Magic in Love Letters

Tighter than the bark on creativity’s tree.

Oh, woe-some, creativity!

I would assume…

the same can be said, for tranquility.

The worse of times.

The best of times.

All windows looking out…from my mind.

And, for myself, along with the same of similar skin…

No access to an outside door.

Black and white.

Pen upon paper.

Ambiguity sets in.

Alas, these are the moments I should cherish most.

Being in the house, as a ghost, with no need for a host.

I am certain of no uniqueness in this endeavor.

Just as certain that I am of…

Magic found in poems, prose and love letters.

 

 

Facing Change

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Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced!  James Baldwin

In awe, as a writer, poet, thinker, depth diver…I wonder…

‘How did we get here?’

Some of us so far in the minority.  It takes a ladder to stand up to the wind.  Faith and persistence must not wane.  For as certain as, one open door appears ahead of us.  The door shutting behind…never closes completely.  

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Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death–ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.

James Baldwin/the Fire Next Time

 

Dusky Bi-Way, Glory and Gods!

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There is a point on this dusky bi-way.  Where you drive into heaven.  No gates, no end, no beginning.  A slow moving climax of Glory and Gods lay ahead.  Just rummaging around in petite country shacks.

Beyond the medicinal huts of cedar shake…Workers of varying beliefs.  All on a pilgrimage to move emancipated stone.

‘No task more difficult to conceive than to adjust acres of rock…Until it sets the soul right!’imageedit_26_2474227145

Grandiose gorges have been built on the premise of pride.  And, without warning, a lost river and life collide.  Waters sweep thru with an icy hand and wash the work away.

It is my theory that this is why the environmental/philosophical/exterior decorator…arrives.

Among many of us.  Those considered lost.  Those believed to be vagabonds.  Poets and artists seeking their do.  All of these and so much more…Such as myself…

Attempt the impossible…imageedit_33_8994973596

Only to walk away with this conclusion…

Sometimes you can take things away.  A gust of retrospect…Perhaps!  Yet, in the end, it all washes away to a greater scheme.  One we have yet to understand.’

Narrowing Sky

There are no easy roads.

Street lights still hang.

Ever so mysteriously by night’s glare.

Grave gazers still know the secret for infinity’s love.

Pain learns to stay…

With or without reward.

Sad goodbyes, linger long after the spoken word.

As narrowing sky falls to the ground…

Dressed as, urban decay.

Sultry poignant awe grabs the dreamer.

And, creates poetic disarray.

Perhaps, neither plight nor fight stops some in their solid stance.

Perhaps, it is simply the chance to join in the dance.

the Bleeding Insides of an Artist

Are you the stranger in your life?

Our thoughts are being pilfered everyday.  To think otherwise?  Would be unwise.  We must educate in a free society.  Mind washing from the church pews to the loosely termed ‘news’.  Is nothing more than slight and vague attempts at changing who we are…who we want to be.  As an existentialist would say, veiled jabs, daily, by ‘society’ are chipping away at the point of just…being.

This is where true art.  True poetry.  True and honest, expression of what many wish to suppress, should dictate ‘how we live with ourselves.’


The artist is the opposite of the politically-minded individual, the opposite of the reformer, the opposite of the idealist.  The artist does not tinker with the universe: he or she recreates it out of his or her own experience and understanding of life.  They know that a transformation must proceed from within…outward, vice versa.  The world problem becomes the problem of the SELF.

Henry Miller