Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Weeds . . .



Find the hummingbird
The butterfly bushes,
in my small yard,
have captivated a multitude . .
where the purple flowers cluster
and dangle temptingly,
dancing slightly in the breeze . . .
warmed in the golden sun and
emitting an enticing scent of honeyed sweetness . .
bees gather, diving deeply into the heady stuff . . .
focused on their business . ..  they never notice
my camera as it poises over each unique individual . . .
some new and fluffy with yellow pollen . .
others shiny and black . . .
and the furry ones, that look like little teddy bears .  .
tumble and bumble along on their frail glassy wings . .
The small butterflies, like fluffy orange kittens . . . play and frolic
amongst this abundance . . . big eyes reflect
back at me . . . a certain winsomeness . . .
and a little dreaminess in the sunshine . . .
The humming birds seem to think
that this is their sanctuary . . .
and often hover before my face
to look into my eyes. . .
never though, when I have my camera . . sadly . .
and I always explain to them .  .  .
that I am just here to observe . . . never to disrupt
this small Eden . . .
and though my neighbors may decry my "weeds"
I see
a beautiful garden . . .


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Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Tell Me Something New . . .


Once, long ago,
I laid on my back
in the tall grasses,
completely invisible
to anyone looking for me . .
I watched the darkening sky
and the star-flies,
little groups of insects. . .
or fairies,
swooping through the dusk,
like stray embers flashing upward
from that great bonfire
in the setting sun . . .
I called them to me,
by name and they came,
without hesitation
entering the crystal goblet
I had ready . . .
where I treasured
this captive magic . . .
their thin wings beating
hopelessly
against the invisible glass . . .


the green leaves
of the willow tree
tasted the dust
at her roots and
I would watch the branches
sweep the banks
of a little brook
leaving cryptic forms and markings,
messages to the musical water . .

tell me something new . . . something
you have never told me before
a dream,
a story,
a wish . . .


I will tell you
about that endless day when
the willow tree passed away. . .
this one had an airy spirit
and a tender heart
though she would join us
in our frivolities . . .
her strength and stability
was like that of a goddess . . .
and her graceful lines
were expressed as beauty . . .
the birds found rest in her shiny tresses . . .
she was shelter
from long ago hot summers. . .
her limber branches
creating a green breeze
and lacy shadows . . .


 . . .this terrible windy day
she hurled herself to the dirt . . .
roots pointing to the skies . . .
her bones broken and disarrayed . . .
her trunk horizontal and still . .


all the other children were
in fear of the powerful storm . . .
yet I found a certain exhilarating glee
in the strength
of this invisible moving force. . .
I wanted to be out in the wind. . .
being lifted by strong arms
and tossed into the air . . .
my heart felt so light
and I knew that I could spread my wings
and fly forever . ..


but I was commissioned
to watch my siblings . ..
all crying in a row .  .  .
like naked, hungry little birds . . .
eyes wide in dread . . .
mouths round, black and bottomless . . .
piercing the air with loud wails . . .

sadly, I just laughed at them . . .
I lacked sympathy, then, . . .
there they were .  .  .
trapped in their misery . .
exposed in their frailties . . .
I never understood their fear . . .
except that the willow-tree fell . . .
and would not rise up again .  .


her long branches
tangled in a lumpy heap and
slowly beginning to wilt . . .
while the birds circled overhead
calling . . . calling . . .


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A diversity of music genres . .. beautiful and captivating . . . I have been listening for days . . .
 



Weaving through space, sinuous and dreamy,
leading me through the back roads of my memories . ..
my dreams flying through the wind . .
and my hopes of peace and understanding . . .
bloom like a white rose in the darkness . . .
a pale fragrance,
by morning covered in fragile dew . . .
like pearls . . . reflecting the eye of the beholder ...



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Sunday, August 21, 2011

Translator . . .



Dear Readers,

I have added Google Translator as a new widget on the sidebar. . . Give it a try and let me know what the results are, if you wish. Remember that these on-line translators are very imperfect and can translate word for word but not the intent and meaning . . . that is hard for people to do let alone an electronic brain.

Poetry is difficult to understand under the best of circumstances . . . and will probably be more difficult through the translator . . . but with so many people from different countries coming to visit, I thought it might be helpful. 

Hugs to all,

- Barbara

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Trying to Find My Way Back Home . . .



for so many miles I have walked,
lost beneath a silent moon. . .
the dust of the road,
rising up like long ago memories,
clings to the skin of my soul . .
and following me,
as a cape flapping in the wind,
are the streaming shreds 
of heartache . . .
I sing a tuneless song
to keep me company . . .
and remember 
when I held your hand
as we walked down
unfamiliar streets . . .
our way was paved
in sunshine and melodies
though the skies were black with clouds . . .
my eyes are hungry
for the sight of you . . .
my yesterdays . . . fill my dreams
and tears stain my rocky pillow,
where I lay my head
beneath that sullen moon;
my eyes seek the warmth of
that house upon the hill,
where memories 
have colored in the shadows,
and once
rainbows
spanned the shining river below,
bridges to the heavens,
long faded
and returned to the gods as
mere dusty ephemera . . .
                                                                my keys
                                                                have rusted long ago,
                                                                 rendering
                                                                a blood red stain
                                                                  on my fingertips . . .
                                                                   and our tender kisses,
                                                                   like the airy brush of a feather,
                                                                   have flown away
                                                                    with the sparrow for the winter,
                                                                   leaving but sweet tasting memories
                                                                        and a question on my lips
***********************************************************************************
                                                                    


Quiet and tender are the melodies . .
they float around me,
sentimental and wistful,
like lost cherubs . . .
dreamy and content . . .
There is beauty in these shadows. . .
a cool and restful place to stay
and listen to the music . . .
for much of a long and weary day . . .
the electric guitar gives strength
and the piano gives peace . .
and there is a sweet balm in these songs
to sooth away the sorrows
and smooth away the rough edges . .
with a breath of the
lovely and divine . . .




White Wolf




The brightest edge of an ancient star,
peering through the mists,

is the color of a million years  . .
a long, long, road traveled,
ending as a point of light
reflected in the eyes
of white wolf . . . 

she stands on the ledge
above a canyon  . .
blackness pooled beneath her . . .
rushing water feeds the night
with sighs and snorts
like a thousand wild horses
racing between the walls,
an echo reverberating into the heavens . . .
she joins the music of the water
and feels a shiver from the listeners,
small, like prey, they feel . . .
an untouched moment, wild. . .
with a lust to run in fear and exhilaration . .
hearts beating . . .
countless hearts are beating . . .
endless eyes shattered in the star's deep gaze . .
a pool of dawning knowledge
becomes a place of drowning
where the chosen one feels the hot breath
and the thrust of the the wolf's tongue,
like a lover's kiss,
for an endless moment
before the end . . .
and in the end . ..  is a beginning . .
for the blood drawn, sinks into the thirsty earth . . .
where an ancient song
lies buried . . . waiting to be released . . .

and on the banks of the wild river . . 
after the echoing cry is stilled,
the child in the old man weeps with wonder . . .
as one small star flickers and dies . .. 




Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Expiration Date:



Once, on this road,
                                       there was a moment . . .
                                              where
we crossed paths                  
                                         and for some
unknown reason                                                     
      you looked at me
                               and saw
       a bleeding soul . . .                                 
              you heard
a heart song,                  
                                                     an echoing refrain
of yesterday's melody . . .                                         
                                              your fingers, delicate . . .
    fluttering   
white butterflies . . .. .                                     
                             over empty spaces . . . .
I looked at you and saw                               
                           Phoenix rising . . .
passion surrounding                   
                           me in brittle arms of steel,
I breathed on you,                            
     blowing ashes to the searing winds . . .
                                                            flames like roses blooming
    and withering. . .         
                                rising and falling,
                                                                 sizzling beneath pearls
of tears like white wine . . .

The oak tree . . .
                                      has no
memories of this .. ..                                 
   but stands stoic . . .                                                          
                                                      a shelter from the
scorning sun . .   
                                                  and here I pause, 
bewildered . . .
                                                        looking down this old rocky road
waiting . . .   
******************************************************************************* 

I am moved . ..
by this sentimental music,
a wistful dream of yesterday;
yes, there was that day . . .
it dances slowly in my memories,
quietly fading . . . until the rim
of the past
becomes the moment of today .. ..
and here I sit,
my heart melting . . .
under the tender touches
of a piano's voice . . .
and slowly a few tears must fall,
while the beauty of the music
becomes a balm
to heal . .
 
      
****************************************************************************************
                         
Expiration Date

printed in faded
purple ink
on the lid of this life . . .
pointing obliquely to the end. . .
I cannot make it out
my eyes are too blurry
from the salty brine . . .
it gets harder to see
as the line gets finer,
and the time gets shorter
but my heart shrinks . . .
inward . . .
shellacking its surface
to reflect the burning
rays of pain
and I spread
some calk
to fill in the
puncture wounds
as if they were holes in old houses
needing repair . . .
yet there is nothing left
but this dull pain. . .
I am old enough
to know
that wounds heal,
and the scar left behind
is yet another shield
of protection and knowledge
against the woes of
time . . .
and though
a flower fades and drops
never  to return
there will come a day when
yet another
bloom will grow,
the thorns a little sharper . . .
I know that I have
little to offer you
but my flimsy understanding
of life and time,
like the pale lunar moth
struggling to get to
that glorious moon . . .
brushing against the
topmost leaf where
her delicate scales brush off,
the glue too insubstantial to hold,
she flutters down
into the flame
of reality
and perishes . . .

***********************************************************************************

  


  Royalty free music for professional licensing

Inspired while listening to Ivann:

lying on my back
in the tall golden grass
I am completely invisible
to those doomed to wander on this flat land . . .
here I watch the star-flies,
little flocks of insects or fairies . .
   swooping through the dusk,
like stray embers
   flashing upwards,
from that great bonfire on the horizon . . .
I call them to me
    by name
and they come without hesitation . . .
bringing the music of my soul . . .
                it lingers in the air
like the perfume of the gods . . .
moving like the waves of a restless sea . .
               I am overwhelmed by the ambiance
stroking me like calming fingers . . .
my star-flies  swim back and forth in this
                   raw emotion .. ..
touching my eyelids  . . . which flutter with want . . .
my lips . . . like tender invisible kisses . . .
my body completely relaxed . . .
I swoop upward and outward . . .
with my star-flies . . . into the deep space of Heaven . . .

     and I am truly lost to this world . . .


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Monday, August 15, 2011

JAZZ . . .



expressive and dynamic
yet peaceful and calm . . . 

subtle . . .
a great evening's listen and some of the best jazz
on Jamendo . . .
the emotional piano, percussion and bass . . . work
so well together as to be seamless in the overall
presentation . . .





Why is jazz my favorite music? I have been trying to understand that myself . .. but maybe its because it pulls to the surface my emotions of the moment .  .
whether cheerful or sad . . . 
blue or mad .  .  . 
When I hear good jazz like this,
I feel it in the pit of my stomach . . .
that thumping of the bass . . .
like a bloody heartbeat . . .
the piano like crumpled wings
trying to break free .  .  .
and the percussion . . .
a wet road in a maze of life . .. 
and together they become
like building blocks
creating the beat of my life . . .
growing like a tree,
lifting up my inner soul
like a baby bird, on the branches
of life, . .. Sometimes protected and

sometimes exposed . .
Yes . . . Jazz often expresses my life . ..
giving me meaning and understanding . ..
like a poem . . like a  song . . .



   
Electric and funky . . .
a little bluesy and a lot jazzy . . .
vibrations and chimes . ..
delivering a punch  to the psyche . . .
tremendously good . ..
day-dreamy jazz . . .
Royalty free music for professional licensing

Ancient Ways . . . Ancient Songs




She walks her trail with a pathway
of obliging stars as eternal guides . ..
her tribe has gone before her
to part the tangled seas of grass . .
They have taught her the ways
and wisdom of her people . ..
to forsake the taming,
but seeking the instincts of the wild,
together, they climb to the mountain top,
where they sing
of the beauties of a dreamlike creation . .
and of a life giving abundance,
for all that draws breath,
to cherish and share . . .


Their ancient story
is of loss, fear, and fragility
of love, strength and tranquility . .
and those that hear their song
are released from their prisons
and renewed . . .
for it is such that causes even the angels to lean in,
a little closer, to hear these ancient songs
and then pause to gaze,
in wonder, at this small blue planet . . .








Thursday, August 11, 2011

I am the hunter




finding . . .
A place to cling
on the peak of the moon's
distant rays . .
I have lost my way home . .. 

thus needing a place to rest
my weary heart,
I looked into the eyes
of the dream weaver 

and know . . .

I am the hunter
endlessly searching for beauty,
finding broken dreams
and misplaced memories and
often 

the bizarre. . .

I am the wanderer,
searching for planets
yet unnamed . . .
and finding the dispossessed
at the crossroads
of eternity. . .


I am the dreamer
watching and wanting
a web disrupted
at the seams of time
I wait for the meaning
and measure of me

I have but to wonder
and though
I am fearful of what I seek
I always find it
in the darkness of my night . . .




   
I hear your song . . .
it reflects in my whispers
and the aching of my heart . . .
it tugs on my dreams . . 
and releases 
my memories . . .




 

I cannot catch the sun
in my net . . . it burns . . .
with that fire . ..
the ravenous greed of the sun
is reflected on the green leaves of summer . .
the dust lifts up like old dreams,
flecks of what has been . . .
flying in the careless winds . ..
reaching an apex. . .
culminating in old boxes
and bundles of yesterday's rags . ..
brown with moss
and slick with age . . .
it adheres like glue . .
leaving traces along the pathway
of time . . .
lost memories retrieved
as I sit by my window . ..
I look at the moments. . .
each parting of those waves
reveals a road not taken . . .
a sorrow not grieved
a heartache unhealed . .
a knot . ..  stiff and rusted . .
the dust rises up
like the ghosts of the lost
and dance an everlasting waltz
with the last human on earth . . .




And So . . .




Piano . .  quiet, dark and emotional:


A cry tears through the night . . .
the quest of the piano . .
splits the waves of silence . .
There is a peace in knowing pain .  .
that sharp blade
that slices through the heart . ..




and so
my tears fall heedlessly . . .
and my heart is slowly breaking.
I watch you walking away,
not an easy thing
to let my heart know . . .
although I did expect
you to go . . .
for many reasons,
but not least,
the belief
that you deserve to have
your heart's desire
which weaves 
its transparent shell
around my soul . . .

and so
although I ache,
I will not crush the petal of the flower . ..
that wishes to break free
nor tear the wing of the song bird
that longs to fly away . .
a silken thread trails against
a deep blue sky,
it leaves a memory
floating quietly with strength
to hold that solitude . ..
through the dances in the air,
and though the waters fall
and lightning strikes,
like fire from heaven  . . .
it sails on.

and so
I will but soak the soil
at the feet of the rose .. ..
and bejewel the graceful neck
of the singing bird
with my tears,
like pearls on a string
reflecting warmly
the ashes of your love . . .
and but one tear
is left for me,
preserved for always
in my memories . . .
like butterflies in amber

**********************************************************




Songbird . . .






songbird . . . my sunny songbird
      why do I let you fly
                      so small and frail
      against the stormy sky . . .
you are blown away from me
              so quickly . .
a moment's salty froth
                 leaping into the air
dissipated against the rocky shore . .

I hear you singing in the breeze . . .
a slight flutter like a leaf, blown
carelessly . . . the shadowy branches
scratch against the night sky. . .
your eyes are like the star's glance,
a mere twinkle and a sigh. . .
I leave you in the clouds
             that drift. . .
                          love is like that. . .
the feather
           soft in the breeze
your presence, like
           the song's burst
an echo in the night
           your dream, a fragile bubble
bursting at first light








Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Music . . .

somewhere in France


Some, may think that I only listen to music from Jamendo.com . . . but that isn't entirely true . . . on a daily basis maybe . . . but I also have an extensive collection of music, mostly blues and classic and some New-Age, CDs and tape. And of course, music that my musical friends, scattered all over the world and the Internet share with me . . . I also have an account at Magnatune where I find some of the most enjoyable music . . . so I share some here . ..  enjoy these Celtic/Folk tunes . . .


                       


    ForeignLander by Lydia McCauley


Here is a new album and talented musician on Jamendo . . .  acoustic guitar with a great singer . . . a little dark and melancholic and a little experimental . . . a very enjoyable listen:



Don't forget to check out my "Trip to France" page (on the left side) Several photo albums have been added. Enjoy the pictures . . . I had tremendous fun and now I have the traveling "bug."

Thursday, August 4, 2011

A Morning Walk

Detail in yard near park.


Pictures taken at Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden, Portland, Oregon
Music: Dancing with the Swans by: Sagnik and Krishnaroop
from the album "Ethereal Lounge" http://www.jamendo.com/en/album/92226

What is yesterday
                 but a fleck of dust,
                           blown in the wind,
          and soon forgotten
after leaving a footprint
                 in the shifting sands . .


What is today . . .
             as I sit by a lake
filled with spring waters. . .

               I watch
the curious ducks float by,
                  sparks dribbling
from their bills

             I hear
                    the cargo train
passing through on the other side
            of the green . . .
his voice is humming
                     with the day's burdens . .


The water tumbling,
              down the cliff,
                      leaps and shines with
white glee,
          sparkling with expectations. . .
                     for it is new
                             with birth
               and not yet settled
and still 

                like the pond below . . .
                           scummy and wrinkled
         with a life lived
                      and a collection of detritus. . .
old feathers . . . dead leaves . . . 

          the unknown, and filled with
                     algae and green slime

     so that
           the geese are happy
                 to feast there . . .


The old tree stump
                 in the middle of the lake
        is a harvest of green
                      and reflections,

                                  perhaps ancient memories . . .
                   and rooted deeply
             in the sands
             of experience
still making
             an offering to life
                     on the alter of death . .

There is abundant water on this earth

                   a huge burst
                        of elixir
                             the manna of life
                                              an         expectation
              of beauty, evident
                             to the furthest reaches
of space. . .
a glowing blue planet
of promise
and love . . .

 




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