Isaura String Quartet

Performing in the Last Book Store

http://isaurastringquartet.com/

Coffee painting #1

My drink becomes ink

In the morning 

Brush in hand

The mind on fire

Now at rest

We all need a mouse

Who is the mouse...?

In secret knowledge thoughts blaze

Spirit rises with the smell of smoke

Dag Hammarskjöld

I'd rather switch off to poetry, hiking, put in one or two mountains...it's aliright.

The Banjo Cries Freedom

Release the Fiery Fiends

Foxes give chase
the imagination melts like snow

The endless onslaught

Straight as the arrow in flight

The stone head does not know it's target

The archer sends him forth 

On his way

Fast like death 

Light, like the twitch of a bird

The well crafted arrow

Riding on through the wind

With the mark of his maker

I am let loose 

Forward is the way

On to my dying day

The anti-job

Tone in Georgia in Frog Town

Meg

Sketch more

Separation

Rabbit shadow chase

Undone moment

Unfinished movement

The song pulled from the hand

The bend of her leg 

A dead curve in the mind

A twitch in the spine 

The hand

Empty 

and open again

Me and the man on the tree

And the city waits below in wreck and ruin

l'attaque

No friend came, just the screams and violence of the swarming black wings

Stealing the dusky sky

Grasping at all they could take 

Le Chat et La Lune Chasse

Wild laughter
as the wheels roll by
time stuck with the moon
we are all half past mad
some fools glad
even as the clock ticks
doom
    doom
       doom
the cat will still play
till his dying day
near the grave
the dust to save
then flowers will rise,
remember and bloom

Pensées Comme Papillon

the mind perceives
what the hand cannot catch
beauty dances before the face
it lands in the open hand
clutch it; it's dashed to dust
watch too long, fade and  rust
blink and it flutters away
 the stream of time
is the invisible wind
made by the breath of God
we must breathe Him in
and live
with the spirit that flies
from the right hand above
Resurrections place
forever love

Chasing Butterflys

Endormi au Musée

Surrounded by salad eaters
in a rich mans dead legacy

the axe head fell into the water

Borrowed things will float
all things are borrowed
for the time of things are needed
then the time is over
and all things float away
and no hand of man can hold them
the power of that which is lifted up
is the gravity that pulls all
the center of time is a tree
it cannot be cut down
and the memory
scars that remain
 the outstretched hand

Be Desolate

elle est dans la saison sèche

Flat Lands

You were a painter, and a poet...

maintenant ta poésie sera écrite dans le sang

It burns warm alone

And the shadows cast
is a story of experience
a history that sings a song
from pastures of light
to endless night
a bowl of tobaccos smoke
it rises into the throng

Normal Heart at Fountain and Vermont

and I said to myself, "that's me...all of us"

naked soul

You ever slept alone next to the hush of a river?

You ever gazed lonesome at a camp fire?

You ever dance under a cloud of stars?

You ever felt misunderstood by every human being around you? 

You ever walk off into the silence, past all the pretending?

Layer by layer the naked soul,

Disembarks 

Stripped

And no one knows you. 

Onward still...and unknown next 

and again. 

Way onward Past!

And he says with all his own judgement
I am in control
and pride swallows
in bitterness wallows
and the dog in the dying day
still will bite
even at the empty hand
the hand that holds at bay
that buries the blade deep in the ground
Then the dog in ships away
to war with hearts
bent perceptions way
but as for me
that I will just be
Free
and freedom frees on bended knee
brightly living
mowing and going
judging not even
myself
for myself was not judged
neither condemned from the true word
sharing his love
 picture in the dirt
raised up with fires and piers
by a high up hand
His peace fills
the deep deep and trodden land
breath billows my sails
surrounds
burning
churning
the smell of smoke....

At the Gate

the treasure of darkness

at the gate
what? dare I inside
I must not break
I must not bend
He will throw down
He will smash
I will inside
should he send

At the gate
I wait
what word will go
like a bombardier
dreadful seeds that he sews
that drop and explode
and ignite with life
or dare i speak
words like a knife

At the gate
Cutting words
words that stay
so the wound that is true
will remove the fray
the tangles of a liars world
dead thing
and winter limbs
hands and feet
dirt digging in


At the gate
realities cold
heart today
waxing and mold
shrinking and stinking
but still I stay
outside the gate
in the fold of the gray

At the gate
Once more
faith hope and love
and love the key
feathers the wing,
wing of white dove
or of an eagle
or rust red from the hawk
that grows out
from the back of the hart
and lifts him above

Above the gate
and now I see in
the hand cut itself off
withered dead and thin
standing in the pinhole of light
light that leeks dim
all around darkness
the self seeking grin

Above the gate
in the dusky sky
beyond the unknown
after travels and story
lift the wings home
home past desert
the land of lost mates
and the dreary and miserable
the friend
behind locked gate

Go back
Back to the gate
Go back that I should again wait
the bars will be cut down
and out of the secret place
the hand of the friend
remember this her face
the treasure of darkness
not mine to take
but give back
and her back grow wings too
She will fly up with me
her thunder will sing through

Free from the Gate
the gate gone and dashed
the campfire burns brightly
the smell of smoke rises west
the gate now open
strange place in the breast
breast to hold against
the One that did the work
working the will on the tree
the embrace that is free
branches open wide

Wide as a gate
and narrow is the way
through secret passages
past paths of destruction
beyond reason and deduction
to a given gift
the treasure is the will
the will laid down
the will that will see
He did it all
all of this
the gate destroyed for me

Bicycle and the Bones of Los Angeles

http://thesmellofsmoke.bigcartel.com/product/the-bicycle-and-the-bones-of-los-angeles

Oiseau de Dieu

Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?

le chien avec la patte cassée attend le métro

One day the Bones will heal

The Watermelon Waits

And Waits
And Waits
to go and grow
in love and wisdom and stature
alone and singular
as the
waterfall's hush
water orb red
above a desolate city
the wait for lush
the wait for hand shaped clouds
palms full of rain
in a season of death
still life reaches
expands and breathes
the vine finds empty paws
and feeds and befriends
the forgotten raccoon
for lilies of the field
 and the birds of the air
never loved so much
as a lost and lonesome bandit
in the dusk of Gods day

Le coyote solitaire au-dessus de Los Angeles

The moon his only friend
told him soft stories
in the dusky glow
the world is all busy
all clutching this city
all grasping
at things below

it all leaves off
it all falls away

and  stripped
and alone
is the waking
of that dying day

when one says goodbye to
all not united
the all unrequited
and the self rises into fits of the unknown

mysterious beginnings end
translated spirit bends
 the friend there to greet
the one that defeats
with
love abounding more
the one that walked
once invited
walked into the open door

and never left
evermore

Behold, there Ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand

Trust in the prayer for one day rain,
past the axe and the valley of pain
in a walk above the fog of a perplexing place,
now the calm of a forest friend's face.
the hand of hope
triumphant
invisible
wind

deux dans cinéma

they went to watch
the life they wished to live
together their's had dripped away
while all the real living
disappeared in days
days gone by
days not done
day notes of cricket
And beauty sold the ticket
I should have bought one
or said to the beauty
before we get old
will you write in reality
 a tale to tell the old?
all this light for lenses
project on the screen
to the hilt of the knife
Life! all the way life,
into forever beam

Le détective masqué

No one could see what he sees
no one could see him seeing
peering over Parisian news print paper
he was watching everyone
paying attention to everything
he saw them all
solving his mystery's call
standing still as the shadow's tree
only I could see him
wondering...
did he see me?

a head instead

no one knew about the two people walking inside his head
stirring with dust and ash
the loveless eyeball extraction
left him for dead
but he remembered his action
and rose from his bed
to carry on shoulder, his excellent bolder
and in his dreadful path
continued instead 

No Lyon

a shut door
the strange distant shore
desolate city bound
longing for the fearless friend
longing to the scraping end
what was lost
to be found,
evermore

Still, on the Stone Streets

Far from Detroit
feathers that fall
the spirit returns
in resurrection waves
then with peace,
when with power
like the resonance of the smell of electric memory
forming the shapenote
of  forever
indestructible
song,
the sealed soul
and her strange new morning place
far from rubber on road
and the spilled night time gasoline,
 all still,
on the stone streets