Thought Paths to Translucency

I have no more the desire to not have desire than I have to be desirous of other desires

Always the images find a path, in and out of the cerebral cortex, in and out of the daylight of the sunshine mind

So I become calm, to see the flowers wave in the breeze, to read Buddha Maitreya's words on self and ego

Yet I know that life is not one long stream of lotus blossoms, yes I know that I have to climb the hill before I reach the temple

But the gas man is on his way, and soon the boiler will be working, giving warmth throughout the household

Although it is not particularly cold this morning, it is a surprise that last night's clear sky, with stars and crescent moon

Did not bring a frost, instead the clouds provide a blanket which the sun gradually breaks through

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Melodious Not Melodrama

The light arrives

Slow, sure, and certain

Brighter every moment

Overwhelming sometimes

With glare and reflection

Yet always the gift of energy

Always the gift of life

And shadows, through the trees

And haze, through the mist

And, should you see the music stand

You could believe that the notes

Are there for you alone

Or, because you feel benevolent

You might share this sun, choose

To share this day, to share this

Happy-go-lucky Blue Nile melody

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Waking, Moving, And Writing

I woke, it was dark

I rose

I was somewhere in between

I moved, it was moving

I chose

Nowhere to be seen

I brewed tea, it was warm

My repose

The very thing I mean

I sat, it was quiet

I suppose

That time again to redeem

I thought, that's the sunlight

Prosaic

The light on which I lean

I write, it was morning

Frozen

Thinking of what might have been

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Imagined Image

The photograph looks like the city, yet for certain my grandparents lived in a small village. They moved there after my great grandmother passed away, she was almost ninety; her husband, my great grandfather, had passed away only two months before, he was the village cobbler.

The critics always come second, for without the artists, who always come first, they have nothing on which to base their criticism upon. Of course they may make witty remarks, or show off their learning by referencing comparable works; though in truth, for any of this to be authentic, the artist will already have shown his hand towards these influences and witticisms.

We used to go to tea every Sunday; you had to go through the kitchen, a lean to extension, at the back of the house, to get to the downstairs washroom. It was an end terrace, with a small triangular garden to the side. A very nice old lady lived next door, we used to call and say hello.

This was Paris, England, not Paris, France, which is most probably where the photograph was taken. Any criticism of the original photographer must be laid aside, for he has brought back such sweet memories into my life, which otherwise might have been no more than dust.

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Fillings

This page is empty, even with the mist, and the rays of winter sun, which whisper over the freshly ploughed furrows

This page is empty, even with a referral to The Twenty Love Poems of Pablo Neruda

This page is empty, even if I offer you a share of The Naked Lunch with William Burroughs

I looked up; the brilliant bright haze had turned into a dull undistinguished February day

I listened to the breakdown of the breakdown

I contemplated how the trapped may become less trapped; one moment by one moment was all I thought

I thought we were there together

Our memories though are not the same, as Pete eludes to in his song: the words I spoke were not always the words you heard

The playlist is based on John Martyn's One World

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