pieces of my mother
a life by the wayside
five years it's taken
but slowly it chips away
As the butterfly emerges
the caterpillar mourns
it astounds how
another's life can
so thoroughly
envelope
to lose one's self
in the noise
I listen for a clear
ringing of my own
small voice
once again
in the din of the world
We work in the Dark; we give what we have. Our Doubt is our passion- our passion is our task, and the rest is the madness of art. -Henry James
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Runesmith
reader of fates
caster of stones
and now the message
screams loudly
for me-
Break down the walls
open the windows
breathe the air
of spiritual freedom
Sing to the world
of that gentle heart
the one that cries
at small creatures' passing
the shouting, the shoving
needs to die away
so the gift within
can finally glow
that light under the bushel
was never about praise to God
but living so that one
IS a glory to the One
it is the cruel Temptress
of this world
who teaches to hide, protect,
fail to trust ever again
and all that one can do with
that
is die inside a little
more each day
Such lessons are easily said
but not so easy to apply
I feel a change in the wind
it sings of freedom finally
caster of stones
and now the message
screams loudly
for me-
Break down the walls
open the windows
breathe the air
of spiritual freedom
Sing to the world
of that gentle heart
the one that cries
at small creatures' passing
the shouting, the shoving
needs to die away
so the gift within
can finally glow
that light under the bushel
was never about praise to God
but living so that one
IS a glory to the One
it is the cruel Temptress
of this world
who teaches to hide, protect,
fail to trust ever again
and all that one can do with
that
is die inside a little
more each day
Such lessons are easily said
but not so easy to apply
I feel a change in the wind
it sings of freedom finally
Friday, July 09, 2004
22 April 93
Sometimes I wonder why I fear
And what it is I fear.
I argue my limitations
and sure enough they are.
I demand to be heard
but when the floor is mine
I forget what I was
yelling about.
Is it truly that success
scares the living hell out of me.
Is it that I fear the Source
within me will dry up.
Is matyrdom so preferable
to exploring my art to its depth.
Do I fear that what I do
Cannot stand the test
of Time.
I do not like the aloneness.
Sometimes it threatens to break me.
I do not like the floundering in the
mud of mediocrity because
I fear.
What I do not know
is how to break down the door
that I've so long refused to
open.
and no one else can do it for me.
And what it is I fear.
I argue my limitations
and sure enough they are.
I demand to be heard
but when the floor is mine
I forget what I was
yelling about.
Is it truly that success
scares the living hell out of me.
Is it that I fear the Source
within me will dry up.
Is matyrdom so preferable
to exploring my art to its depth.
Do I fear that what I do
Cannot stand the test
of Time.
I do not like the aloneness.
Sometimes it threatens to break me.
I do not like the floundering in the
mud of mediocrity because
I fear.
What I do not know
is how to break down the door
that I've so long refused to
open.
and no one else can do it for me.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
a thought or two
Okay, not poetry, but from the poet anyway.
I have become aware in the last week or so how very self-centered, how egotistical, poetry truly is. It has been a journey for me to try to lose that ego part of myself, to face it and let it go, and has come as no surprise that I have in fact been feeding it. Ego was once a majour survival tool for us, and it is not so easy to sublimate. This is particularly true in our American society, where the ME generation set a precendence about putting ourselves and OUR needs and desires above others'. Service is seen as a weakness, not a virtue. For true peace to come to this society, there will need to be a shift of attitude. The giving of one's self, time and effort is truly the only thing of value anyone can give to another. This is especially true when it comes to one's children. We have bred a generation of neurotic and insensitive kids who do not know how to deal with the world at large, merely by not giving them the gift of attention from one or both parents.
Well, revelation yet again.
I have to wonder to myself how it will change my writing. It has been an uphill battle to change myself, but one of my gifts to this world is my art, the painting and the writing. What will I do with it now?
I have become aware in the last week or so how very self-centered, how egotistical, poetry truly is. It has been a journey for me to try to lose that ego part of myself, to face it and let it go, and has come as no surprise that I have in fact been feeding it. Ego was once a majour survival tool for us, and it is not so easy to sublimate. This is particularly true in our American society, where the ME generation set a precendence about putting ourselves and OUR needs and desires above others'. Service is seen as a weakness, not a virtue. For true peace to come to this society, there will need to be a shift of attitude. The giving of one's self, time and effort is truly the only thing of value anyone can give to another. This is especially true when it comes to one's children. We have bred a generation of neurotic and insensitive kids who do not know how to deal with the world at large, merely by not giving them the gift of attention from one or both parents.
Well, revelation yet again.
I have to wonder to myself how it will change my writing. It has been an uphill battle to change myself, but one of my gifts to this world is my art, the painting and the writing. What will I do with it now?
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