Time makes us leave each other. A window looking out and for a moment action happens. The days have more then a number and we get close to a deeper dream. It brushes my fingers as I reach and just there for a fleeting moment I can feel it. Then it flits away gracefully spins as time passes again. The days regain their numbers, the hours tick me further away from the touch of it. I try to remember, to relive it. It evades me and it is heartbreak. I cannot find it again, not so real as it was. I am older now and still my courage fails me. I wear, weathered soul that faces the slow drip of the ordinary day. How is it that all this time can pass and with one moment I am back on a path I thought I had already traveled the length of? These dreams are all tied-up together, your eye on my eye. How glorious and how miserable. I swore off of longing, made to stay away and try to forget. In one span of a second, a glimpse and it rushes back as if it has never left. How was the view? Could you see the battle raging? Then you are the only one aware of it. I paint the endless gaps away, marking them with line and color. It gives them a shape, a hope. The subject is not so relevant as the passage of paint. The marks a ticking notation of a life silently forced to watch what it most wants to touch again. Time makes us come back together in an endless loop. We circle in widening arcs in and out ever upwards chasing paths. Stay close, do not fade again.

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest, in the gale, is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That keeps so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never, in extremity
It ask a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson 

Still?

oh yes, even now, still

Did you think I would dance this dance
As one singular note rang out
One song and she there standing
Her arms raised in a pantomime of mine
How in that moment our mutual hate flared
She wanted me gone and here I was
Here I was dancing again to your song
It like your raised eyes on my face
A touch of memory flared, burned and died
Leaving me without accompaniment
I resisted my heart and stood cold
Immune to the passionate crescendo
Her eyes as she crushed and you gleaming
Victory to reach for my hands
Eager for me to cut in to take up a new partner
To bear the weight of your formidable guilt
And burn it away with my desperate passion
For you, for this song, for these words given
I let the music go stopping as all other motion blurred
Turned away and left you two to the floor.

By the Corbyhawk herself

How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall
I lift it over you toward other things?
Ah, I would like to lodge it
in the dark with some lost thing
on some foreign silent place
that doesn't tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you and me
takes us together like a bow's stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926) trans. Edward Snow

I am a memory, that maybe once he tried to say something to me and I could not hear him. That the direction of my life could spin on a chance. How great the loss? I still remember everything and I miss him. It was the best and worst time, but I was living so aware. How is that years have passed and I still can recall the smallest little memories. It was a great love that never was.

Well I went walking in the woods Sunday
Dragged my feet through the undergrowth
Stumbling upon a bird instead
Singing songs sweet of hope and…

So I went back there the very next day
Found no trace of the sweet song
Dragged my feet just the very same way
But no melody rang home
No birds to sing
No bird

Waiting there to blessed my roam
No melody
No melody to save
Ringing out with sacred tones
No melody
No melody to sing

No bird to sing
Why won’t those birds begin?
To sing…

Royal Wood

I am thinking about changing. Maybe I am not in fact innovative enough to be a painter. I find myself reinventing the wheel and I am even boring myself. I live in artistic isolation now. My old friends have scattered now that they cannot get anything from me. Emails go unanswered, calls do not come in, there is no communication. This happens and I just do not bother to pursue. More to the point though is my desire to quit. I find it all rather not fulfilling lately. To what ends do I doggedly work at night after working all day? To stand in a gallery and have people say it is nice, then pack up and end the conversation? Perhaps my time would be better spent elsewhere. The thing I miss most lately is the activity of my old friends minds. I am so bored of all this. The repetition of my days is dulling to my spirit. It makes less of me and I have not figured out how to break free of it, or if I ever will. After all I have accomplished, I am starting to think I am in fact a failure. Apparently none of that counts. I guess I am demotivated, demoralized, and generally tired of fighting the grind. Part of me is just plain angry, where did these people go? The pretenders! They were not true at all! People just do not ever seem to understand and I grow weary from the effort of it. So before my biggest show, which I am trying to make myself care about, I want to give up. This will be my last show. I will resign myself to being ordinary and finding some other path. Perhaps it was not meant to be at all anyway. I have to work so hard to produce the mediocre and really there is no genius in continuing that. I guess it is finally having the wisdom to see that one has to do it out of love for it, or some blind talent that drives you and lately I have lost my love and well my genius is questionable. I am not finding the poetry of existence, I am just walking day to day and getting by. What is there to paint in that?

I wonder if it could have been different somehow? Then I sit back and reflect on what I have before me, the distance I have yet to go and I know I do not regret. I am not who I was and gratefully so, I have faced some sour days. I made it, here I am! All I thought I needed, I lost and thinking I could not recover, I managed to. Do I still love there, in that place, yes and always. I look and see what is real, not what I imagine to be. Perhaps he hates me and will never return to me, but all that I learned I carry. All that he taught me, I carry in love. That is all, no need for melancholy, or desire, or lack of peace. Only the beauty of the gifts I was given and how they carry me still. Even he, cannot take that peace away.

i will remember you

http://youtu.be/UKjdkdRaj0A

If I thought he missed me, I might care. He doesn't and the sky did not fall. I go on and on endless and unafraid. He never looked for me, nor did he write and after a time I started to get it. I am not sad about it at all, but rather feel free. It was a gift to see all that I have with such clarity that I have not had before. I was blinded by other dreams. When I should have seen what he wanted, which was not me.

Hello, hello.. busy on this side of the fence. sorry my friends, life happens.

You will find the right words
just you wait and see
they'll be falling from the rooftops
on a blossom covered breeze
and the song you need to hear
will be singing through the trees
are you listening?
don't you see?

you are on the right path
you will realize
that the tears will always leave you
with a brighter pair of eyes
and the pain you've been fighting
is an angel in disguise
it is love and love,
love is wise

There's still time to notice
still time to believe
that a door will at last open
where darkness used to be
and the paradise you long for
is underneath your feet
what are you running for?
where've you been?

throw your heart into the ocean
throw your heart into the sea
you will find all the right words
will come out naturally.

Right Words by Sarah Slean

I would go just to see you, but I cannot go. Nothing makes sense anymore but I guess that is ok.

A glimpse

Just for a moment I fell back in time. It is still a funny little rush.

XLIV

You will know that I do and do not love you
just as life is of two minds,
a word is one wing of silence,
and fire is half made of ice.

I love you just so I can begin to love you,
to begin anew at the infinite
and to be able never to stop loving you:
For these reasons, I do not love you yet.

I do and do not love you as if I held
in my hands the keys to every happiness
and an uncertain, unhappy fate.

My love has two lifetimes to love you.
That's how I can love you when I don't,
and still love you when I do.

Pablo Neruda

Living, we cover vast territories; imagine your life drawn on a map--
a scribble on the town where you grew up,
each bus trip traced between school and home,
or a clean line across the sea to a place you flew once.
Think of the time and things we accumulate,
all the while growing more conscious of losing and leaving.
Aging, our bodies collect wrinkles and scars
for each place the world would not give under our weight.
Our thoughts get laced with strange aches,
sweet as the final chord that hangs in a guitar's blond torso.

Think how a particular ridge of hills from a summer of your childhood grows
in significance, or one hour of light--
late afternoon, say,
when thick sun flings the shadow of Virginia creeper vines
across the wall of a tiny, white room
where a girl makes love for the first time.
Its leaves tremble like small hands against the screen
while she weeps in the arms of her bewildered lover.
She's too young to see that as we gather losses,
we may also grow in love; as in passion,
the body shudders and clutches what it must release.

Julia Spicher Kasdorf from First Gestures

Paean

Apollo the day is almost done
And I have not yet forgotten you.
The fire of daylight shadow’s spread
We are falling to earth like the light
In this last concourse
The flicker on our edges of memory
Where once there was morning
The singer of full day hushes
To greet me once again
I look to you
Travel the circuit of your eye
I was waiting for the darkness
Our inevitable conclusion refrains
The long day passes then stalls
Throwing our colors before us
Unquenched still burning
Even as this day fades

By the Corbyhawk herself.