You and me > inspired by generations of forgivness

( never underestimate the steadfastness of Love. Forgiveness.

When all is said and done and the Lights burn low ; when the voices have died and there is nothing left to even hide, and the hands that killed, are free to go and be, or do, the same things again …

there will be the absence of  peace. the beginning of crime in the tortured mind. Layers of after shock. Hate is a cruel mate to bed with.  When it is  his  turn to be stilled, the memory will return

images of battering skins and the sounds of bone on stone :

May you remember, know the prayer in their face as they died,Father forgive, they do not know what they are doing…”

May the potence of that reach you, redeem your lost time.

I am the crookn mile,the moving river the setting sky, the gull, the wave , shore, sand , sea and some of those and a little of trees, when the wind sifts their scent and you know ,

I am also a country. Its face and Tribe : a million smiles and years of changing styles. Changed lives. Death and Life.

Fields and filled harvest. Emptied wells and growing eyes. All of these. Somehow, like trees, planted by streams of Living

Water .

Peace

She gives me Peace,
even last evening, at the Meet
the Last one, the last running mile at School, the bugle blew and the banners folded, another chapter of Life,

our Little Girl, not yet a woman,
not a Child,
so strong, so powered mild,

i cried , she asked me why, I said, these days I cry when Im happy …

so many miles, we ve run, and talked and raced and stalked and wept and sought and learned to not hate the things we cannot love, and love , and be and live and fruit and learn to sometimes just not talk, listen,

dance, remember, lean, give, take, trust,
create, meet each other, share our differences, and other growing things, even separating pathways, running, somehow thicker, side
by side…

Last night , I saw her Face, It was so many unspoken Words, like Peace….

this little woman,  somehow

my child

Seasons

Seasons of the Soul

Your Still small Voice, like  small bunched Buds

clasping my Branch and Tree, breaking thru’

my Winter :  You, rich with Breath ,  Tender -Spring ,

Gentle Crimson -  reaching w

here none else

can  flow  ;

Season – swept  Field , rain-wrung Sky,

scorched Seed : these Seasons within ,

Turn turn turn  to  Your   Whispers, O Father,

You , Renew

My Soul.

sometimes it will walk all over your floor

a new thought

you never had the courage to think before

not birthed off you

maybe not. Its happened to me too,  and its scary cuz

its so new, unlike us. We ‘re so  careful and worried about growing too tall.

But there it is, walking across that floor. MY Floor.

My Life.

Could that even be my Idea > should I try that ?

I know I will, or I ‘ll never know how strong  could be, even if

i may never walk at all..

Walkn on water

histree

like a tree

i am the crookn mile, the moving river the setting sky, the gull, the wave , shore, sand , sea

and some of those and a little of trees, when the wind sifts their scent and you know ,I am also

a country. Its face and Tribe : a million smiles and years of changing styles. Changed lives.

Death and Life. Fields and filled harvest. Emptied wells and growing eyes. All of these.  Somehow, like trees, planted by streams of Living Water .

Mysteries.

Dancing the tide > encounters

inner universe pic in the mail

No , I am not there, in that swirl…

am here in my suburb and red/blue bartik printed pajama / Tea and staggered monsoon.

Its quiet for a Thursday , the construction workers are having a day off I guess, like us. Thursday is  a good Moment to exhale. Slowly.

Step back from the Rush.

Kick Sandal,  JUST BE… before you go out the door again in twenty six minutes.

AND IF YOU DARE, DANCE THE TIDE..

here….

the visible and the invisible  gambol, slap,  swell,

kiss,  race each other , overwhelm or ride.

Inner Universe.

A Miracle happens everytime you

come home and say you love me and the words are few but

the knowledge is there , that we are here , little chips in a great kaleidocope,

looking , seeing , not understanding all, and yet , knowing you are loved, is the Greatest

Knowing of all..

When you did that ..

river side

Canvas, it was dark outside. like a sudden solar eclipse.  There had been a pending sadness.

A friend had gone , to never return, and the rooms in my house were silent. Even the birds forgot to sign off and the trees were too still. Like they too understood and were sentry to our hearts.

But you were painting so much Light. Life.

I gawked at you.

After all that / all that , and that and that ...  you picked the brightest shades, then went to the Store for more. What kept the Light shining in  your head ?

What keeps it spilling over as if we do not need the Sun any more ?

As if there is Gain from Loss.

No actual tearing away. Like theres an understanding between this Life and the Other : that this is the lesser Reality , and the Other, the Larger.

A Painting could never achieve all this  ; what halts the shattering mind, is face of a Mate, who smiled a real smile, when all was Lost. And said, ” All is Well…”

And Meant it.  So that the Light shone all in.  And the Silence of emptiness , began to fill with surprise Visitors. Messengers. Words. A certain lifting of the Inside  :

the Breath that shocked a deep valley filling with deadened eyes. Listless arms and feet sunk in the river that had stopped running clear . Running wide.

a fresh Wind Blowing thru  scorched Earth : like a healing Smile.. I inhale and rest, inside. Deep Inside. Deep deep inside, where you cannot see…

there  is the rush of a new Tide . This spillage of colour cavorting all in..  running deep, running wide , clear ,  sand free sparkling ,

am swept off my feet , from this riverside….

< Its hard to stop courting the dark  /  but Reality , is the Light  :

Why’m I telling you this / ‘unbroken’ series

“spirit of Comfort ‘…

today, i need that kind of healing most, but the originals been sold. wonder whether i could rproduce another..  recently i lost a good friend, but thats another page, best left to its mates.

Just thinkn, painting, sketchn, writing, talking without too many words at all.

How invaluable these Gifts are.

Least demanding / intrusive..

fulfilling and true. Pure, like a single note of music, some one said in a movie, somewhere..

feeln blessed just thinkn of my small art room over a busy city, waking up to another day. This morning, the trees looked almost unnaturally green.  Why ‘m I telling you this. Does anyone ever read, emote..

we reach into ourselves and know we ‘re there..

in a network beyond belief. outside inner structure and experience. thats crucial evidence of existence….

theres enough to reach in, and touch. Heal, make new.

Then get out of my recesses and lose some of the stuff that shouldnt be here .

Love this space. It reminds me theres a Life to live.

Clour. Music.  Better words and  moments left to fill.

….heya / have peace..

Thresholds < indian easel

everymoment

give and take a little, here, there …

tides turning, change, swell shift

like sands and sea, we

re construct thresholds

anew. It

keeps us forever

creating/ recreating

staying limitless, free

reconstructing my lines

my Life, for you

for us .. even me. There is no other room

for growing up, together.

Is there ? Just asking..

is there