I walked a snowy street, quietly as the falling snow, a snow that melted under foot, not one that crunched - compacting. Everything was deadened by that not-so-cold snow, a snow that swallowed sound, a snow that would have shunned light -- had there been any to shun. But it was night, and I was walking in the snow.
I walked beside the river,
the river that rolled through town,
a town I thought had been a dream,
a dream replayed night after night,
nights that flowed like that river,
the river that rolled through town.
I saw a silhouette in the moonlight,
a man who plodded snow that glowed moonlight.
I was mesmerized by the vagabond --
a night-owl nomad moving by moonlight.
What'd take me out into that night's cruel cold,
seeing only what shone in the moonlight?
A deadly urgent case must be afoot,
a riddle solved solely in harsh moonlight.
But maybe there's no beauty like the moon,
and maybe no light flatters like moonlight.
If so, the cold must be some puny stakes
against the milky glow of brisk moonlight.
And so I pull on boots and tug a hat
to venture out amongst the pale moonlight.
And seeing night as did that wanderer,
I know the virtue life finds in moonlight.
An anvil crawls across the sky,
of soft shape but steel gray,
and I wonder when to expect
the inbound tempest fray?
When comes the lightening and thunder,
the shaking window sills,
the neck hairs standing upon end --
herald of lightening chills?
Will it pass by rumbling distant
or strike the local spire?
Will it rain so hard that it puts
out its own blazing fires?
I feel it coming, cyborg days --
locked into the machine.
My program playing out the code
of some new subroutine.
To know it can all be dialed in,
with such fine precision,
the love and loathing that provide
the root of all decision.
And will I be a mindless drone
on a robotic ride,
seeing life like Doctor Jekyll
while living as Mister Hyde?
I stare at the flowing river,
and, for a moment, it seems still,
as the world whips into
a wild ride of vertigo,
leading me to question
all I believe about
the still & the moving.
Everything that's still
is spinning, orbiting,
Everyone who's still
is a seven-jetted
on a rocket ride.
They say hands are the hardest human part to artistically render --
to draw or sculpt or paint,
causing artists to hide hands,
or at least to not replace them
when an earthquake or inept movers
break them off.
I believe them.
The perfect curve is not easily attained,
all those random crenulations and creases,
the lumps and knuckle nubs,
the veins and blemishes,
all that is necessary to convey life --
be it a hard, hammer-wielding hand,
or the soft suppleness of an unworked hand.
Straight digits can create an uncanny valley
as surely as does a rubberized face.
Emotion is expressed through hands,
as through faces.
I heard that the straightened fingers of
Olympia's left hand caused quite a controversy
when Manet presented the painting,
causing almost as much of a stir
as the fact that she was an ashen,
In Dream Yoga, we do reality checks with our hands,
looking at the hand,
flipping it over,
and then looking at it once more.
Doing this whenever one sees
anything strange or suspect.
It trains the brain,
which - in sleep - shuts down its suspicious bits,
to take note of the nonsensical.
If you're awake,
you just see your same old [underestimated] hand.
If you're asleep,
you won't see five perfectly curved fingers,
you might see an expansive fractal pattern,
or a cloven, bifurcated, mitt.
Even our sleeping brain can't keep track
of five wriggling little digits.
No wonder they give artists such fits.
The air was dry and the valley was dry. Tufts of yellow grass clung to the hillside and to the edges of the valley floor -- where they joined with the barren, brown tines of bleak shrubbery. In the riverbed, smooth stones and boulders sprawled to the shoulders, far wide of the feeble stream that flowed at the moment. The water ran gray, having come from the edges of a glacier that scoured its way down a granite channel. And in the "V" far ahead, clouds as thick as the mountains were being lifted and dropped over a snowcapped peak, pretending they'd bring their moisture into this arid landscape.
may become your fog, or
may sit in wait