sad sad sad sad sad sad
I don't want to lose him
I don't want to lose him
I have lost too much
I will send good thoughts


I will be offline for a bit away from technology

stare into my little beedy eye if you dare...

I have often been lost on the sea
with my ear full of fresh-cut flowers,
with my tongue full of agony and love.
Often I have been lost on the sea,

-from Ghazal of the Flight by Frederico Garcia Lorca

Arguably I fall off the boat, when I think oh yes and I can just let him go. Then reality sets in, the reality of tomorrow being my last day there. No more meetings...

shine your thang..

You know, I don't want to be filled with longing anymore. I cannot answer the question of what someone else is thinking unless I ask them. There is no mystery, no romantic code, you ask and you know. I was never brave enough to ask, hence I am never going to know. That sucks but I cannot sit and not live because of it. I love this person, I do without question but I do not know how they feel about me. I should remedy this, I should ask. Life is short and shadows are dark and long. I am tired of shadows.

Trumpeter

Earth

We walk on
an unsilvere
mirror,
a crystal surface
without clouds.
If lilies woud grow
backwards,
if all those roots
could see the stars
& the dead not close
their eyes,
we would become like swans.

Fredrico Garcia Lorca

Cat Bird

A confused king penguin dad here.

Heros for Sagebrush habitat, can the tide be turning read here.

dream dream dream dream
he is such a dream
lovely dancing eyes
I wish he knew how a moment
could make my day
I wish he knew it is him
I was brave and went to him
I will miss seeing him
even for those snatches of moments
a dream a sweet sweet beautiful dream

House Wren

The wren

The wren lay cold in my palm
I once believed my breath
Could make him live again
Fly-off –continue on his way
I stare at his empty eye
It dries out
Sinks away
Rotten bone
In a cape of feathers
Despite belief
Will not fill again
With air

By the Corbyhawk

some cute to tide you over...

yeah whas up wi' that

white-throated sparrow

I thought myself so much to the earliest leaf and the fist meadow orchis-so important that I should note the first zeezee of the titlark-- that I should pronounce it summer, because now the oaks were green; I must not miss a day nor an hour in the fields lest something should escape me.... But today I have to listen to the lark's song-not out of doors with him, but through the windowpane... They manage without me very well; they know their times and seasons-not only the civilized rooks, with their libraries of knowledge in their old nests of reference... They go on without me. Orchis flower and cowslip-I cannot number them all-I hear as it were, the patter of their feet-flower and bud and the beautiful clouds that go over, with the sweet rush of rain and burst of sun glory among the leafy trees. They go on, and I am no more than the least of the empty shells that strewed the sward of the hill. Nature sets no value upon life, neither mine nor of the larks that sang years ago. The earth is all in all to me, but I am nothing to the earth: it is bitter to know this before you are dead. These delicious violets are sweet for themselves; they were not shaped and coloured and gifted with that exquisite proportion and adjustment of odour and hue for me. High up against the grey cloud I hear the lark through the window singing and each note falls into my heart like a knife.

-Richard Jeffries "Hours of Spring" -1886

Today would have been my dad's 73rd birthday. I miss him and wish I could see him again. I painted his portrait-

looking back

How shall I hold my soul that it may not Be touching yours?
How shall I lift it then
Above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot,
With some lost thing the dark is isolating
On some remote and silent spot that, when
Your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.
You and me - all that lights upon us, though,
Brings us together like a fiddle-bow
Drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song.

-Rainer Maria Rilke