Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

25 July 2009


1. the light according to palms, 2. A Wild Baby Rabbit, 3. Cloud Shadow Canyon, 4. X Underwater portrait, 5. synchro-stretching, 6. Laughing Puppies!, 7. Inuksuk in the snow, 8. beuys bunny, 9. panther, 10. Three is a charm, 11. Mabon 2006, 12. Fairy Treats for a Cloudy Afternoon, 13. Call of the Raven (formerly Nature's Special Effects), 14. In Memory of a Beautiful Soul, Mauricio Saravia, 15. Sparkling dewdrops, 16. Greetings, Plejaren (part 2), 17. Old woman with dog, 18. backroad, 19. goodnight moon, 20. the cloud that distills a mirror, 21. Caladium, 22. Mt. Auburn Cemetery in autumn, 23. Only For You, 24. Scotch mist!, 25. bubble dance II, 26. Dammit The Amazing Wonder Dog, 27. yodell ♫ lay-od-lay-od-lay-he-hoo, ♫ lay-od-lay-od-low yodellay, ♫ yodallay, yodal-low… ♫ and they fly low supreme! ♫ little egrets from bali- egretta garzetta ♫, 28. self portrait: two seconds of a summer evening, 29. Colors of Africa, 30. Faith regained, 31. Winter Puddle, 32. Patience...., 33. natural sparkler, 34. Alien's farewell to St. Patty's Day celebrations_1411, 35. You are me!!! / Vous ĂȘtes moi!!!, 36. Taking the Plunge

couldnt sleep. no words. washed dishes and as they dried wrote a poem with pictures.

liminal
return
reborn
to be
laughing
black caribou
black panther
shaman
artemis
hecate
mother mary
the good folk
call the circle
silver branch
well lit path
dog woman
raven woman
hedgewitch
the comfort of books
a garden
a long walk
sleep in a white bed
letting it slide
dancing light
blue heeler
of honey
a certain week
away when
the words spill over
puddles reflecting
love rising
soul inspired
so ready to live
my hearts truth
my lifetime.

i spoke too soon, it seems. the cowboys back sooner than never, a papery chrysalis shell rolling away on the road home.

1 comment:

  1. I thought I had posted this, maybe I did, but I thought these images were yours, you have such a splendid eye, and I wouldn't put it past you to be able to photograph such amazements.

    ReplyDelete

Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."
-V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)