Here I Love You

anna-raz

Here I Love You

Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.

Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Pablo Neruda

Painting by Anna Razumovskaya

Winter Solstice

white-maiden

Solstice draws nigh
dark days, long, longest night
deep remembrance
journey of the soul
moving, ever moving
moving to stand still
still in the darkest light
the most glorious light
light of the undying Sun
standing sill. still point
where we bask breathe
delight in Light, Love
pure beingness
This ever turning play –
dance of dark and light
our soul’s shadow dancing
concealing and revealing
gently, reverently mirroring
cosmic flow and rhythm
of which you and I are part –
One in the eternal dance
movement-Eternal moment
meeting, re-uniting ever again
as One . . . separating, then returning
again and again

HollyRose Gosselin

~Thanks to Holly Rose my FB friend, and sistar~

Solstice facts

Archangel Raziel

 art by Jessica Galbraith

Mid-Winter’s Night

Painting by Kinuko Y. Craft. Oil over watercolor on board. Published by SeaStar Books 2000.Music

Hey everyone. I am wishing that you are all healthy, happy & abundant. I am hoping that you are enjoying the Holiday Season, but if perchance you are one that is troubled by the holidays, I send you extra love. I am going to see A Mid-Winter’s Night Dream, a seasonal transposition of Shakespeare’s classic, at Taliesin West, which was Frank Lloyd Wright’s, Winter home, I am so excited. Going this afternoon.

 

Painting

The Fairy Godmother

Kinuko Y. Craft

 

Fairy Moonbeams

fae1Chopin

Hello friends. The moon is beautiful tonight. I have been so, so busy but finally relief, well… for a minute.

All is well. My A session class is over, and my first grade at ASU, is an A. The Shakespeare paper resulted in a B, and coming from him, that is a A. lol First Shakespeare midterm, and well, I passed, grades not in yet. I will avoid anything with elements of poetry analysis if at all possible in the future. What is the vehicle and what is the tenor for this metaphor? Ay, caramba! I do not know. I tried. But for the most part it is going well. I just found out I am going to high school next semester for my internship. Hmmm, We shall see?

I have read several more books, “Uglies” by Scott Westerfeld, a dystopian novel where everyone is ugly and then they’re not. A really fun read, and I got to go see him speak that week at a local bookstore with my “Uglies” group  from class. It was fun. I will warn that the book is one of three, and there was no resolution at the end. Argh! As soon as I am out for Christmas I will venture into the other two, “Pretties”, and “Specials.” After reading his book I thought he was going to be a bit deeper than he was, but he was really funny. Also “I Am J”, about a transgender teen, pretty good, but the GLBTQ community doesn’t seem to like it much. The author Cris Beam was well meaning, and the book had its moments.

So. . . I miss yall. I wish I had more time to connect. Sending out love far, and wide. Kisses, and magical fairy dust dropping down on the rays of the moonbeams to all~

 

Magic Is

howard20david20johnson_zps5dkwwgrb

Magic is. . .

For one…. This amazing painting that graces the back side of my Fairy Tarot deck. She just looks like I want a fairy to look. It has sure been a long haul with school. I have forever homework with umpteen essays, books to read, articles to read, projects and presentations to do. A normal free day for me is 12 or more hours of work. Wow, I had no idea. The good news is that I am doing it.

I have a rather scholarly Shakespeare professor who I really enjoy listening to and learning from. However I took my rough draft for my first paper, that I had worked on for eighteen hours, and he hated it. I was gobsmacked and not in a good way. lol Thankfully I also have great non-corporeal professors who advise me and keep me straight. The scene in his office would be great in a film, at least from my perspective. So I shift gears, rearrange my schedule so I can get caught up yesterday. Reading The Age of Opportunity, by Dr. Steinberg, on the adolescent brain and development is just mind blowing. I am reading a chapter on “The Importance of Self Regulation,” and determination. He says “Tenacity wins over talent.” He goes on to say that in his profession at least 80% of his essays, or grant proposals are refused. Hmm. . . “I See” I say to myself, as I read further “You have to . . . review, revise, review, and revise again.” A different class than Shakespeare but what a timely bit of reading for me. My angel guide says, “You skip steps” I do. I try to write a perfect paper, all correct in formatting and structure the first time. I just learned that having your work critiqued and edited is part of the process. I have also learned there is something to be said to writing with pen and paper old school first. So much to learn.

Now on the lighter side, I LOVE Young Adult Literature, my professor is just an angel herself, and she gives us such good literature, and academic articles, and essays to read. I love it, and her. She is my new favorite professor. Don’t tell her though, okay? I am reading The House on Mango Street, and next up, The Red Umbrella. I think this teaching thing may just be my niche, that or writing. An essay we just read was on Contemporary Memoirs, it had so many inspirational ideas for teaching this genre of YA literature. I linked, The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros.

Lots of love everybody.

_Namaste~

Happy Day of Peace

Art by

Howard David Johnson

Life Is Bigger

Wave abstract11

R.E.M.

Oh life, it’s bigger
It’s bigger than you
And you are not me
The lengths that I will go to
The distance in your eyes
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up

That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I’m choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I set it up

Consider this
Consider this, the hint of the century
Consider this, the slip
That brought me to my knees, failed
What if all these fantasies come
Flailing around
Now I’ve said too much

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
That was just a dream

That’s me in the corner
That’s me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don’t know if I can do it
Oh no, I’ve said too much
I haven’t said enough

I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try

But that was just a dream
Try, cry, why try
That was just a dream
Just a dream
Just a dream, dream

Art

Gwen Duda

I did not realize that Micheal Stipe was a visual artist and a director, as well as a singer-songwriter. This song and video from 1991, is just as relevant, and current 25 years later. That video is a very nice bit of film-making.

Sea Serenity

purple-boat-and-friends-elizabeth-blaylock-johnson

The Ocean

The Wide Ocean

by Pablo Neruda

Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit
of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
and the power of your white tongue,
that shatters and overthrows columns,
breaking them down to your proper purity.

Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,
that thunders onshore, and creates
the silence of sand, that encircles the world,
but the inner spaces of force,
the naked power of the waters,
the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives.
It is Time perhaps, or the vessel filled
with all motion, pure Oneness,
that death cannot touch, the visceral green
of consuming totality.

Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
that lifts a spray: a humid scent,
of the damp flower, is left,
from the bodies of men. Your energies
form, in a trickle that is not spent,
form, in retreat into silence.

The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears,
and returns to its source, unconsumed.

Your whole force heads for its origin.
The husks that your load threshes,
are only the crushed, plundered, deliveries,
that your act of abundance expelled,
all those that take life from your branches.

Your form extends beyond breakers,
vibrant, and rhythmic, like the chest, cloaking
a single being, and its breathings,
that lift into the content of light,
plains raised above waves,
forming the naked surface of earth.
You fill your true self with your substance.
You overflow curve with silence.

The vessel trembles with your salt and sweetness,
the universal cavern of waters,
and nothing is lost from you, as it is
from the desolate crater, or the bay of a hill,
those empty heights, signs, scars,
guarding the wounded air.

Your petals throbbing against the Earth,
trembling your submarine harvests,
your menace thickening the smooth swell,
with pulsations and swarming of schools,
and only the thread of the net raises
the dead lightning of fish-scale,
one wounded millimetre, in the space
of your crystal completeness.

 

 

Painting By

Elizabeth Blaylock