The poet acts like if there is no present,
the mind moves back and forth,
trying to distinguish simplicity.
There are no look backs nor verification,
the meaning it is not memorized:
there are no plans for composition.
Grammar gets lost in a valley.
Analysis perishes;
only truth is searched.
But what is truth really?
That cannot be determined.
Most of the poet acts walk near by the words love, freedom, sadness,
melancholy and self-awareness;
while others
struggle to find the voice
that once seemed clear
and now is completely forgotten.
The poet battles his way out from an emotional highway,
with drastic turns,
endless yellow lights, highlighted speed limits,
altering what once was
a smooth and unstoppable drive.
The acts dissipate between thoughts that put in question
what started with inspiration.
The poet has no map and no guidelines.
The mind travels deep down,
searching for the unknown.
It might be even possible
that nothing would come back at all as the written word,
maybe the emotion does not get exposed and all becomes
a lying fact
waiting to be broken and scrutinized.
Truth happens by accident.
Our illusory world tricks us in thinking we did find meaning,
but life does not care
at all.
The poet acts, similar to pieces of paper, are there,
in plain sight,
waiting to be judge for their content,
even when there may be,
in blank pages,
nothing to tell…
The world is gray.
He listens to the world each day
A world that falls in disarray.
A world of dreamers made of clay.
But not today.
Reluctant to the taste of facts
The poet acts.
He disappears,
And even though he is still there
Looking deep into his eyes
You won't find truths, you won't find lies
No cheerful love, nor loss or fears,
No smiles, no tears.
But in his eyes, you'll find colors everywhere.
Happy birthday Phillip glass I'm so glad you were born, so my ears can hear your beautiful music that plays straight to my soul. Such haunting beautiful music.
I don't know who you are, nor how far away you live. But is if you get a chance once in your life to visit New England in fall. Go to were the trees and farms far out number the houses. Stop your car, find a trail, and go for a walk in the red and yellow woods.
My wandering soul, how it aimlessly dwells Among darkened hills, amidst its unseen spells, And in the distance all that I hear: the summoning of bells. Far above me, the high boughs they are bending, The once hidden moon now slowly ascending And as it sings to the world its sleep song, I sit in its shadow and await my ending.
Wow just the first blending of the instruments at 00:10 , it puts my heart in my throat, gives me permission to feel sadness and depth and love in one pulp....