Scrolls of straw or men of peace waiting in the field as the light of day is met. Toss your shadows and whirl your air. Pick us apart as some of us falter. Others have long refrains of songs. Hallelujah, says the chorus. The straw is packed in bundles. We are food for thought as a truck piles us in for the journey. Home is across the river. Home is a way station in a darkened alley. Home has teary eyes. Home has colorful glass windows. Home sits quietly waiting. Straw men and crosses are greetings. Hope walks in the door and pulls off all the words in one continuous line.
Rather amazing spectacle seeing all the letters in each word joined together like a rope turned into a lasso. The rope whirling around catching something in its grasp.
Around noontime the sky held really large white puffy clouds. They taught me the names of those clouds back in grade school. But, no one said anything about what the rope captured. Perhaps shadows from plastic flowers or a bright yellow painting with people praying inside.
Everything begins to change places. The painting grows a long shadow. The plastic flowers feel the sun’s brightness touching them. Blue people holding onto hope. Trying to change places. Scrolls of straw and men of peace go to sleep and dream a different world.
Between the soft awakening of the morning and throughout her traveled day lay wait so many tenacious miracles. It seems even the slightest movements are enough to wake them, as are the people who prescribe their meanings to us. Go forth little stars as the night falls and add your faith. For those who sleep have need of it. The benevolence of knowing is a dream the morning air shares with her night.
Sensory communications do not decide peace. Though there is a pathway we as humanity relies on, listening, speaking, intuition, the unknown, spirituality, stoic indecision, empathy and anger. The restless nature of peace is a huge ocean tossing and turning and then almost quiet… trying to lay itself down to sleep.
People walking in the rain interrupt the rain drops.
So does everything else that prevents the raindrops from reaching their destination.
Hold your hand out and ask the raindrop a question. Did you want to be loved?
I did that the other day and the raindrop’s reply struck me because I understood what it meant.
I have a purpose and though that purpose is fulfilled each time I become, I also want to be loved.
Dedication to a brilliant composer
Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head
(written before hearing the sad news of his passing)
Call the electrician,
The light man.
He’s gone now.
Followed the train driver,
Off the train.
Which is why I need to get off.
Out of this stationary traffic jam.
Sweaty vehicle puffing smoke.
Into cryptic messages
Up there for so long
It’s an opaque place now
Grey skies forever.
No way to see anymore.
softened curls of twine.
made from the forest bed.
she went fishing for flowers.
to find them and send.
the browns and the goldens.
the muted shades lent.
the mist between motion.
of traveling scent.
of flowers she gave thee and dreams that she drew.
amongst forest places and love that is true.
https://www.SusyKamber.com for the complete art
“Often when I imagine you,
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer,
and I am dark;
I am forest.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke
Under the Rose Tree
All the flowers in the whole world were under the rose tree.
A huge carpet with a tremendous grafted tree.
Someone said it’s the best way to see them.
Make an appointment though.
Jam packed except if you’re there in the middle of the night.
Sometimes the moon shows up shining her spotlight and
if it’s cloudy they actually hand out special flashlights that simulate her blond eyes.
People walk around pointing them this way and that at these flowers.
Waking them up is like opening a whole bottle of perfume.
Delicate scents or a very bold breeze.
Either are intoxicating.
So people end up falling asleep.
I swear they become sleepwalkers at two in the morning.
Dreaming things they never recall once they wake up.
I say there’s a reason because everyone leaving has a sort of starry look from their eyes.
They all have it, but that’s nothing compared to the dream I suppose.
Under the Rose Tree · Sokratis Sinopoulos
Light is not solely white or shades of it. It is a territory of processes so much informed by what exists next to it. Light has a home then and any attempts to bring it within has to bring its home along or else it does not survive. Within a photograph light is easy to capture, it may not have the other forms of excellence a photographer would admire, but light is present. Without its home light becomes dispersed and hidden, the dark though cannot claim it, for it too like light has a shadowland. https://youtu.be/mneDuKb3BT8 Hania Rani
Gold falls further.
An opera singer has to sing.
Trill la la.
As the ostrich opens her feathered flock.
Though often not found.
In a game of cards.
The opening spade remains on guard.
A sequence of patterns quite hard to imagine.
The pink reaches home.
With a hole in his pocket.
Hello little stone.
Written on The Ground
I am here without anymore substance left engaging my fall, gravity has abated its hold upon me. It will though try to keep me down. I feel it even now, motionless, but hovering around me. I smell the floor as a place so many others have leaned against. This rank odor of time and fallen souls. The adjacent ground for some holding flowers in a heap around their bodies. Mournful tears as rain occurs.
For others the grey pavement still contains a semblance of life. Newspaper stories wrapped around legs and arms for warmth. Sockets of eyes staring down at us, hair that blows gently in the wind without any cares it seems to me. The conversations of passerby’s containing nothing one might pray to hear from others. Empty words I do not understand. I pray though each time I find the strength on those lonely streets.
Come for me another, help me regain my stature. Lift me up we sing, verses memorized for what they are worth. I become gospel, my purity ascends heaven, gravity makes way for enlightenment. I stand up, what little is left of me is cause for joy. I sing with the strength to be heard.
Written on the ground as I stood up.
My camera is naked.
Similar to a #2 pencil that took off her yellow coat and stated enough of this traditional garb. The owner sipping her water from a plastic bottle that’s no longer transparent. She thought about what that water looked like, but concluded it tasted the same with every gulp and besides it now appeared like she was drinking soda. My camera is naked and why not let it prance around held by two hands who turn it this way and that. No one else knows though how much she cherishes that nakedness she’s holding. How much better she really can see now with it in her hands. In fact she’s becoming naked, too. I’m not a stripped pencil though or an alien with yellow bubbles in her veins walking past a bookstore and thinking about one of those types of books. I do lean towards knowing the invisible nakedness of others. I do enjoy what my camera has to say and I understand it enough to have her look.
The bookstore opens and I peer into the window just as someone glances up with a peculiar expression on their face. I think in that momentary glance with my naked camera balanced in one hand and his book being held in a v formation, open and exposed, we both understand that many things have qualities of nakedness. With that I smile into his enlightened eyes and he returns my expression.
I am a graffiti artist.
I found here my wall.
In between myself,
And the outside world.
Sometimes they thinking it’s a gang thing and try to hook me that way.
Walking by me the lyrics to their songs in my head.
Short clips of long words.
Noth Ing Got Brok En In Half.
A whole bunch of lies I say to that.
I ain’t no doing that makin for them here.
This wall is for me.
I says my own thing.
I says it up close for you.
My lines ain’t straight.
Sometimes I gotta run em, like I do.
Gotta get away, case they catch me.
I says is my wall, but it ain’t so.