . . . & me - another time
despite . . . the rain
that came our way
we hid beneath the canopy shelter - of the light bloom flower leaf sky
and given way - to all we say - sometimes forgives
while others - we neglect & wrongfully deny
but if to somewhere - we will look - to those letter scattered - therein
that we held on - but kept - along - our volition - and our sin
It's been a lifetime
long ago
you kept the memories - hid from time
and now the hours - pave our way - to ask forgiveness - my partner in crime
so open the door . . .
and "hold on" - to what we both were searching for . . .

. . . . Mono No Aware . . . .



I find you
behind the clouds - hiding in the sky
rinding on the rays of a sunbeam - your hair - fast on fire
there are distances I travel
and you move me . . . . silently - secretly
there are moments in my existence that hold still
and you hold me . . . . securely - softly
inside the shadows of the night - you remain
watching - waiting
I see you
in reflections in the puddles of rain
in the smiling eyes of a child
there are instances when I believe
and you seek to feel me - to hear me
there are closed doors that wish to walk through
and you hold them open - shatter the lock and bury the key
inside the sounds of morning - you drift
like the timid wind - like the rising sun
I feel you
and even if my stereo song is blind
my speakers' fabric torn and disabled
my life in "mono no aware" - keeps me moving
keeps me falling . . . keeps me floating . . .
towards the music of you . . .

Saturday, November 6, 2010

. . . . Kite In India . . . .



I left yesterday
while you were sleeping
slipped out the window
crept out between the shift change of twilight & dawns early morning
I almost didn't make it
I decided to have one last look - turned slowly-hesitatingly toward your direction - and was blinded by the medley of your moon & stars
lost in a tunnel of Time
he was cruel - as he always is towards me - your uncle
he showed me days - hours - moments - before this
echoing with you - waves of laughter - streams of pleasure - a rainfall of smiles
I left hours behind
and I am a drift now
beyond reach
beyond redemption
beyond myself - and beside myself - for leaving
but I needed - this - to float helplessly without you
at the mercy of the four winds - your four brothers
they take me higher - and higher - and higher
toward the tempest of your father - the Sun
a whirlwind of brotherhood - of family fury - of loyalty
I left only a while ago
and if you look out your window
if you look for me - in the East of your love
you will see me flutter - you will see me fail
you will see me falling - falling for you
I am that little dash of color - that once was the spice in your life
and now I am that little "kite in India" - (your ageless mother)
like Icarus falling - wings melting - into the sunset of your love . . . .

. . . Babylon . . .







You made up names for the the days before this . . .
wrote them - tracing the letters with your fingers in the sand, imagining it was the warm flesh of your passion - your desire- and as the turquoise waves would wash over them . . .
you would smile and know - that they would kept - sealed forever in the seas of summer . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You gave birth to to a new sense of time - it lived in the hourglass or your soul . . .
each grain that you gave - you gave with a smile to the sun -and a grateful bow to the moon - it was with them that you made the promise . . .
and in exchange - they shaped you into a sundial clock . . .
the clock - of wood - earth - and fire formed from the rays of the sun - ran backwards - like you did laughing through the shallow shoreline - when you held "time" still high above your head, an offering to the gods - and he(time) looked at you - and sighed - like the wind of the east . . .
your golden brown hands danced round and round the numbers - keeping track of the moments - of the memories - in the order of your decision . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
You build a castle in the sand, it took you every day of summer, you filled it with the laughter of children, the smiles on the faces that passed you by, of warm wind that caressed your face as you rode that old bicycle you rented into town and honked that old klaxon horn at the traffic cars, you filled it with fresh food from the farmers earth, of warm bread from the local bakery, of the sky with it's blanket of stars and how it looked at night as you slept under it, of that kiss - that began as a wish and grew into the sundown of summer, you filled it with all the colors of the rainbow, of the rain and how it smelled, of flower blossoms, and of dreams you never dared mention to anyone before . . .
and around this castle made of sand you built a city . . . a city of . . .

. . . Gained The World . . . through my . . . Street Spirit . . .



. . . fall into the night . . .
sing
. . . swim into the unknown . . .
all for the moment
. . . nothing for us . . .
everything for . . .
one love
. . . one light . . .
one destruction . . .

. . . . Big Jet Plane . . . .


I gave
myself
a couple of days
to fly - where to others - in first class - they served pink champagne
when - for me - nothing else held on - nothing remained
I took
off
bought a ticket - packed a bag - to run - back to the - otherwise called - everyday
settled for nothing
but my solitary - getaway
I walked
through airports
connecting - later
only myself - I wanted - to intentionally detain
to give myself reason - to unwind - my tired brain
and now you find me here writing this confession
while smiling . . . I layover & wait for my next - "big jet plane"

. . . . Hold On . . . .


It's been forever
once before
you wrote me letters - in the sky
the seasons - celebrated - the name - we chose
you- once then . . . & me - another time
despite . . . the rain
that came our way
we hid beneath the canopy shelter - of the light bloom flower leaf sky
and given way - to all we say - sometimes forgives
while others - we neglect & wrongfully deny
but if to somewhere - we will look - to those letter scattered - therein
that we held on - but kept - along - our volition - and our sin
It's been a lifetime
long ago
you kept the memories - hid from time
and now the hours - pave our way - to ask forgiveness - my partner in crime
so open the door . . .
and "hold on" - to what we both were searching for . . .

. . . . Up There . . . .


. . . "Up here" . . .
you belong - to another - world . . .
you wake up each morning - to climb up to the clouds . . .
to paint . . . to create . . . to give a part of me . . .
and the end of the day - climb back down to reality
go home - and think about . . . think about that other world - away . . .
from this one . . .
and yeah . . . we are the last of a dying breed - we are becoming extinct . . .
and we know it . . . yet we continue . . . to write on the clouds
to put color in the sky . . . for all those below to see . . .
and while you're there - up there - in the clouds - painting - working . . . they never notice you . . .
I have seen a back robbery - a mother giving birth right on Dekalb Avenue
A young man who they say went crazy suddenly & then did nothing all day - but sit by street a help a old people across . . .
Couples arguing - fighting - making love - then making up while they cook
and they never notice us . . . there . . . painting in clouds . . .
they never notice our work - our effort - our danger - our pain . . .
they forgot about our kind . . . a long time ago . . .
our story is a hand painted book - long forgotten - really high - on a dusty old shelf on a cloud . . .
but we keep on . . . we are the the last of a special type of dinosaur . . .
this is what we do - paint on clouds - we don't know how to do anything else - & to be honest, I wouldn't wanna do anything else . . .
and what we do . . . we do so well . . . I am proud - even though it don't pay much . . .
but the feeling "up there" is a small price to pay - for everything else . . .

. . . . Window . . . .


We are (still)
a bunch of
children
in a bizarre playroom - full of shadows
surreal toys - that glisten - hide - shine - and ring . . .
I want to be there
again
behind - the the creature that lurks in the shadows of the sunlight
that enter the room - he who carries the shackles of time forward
I want to be there
with
those old toys - those old friends - I left behind
those captives in my past
the ones that look at each other - gathering dust
and ask . . .
"what did we do?"
"were did he go?"
"why doesn't he like us?" - "anymore"
"i'm sorry"
"come back" - "we won't do it again"
"we will be good" - "we promise"
they echo in children's voices
desperate
waiting for their parents
waiting for yesterday to return
when they were "real"
when they were wanted
when they were loved
I want to be that ape again
playing my cymbals - happily . . .
in the "window" of my monkey-house
I want to pull the shades open
and let the sunlight of yesterday
mix and blend with that of today
but . . .
you tell me now . . .
can . . . we - the childish bunch
. . . go forward and return . . . to our beginnings
and set them all free . . .
. . . . ? . . . .

Friday, November 5, 2010

. . . . Bird On A Tree . . . .






You're leaving

and your journey is long
you will cross many oceans
you will swim in many skies
there will be distances - that will be lost to eyesight
but you will go on - by feeling alone
but in that - you will never be alone - I will be with you - always
You're traveling
and the missions along your way - will be many
but you need not choose only one
because you have more to give that just a single thought
because you have more show than just your morning sun
there will be sunsets that will move you to tears
you will open your mouth to speak - but the sounds will be the streams from the rivers in your eyes
and you will think of nothing
and you will think of everything
and will fall on your knees - take a deep breath - and look up at the sky
you will look - and what you will see - will complete the wholeness of you
You're away now
but I never felt closer to you
and in this I write my sounds on the clouds
and in this I am that silent traveler with you
watching closely carefully from afar
like that little "bird on a tree"
that never really left your side . . .