The Dreaming Ravens

I know ravens were dreaming of you,

There were so many, they blocked the view.

The sky was covered, of that I'm sure.

Why ravens were dreaming,

(And I'm sure they were,)

I'm not so sure.

Harmony of the Arts

Harmony of the arts is an achievable goal.

The work of true artists is a result of their lifestyle.

It is not really necessary for the reader to know whether a work of art is real or fiction.

It is the artistic expression that is important, our desire or depth of identification with the subject.
We need to accept the highest motive of critics without explanation and acknowledge them in their aestetic beauty and for their moral power regardless of hostile traps waiting to ensnare the unprepared like one pursued by a host of demons struggling against an encircling shelf of care.
We dare to be silent, a communicating silence, as one who is unfamiliar with the song recognizes the melody when it is sung or played by one with whom we are on loving territory.

It is possible to recognize the power of nothingness and to realize it is a vital tangible source of renewed strength.

Have a Nice Blue Day

You said you were sad,
Or so I thought.
I hope you are glad.
At least you ought.
Somewhere I heard,
Perhaps from on high,
To smile at a bird
Perhaps who can't fly.
Birds like to fly,
No need to talk,
Just help them mend.

Look out your window, see, he is blue,
His feathers are indigo,
And various hues.
Enjoy your day,
With a cup of tea.
See the morning bluejay
In the pretty tree.

Diamonds in the Sky

I was sad when I lost my ring,
And suddenly decided to sing
"Where are my diamonds, precious and real
Why doesn't someone know how I feel?"
I walked in a garden so new and fine,
If I was wearing my diamonds
Of which there were nine,
I might have missed the sunlight approaching so near
And would miss the songbirds and baby deer.
I glanced at the sparkling sun
And saw my diamonds, one by one.
I looked at my wrist, which was nearly bare,
And saw that my diamonds had returned there.
The sun was now hidden and birds were all quiet.
There was something strange,
I could not deny it.
As the doves flew away,
Before I could thank them,
I stood very still, heard a lovely anthem.

Castles in the Air

Castles sailing through the air,
Someone in them who learned to care.
Some of them are green,
Some of them are white.
The castles sail on
Through bright moonlight.
We wave to them
And they are out of sight.
A halo dances quietly,
Then another,
Dissolving into shadows.
The castles keep on sailing.

The Cave

It was autumn when I found the cave.
The door was partly obscured by tumbled boards and a wrecked auto, a '29 Buick, daisies and delphiniums growing around the crankshaft.
Whoever stopped there and for whatever reason apparently moved on and abandoned the iron horse that carried him from West Virginia.
I climbed into the auto through the rusty window, hurried back to my campgrounds for a flashlight, entered into the cave and walked about three feet.
There was no sound except my pounding heart. I cautioned forward and turned off the flashlight.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon.
Through spiders of light, I saw a marble table, thick and of good quality.
Up a stairway beside an outdoor grill that I was afraid might contain bones, I saw light at the top and three small doors, one partly open, one with creaky hinges, and one unmovable.
I pushed open the one with creaky hinges and waited.
No sound except the click of my flashlight.
Out jumped a bat at then then another.
Silence. Who would hear me if I screamed?
The light behind me dashed across grey stones as I stood on the stairway.
It had just rained yesterday and the sweet perfume of flowers welcomed me as I approached a new morning.
I wanted to seek further on and walked slowly down the stairs, saving the mysteries for tomorrow.

The Moon's Agreement

The sun lends lazy fingers across the meadow,

Waits for approval,

Then invites the moon for a dance.

Birds refuse to sleep.

Especially owls and their cousins

Who converse in the moonlight

Creating a language of chance

Or by special design.

And only they hold the roadmap.

The silence becomes loud now

And creates a special tune

From inward glance.

The Dance of Life

Some may think and others speak,

Some are strong and others weak.
Those who speak another's thoughts

Are sometimes met with reasons caught.
Suddenly caught in webs of chance,

Hurried reasons expose the dance.
The dance of life the creator gave us,

Hoping our beliefs would save us.
The wind takes credit for blowing in dust,

For the simple reason that he must.
The same wind blows over sea and land

Causes the tides and moves the sand.
"See what I did", the wind seems to say,

Unmoved by the sun that starts the day.
The wind and the sun, with help from a star,

Move with the gravity from afar.
The wind claims to have created the air

And the earth moves around regardless of care.

Picnic Table

The tree was tall,

The branch was strong,

Became my morning chair.
I took my chair most everywhere,

To school and then to play.
I carried it to work one day,

The boss said it was in the way.
The cat thought it was his,

Sleeping in the sun.
I took it to the porch near the tree stump

I used for a picnic table
Because I thought the tree was in pain,

Having lost a chair.

Forward Through a Dream on a Beautiful Afternoon

Golden threads weave through time.

We stand still.Time stands still.

We move on.
Many choices,

Few Choices.
One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.
Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.
When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.
Suddenly, we are in the light again.
We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.
We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.

Candles

Candles glowing through the night,

Through the morning hours.

Candles gleaming very bright,

Shining through the flowers.

Candles in the window

In the evening after sunlight

Changing shadows on the walls.

The shadows move slowly,

The night is quiet and still.

Stillness grows to movement,

Softly breezes fan the flames.

Night has turned to sudden darkness now,

And there is no one else in sight.

Ghosts are creeping in the doorway slowly,

Count them, there are seven.

Seven candles for you visitors,

One for each, you light them now.

They do not speak or cannot,

Turn, and slowly walk away.

The seven candles are still waiting

For my friends some other day.

Save the Dance

Save the Dance
In June one sunny year after graduating from high school, feeling betrayed by my high school friend Julius who asked me to dance who then laughed as I stood up and said, "Do you really think I would dance with you?", I boarded a train to San Francisco at Clinton, Iowa, sailed past Treasure Island after studying postcards of movie stars and eventually visited the homes of celebrities along the green tree-lined hilltops of Santa Catalina Island.

I saved my money from weed salvaging and corn detassling to pay for my transportation.
Dad gave me a healthy allowance for my work in the farm fields.Mother and Dad saw me off on the train, waved slowly, tears of pride shining from their eyes.
Aunt Miranda couldn't join us to the station, she was in a wheel chair with a crocheted shawl drawn across her knees, but she smiled brightly and pressed a green velvet ribbon into my hand, green, she once told me for prosperity and hope.Aunt Miranda once told me the best advice she could give me was to look everyone straight in the eye, to answer truthfully, and to smile slightly. Every problem can be interpreted in terms of three, she once told me. Three primary colors, red, blue and yellow. Three in religion, father, son, and Holy Ghost, and three in ourselves, past, present, and future. Think in terms of three and you will find your way in life, she once told me.Symbols of childhood raced across my eyes, thoughts of mother as she ironed my dresses in the morning before school and prepared my lunch with great care and of Dad who took me to town for ice cream when it rained in the summer fields.
After several weeks work in my uncle's store, I returned home briefly with hat and gloves as I was trained to do after completing finishing school to be met with questions of where I might be from by local neighbors, and then when in San Francisco again, dressed as I was taught, meeting new questions of where I might be from.At fifteen, I looked nineteen, rather plain, with a mind like a many-spoked wheel and several interests, each arrow pointing outward while moving to the next as the hands of a clock marked the time as though it never began and would be in tune with the universe forever.
Years later, when I lived in Pacific Heights in California facing a lovely view of the ocean I painted pictures and wrote poetry, worked part time for an engineering firm and attended some post-graduate classes through an extension division of U.C. Berkeley.

City life in San Francisco was not like riding horseback on the farm or wandering dreamily through the meadows in springtime seeking daffodils or baby yellow meadowlarks.San Francisco, a favorite of dreaming idealists where diversified culture is accepted as casually as the brisk ocean fog, arguing seagulls and flocks of unwanted pigeons.
One must remember to respect the saints, to attend religious services, and not to be surprised to learn some churches in San Francisco teach political theories instead of religion like on the farm communities of Wisconsin.In Wisconsin, one can leave their screen door unlocked while visiting a neighbor for a cup of sugar, but in the city, one quickly learns the visitors are identified as pushovers by more experienced travelers and newcomers should try to remember their childhood training and not talk to strangers.
Based on a thesis about Watergate, I received a scholarship to the University of California at Berkeley, a prize I treasured almost more than the memories of a happy childhood on the Wisconsin farm.At Berkeley, I studied nuclear physics, was told it was a secret, but children learn fast, and there is theater in most of us.I hoped to continue to study music, paint, and create beautiful dreams for others to follow, to remember the best of the past and look forward to a bright future.My teacher at U.C. Berkeley, Miss Virginia, met me at the Faculty Club as she promised, the exclusive building sheltered in a ravine behind a bridge, just hidden from view.

The walls of the campus dormitory of Cheney Hall were brightly painted with diagonal lines. The Museum of Art was a delight to the eye with large sculptured rectangles, as though placed from above, resting on one another in perfect balance, with the sunlight gleaming through in afternoon glory. Brightly colored paintings by Hans Hoffman greeted visitors, abstracts, pen and ink drawings, and molded chairs were placed facing each other side by side, as though conversations were just completed.
Who walked these halls, where are they now, the artists, teachers, and attorneys? Are they crying, are they happy, did they learn while they were here? Will I find new friends here? Where is the bookstore? When will the campus bells ring?While I was pondering the relationships between the arts and sciences and my good fortune at winning a scholarship, I recognized the outline of someone who resembled Julius and he walked over towards me.But he was not Julius, although he resembled Julius.

I thought of Julius everywhere and eventually learned to dance professionally and taught ballet and the Latin dances.During early years in California, I met many surprising situations due to my perceived knowledge of nuclear physics, but I hoped that when the eventual opportunity presented itself, if I saw him, if he could dance, and if he asked me, I would say to Julius, "I would love to dance with you."

Artistic Interpretations

Harmony of the arts is an achievable goal.

The work of true artists is a result of their lifestyle.

It is not really necessary for the reader to know whether a work of art is real or fiction.

It is the artistic expression that is important, our desire or depth of identification with the subject.
We need to accept the highest motive of critics without explanation and acknowledge them in their aestetic beauty and for their moral power regardless of hostile traps waiting to ensnare the unprepared like one pursued by a host of demons struggling against an encircling shelf of care.
We dare to be silent, a communicating silence, as one who is unfamiliar with the song recognizes the melody when it is sung or played by one with whom we are on loving territory.

It is possible to recognize the power of nothingness and to realize it is a vital tangible source of renewed strength.

When the Party Ended at Twilight

When the party ended at twilight
And cigarettes smashed in butter,
The place was alive with forgotten promises.
I was astounded by the clutter.
I said "good morning", our goodbye.
And headed for the pool.

The presents I received that night
Were sparkling like a jewel.
The wedding gifts were fancy,
And planned a gown of lace.

Now lace was tossed and tattered,
Paper ribbons filled the place.
Because I had soon decided
To change plans and fire the band
And to remain a spinster
To me that sounded grand.

Across the pool I saw him,
My love Paul from years ago,
He had since married another
Someone I used to know.

The memories were so vivid
Of our classring exchange at the prom.
But then he married my best friend
And I'm engaged to Tom.
"So here we are", I thought last night
The sparks began to fly.
I thought if Paul would look at me,
I would probably say "Hi!"
But then his wife was at his side
She said she liked Tom best
I threw my ring into the pool
And built my private nest.

The Theory of Evolution v. Theory of Creation

Christian children are taught by their parents God created the world, God and Jesus are one, but they are not allowed to pray in school.
Young children are taught to believe in Santa Claus but later their parents admit it was a lie. So then, children begin to think maybe Jesus ws a lie, too.
Geologists teach students the earth ws created by the explosion of planets, the "Big Bang" theory, that living species were formed from water on rocks.
So, maybe God created the rocks. If God didn't create the rocks, who did?
If God didn't exist, someone would invent God to explain the rocks.
Maybe Santa Claus really exists.
There is more than one Santa Claus. Is there more than one God?
If rocks existed before Jesus existed and Jesus and God are one, did Jesus invent the rocks?
Religious theorists tell us not to question God, to accept God's grace.
Geologists tell us to question everything.

God and evolution continue to exist, whether we believe it or not.

The River is a Rock

The river is the rock's refusal to move

And I am certain that you know

The mountain is the sky's agreement to grow.
And we will be there someday.

We will all be there someday.

When all the cares of the world are away.
Away from the mountains, beyond the blue

When all our prayers are answered for you.

Someday the river will meet the sky.

And let me tell you the reason why
The river is a circle, the sky is too.

Beginning and endless, that's why it is true.
And if you don't believe it is true

Remember that someone really loves you
If you don't love someone, they still love you

And maybe then, you will love them, too.