Colourful Rhapsody

Colourful Rhapsody:

a golden notebook

a comfort of constant background vibration low-humming washing the sunlight stillness of the peaceful space.

Archaic rural building, tin roof resting on leaning supports, neat rows of cabbages in the small plot by the house.

School children playing besides green fields, in an old school halls playing ground and a large clockwork timeface, hovering above.

An old dream of an old england , stripped of the pain of war and industry, leaving a pure form of yearning nostalgia;- children’s  happiness.

Pleasant ambiance of travel, lulls a soothing movement into a deeper peace of mind.

Green: strong and subtle, powerfully enhancing, a life-force.

Single fully leafed tree growing, fluttering, alone on the life  carpeted ground.

Small pretty weed-like flowers cluster up from the small angular rocks.  A place of short term and long term momentum.  Movement of three tenses: present, past, future.

Hill of trees, a large soft seed, a splash in a wooden lake.

Village tucked in the grass and bark of countryside.

Plethora of shades, a whizzing monochrome of verduntra, a panthean of green.

In long journeys contemplation can quitely found and better fostered.

Church on a white cliff; the house built on stone.

Country of first colours, brights, bold, bountiful.

In the distance slumbers a field of sun, covered in a blanket of sky and light air.

Grove of wild flowers, a secrect flora.

Leaves dripping with light.

Light balancing on a cloud as a single line.

Castle sswatting on a mound of foilage, defended by grass, stones and wooden fences .

First german bomb fell on dover, Trewell Rd. in 1914.

Castle remenets peek over the leafy green and the chalky white; possibly waiting for warmer weather before reavealing fully.

Water drizzles over a different, murkier, darker, sort of green; rippling in waves and criss-splasing and splich-crossing.  Liquid conveyabelt.  Watery surface- solid enough to travel over without parting.

Cardboard ships on top of the  horizon swimming like ducks on the painted stage of the sea

Tension of waiting in uncertain certainty

Lonely pink maison at the back of a lush field

Rows of idylic trees line the roads

Deep pastures where behind it lies more, more, more clear clolurs and spaces abounds with plentiful of sweet sturdy air

Forest wall, lined with slanted fields of vegetables and  plants, watches from a throne while dipping rocky and leafy toes in the varstly enlongated river running by many villiages, dotted with small  childish ancient castles

An assortment of greenery, secrectively covering groves of worldly mystery

Language of french is like ribbions tied with smooth knots; language of german is like a steep and rocky landscape, full of sstops and starts

Black stone castle tower, eroded at the edges, riddled with vines, stands quietly, proudly humble dorment in the middle of a fill bloom park while the towering metal and glass skyscapers guard the frontiers of the grass distantl looking over and above

Great white tor of salt; made of crumbs of flavour

Though paintstrokes made with a thick brush colours the evening sky with light bluish and grying white

Is it called bad because of it’s horror of unatural beauty, the last outpost of the krouts where the border is terrifying as it’s neighbours are very different people and who would know what they do to innocents?

Hovering seeds float spiritedly in the covering air from the trees that wave with a silent cheer unbreakering the awe soaked sounds of life in reverence.  The platform is like a path for monks and nuns leading up to their place of holy pilgramage

Layers of brown and green fir trees decorate the black and dark red rocks and cliffs.  The river runs along the bottom like before but unlike before only a small part of the land has been tamed by builders and artutechs and the woods are left to grow as wildly as it pleases.  To walk into it is to be swallowed up by the forest

Brilliant tone of gleaming white of the small chateau or castle stands singularly like a well brushed tooth in the middle of a fury gaping mouth on rocky gums

Wide and long motion of glass, overlaping and continous to far, far down from far, far back.  Deceptively trechous and possibly dangerously deep pretending to look like a transparently solid belt of converyance.  The green rocks under the edge of it are as sharp and as hungary as piranas and would trick and ddistract in order to feed .  it is dirty and majestic, strangely mysterious in it’s common ugliness. There are no fish to be seen

Circular hollow burrows through a hill connecting two grass sids together where all context is lost.  Sparse garish lights punctuate the darkness but not the coldness of the path which is a lost space that subtly shifts underfoot and twist all abstracts into unrecognisable ddistortion.  It is a void between two places; with all the uncertainty and terrifying solace of one’s self

Living pristine picture, that perfect clear, without wrinkle, stain, rip, tear or crumble. H aving the spirit of wishes to emmulate  which inspires love for the world

The city does nt square off the natural land and crowd round the little pathes of greenrey it allows to grow; it is the life of plants that crowds in the city around like an organic bubble containing an inorganic material. But it is not even that seperated for they intertwine and interweave with each other that they are almost inseperable and interchangeable from each other. It is a city of life

Even in the sweating of the light these towers look like they are permently in the darkness of an eclipse

Overlooking the small city while being watched by Karl Hynek Mácah it occurs to from me that this is no forest or wood but a park; the grafftied ruin of a small house or castle can trick you otherwise into a line of thought that will run on uncaught to what is really there.  Yes, this is a park but a park that is it’s own which will wildly grow becoming a mystery to roam.  The poets will linger ever-on Mácah in the park for ever Maj Kafka in the city riding his suit with their art bridging the two places shortening our commite

Who are you unknown figure to have such affect on me? Who are you silent statue that gives me such unexperienced recollections?  I have never read your words but I hold on to your image; the idea of your letters gives me hope.  Forgotten romantic: :I remember you!

Though warm and dry earlier in the morning the dark water-heavy clouds clamped down on the sun as a hand does with a ligtbulb, then a moment or two of silence; then the storm.  Droplets hurtled down splashing hitting the ground while intermittent white light flashes under the gloomy dramatic canopy.  The world was once again wet

Clouds float by like ghostly angles passively observing the small world below. Some look so white and strong as they could be scaled like a creamy mountain; some are whispy sketches with threads of moisture at its frayed edges; some are flat like hovering platforms and above above us blue: the deepest brightest kind and it covers all of the sky and seems to go up infinitely

From blue to white to green: only the undergrowth is missing from this spectrum of this planet. Viewed in sky

Ethereal garden that grows light rocks and vague forms of misty plants it is the garden above gardens landscape above landscape and in its loftiness hidden and mostly unknown. A kingdom without king

A path of mud with the sky wet and white filtered by dripping veiny growths of grassy webbed hands; and slants  of sun slip through the small spaces the unclouded untrodden uncluttered places

Dark mist hanging like a black sentence eclipsing the hulls in shadow a poster paint of daubed on grey a congomerate of blues a syneregy of silhouettes and in the distance a thin blade of golden light humbly royal linking the silver coil of cloud .  Than a sun of mist, mist of sun

Silhouettes the hills

Living in the time of slowed down light seeing each atom and second soaking an atmosphere in permenance living in the long now

Waves of rain marching a parade of moisten warriors

Some deep and soft clouded sea wie dirty with wildlife winding its way through fields ice cold and cyrstalised freshingly deep

A dark red hue smudges a sky of dark blue

Delicate rain falls on the coarse river scales glittering and moving in the arua of sun.  wind throws the tiny spears down into its own waters to be absorbed and mold reunite  waiting for the gold to pick it up again. Soft focus of sun cast around a monochrome of cloud onto a sepia of sea.  White stone wettens and red bricks weep. Warmth of sky prevades and invades the cold air moist but becoming dry as cold rushes to embrace warm. Bordering the horizon dark grey and bright silver steel and cotton underlines with thick swirls a clear working tablecloth set for a feast.

Here beginith a season of heaven

How do bright humours rise up from dark tumors how maglinant mortality gives grace eternity

And in hope death

We have been in hell and seen satan himself now let me take you to the spheres of heaven and experience the lord of love

The clouds move in on a clear skey the trees are in anticipation the stones settle in dust the clouds drag a  trailing of mist like a long dress. Grass on the hill gasps. Surroundings of a stillness that will soon change under the seet of the approaching lady. Tension strokes the leaves touches the slow-worms breaths on the rocks

A lear dried day is slowly getting brushed away and the lights are dimming. Lady Rain arrives drenching the woods with her waters soaking the animals and splashing the ground. She is passionate and powerful all-embracing and holding all-carressing and graceful. Wet is the world hard with cold exillerence an outpouring of cloud

Bright  bold colours of a stained glass countryside

My love is knitting me a rose and embrodering it to our new tapestry with my old cloth and her new silk each scene weaves into each other just as we weave together

The world has put on a white dress and a crisp suit. It has taken off its green tunic and it is preparing for a cold dance. It covers itself with scatterings of clouds melding all the rags into one neat cloth of frost. Studded with jewles of ice

The deep velvert white unstainted fur crisp & without crease. A piece of paper from a page of a notebook wraps the fields cvers the roads. A grey mist hangs between the air in the cracks & spaces of blades and branches. The earth tinges with blue. Traces are covered signs are erased cold deepens. Silence is encapsulated in ice. Untouched water lay on the emoty trees and paved upont he quiet groud.

Afternoon colour weighs on flaps of trees standing up in a shadow. Warm waves on cool stonecool shades on warm water. A fountain bathing with a dry mouth. Slow & gradual movements never ceasing never hesistating never still but slow. Birds gliding robins in streams magpies atop firs an hour from a minute. Graves in ground hung in time caught inside a pendulum on a string hel with a hand in a picture being watched with held eyes that circle round themselves a ring of bright light around dark wells that lead on & echo with drips of soft glass drops.

Sepia coloured  countryside faded with sun like an old bleached photograph. Grass like straw soil like sand

Gliding away the city slips further into the countryside stretching out relaxing the muscles of movement and easing into a fact that more vital than the tickets and the bags is this view of a tiny piece of eternity that evaporates calculations and ruins in return an ocean that floats and floats allmaterials along a place of no destinations an everywhere of calm. Moving through the landscape as the wind moves through the landscape without holding on from point to point unattached gathering speed and strength before disappearing with no trace presence disapperaing into presence slowing and stopping into presence becoming unoticed becoming the air and everywhere. Love is a language love must arise from and be used from instinct for knowing without checking. Love cannot be learnt by memory only love needs pratice experience. Language cannot be forced upon a person language flows in a person the person must be washed and not become  dry. A person must be soaked wih language of different types and varities. Language must become them. Language is a trust a felling boardering knowledge in its certainty. Soaking in language is bathing in trust. Language can soften argument it can refresh a perosn either in surprise or in desperatio it can comfort it can burn it can drown language can be a danger and a restoration. It can be a tool a tool that is part of a person a decoration a decoration that is part of a person describtion is part of a person statement is part of a person part of a person is in language. Part of a person is in trust part of a person is in love. As I use language I believe in love. As I speak I am talking in faith in the repetitioons of word I  am affirming the value of the repetition of language. As I talk it is language as I write it is in language. Language is the method and the message. Love is the structure and it is the content. 

 

I am afraid of poetry Iam afraid of poems I am afraid because `there is no-one to know ‘em. I am afraid of poetry I am afraid of poets I am afraid of what might be because no-one will know it. I am afraid of verses and rhymes and hexes I am afraid of omens this is why it vexes I am afraid of curses. That’s why I am afraid of poetry because I’m afriad of poems

Transparent girls with transparent hair blowing in the transparent wind.

The poor of prague stand the poor of buda sit the prague poor walk until tired the buda poor sleep until wake they sweat under the same sun under their heavy clothes hungarily the bins are searched waiting they are peached on corners and on benches their skin hard and unhealed dry and thristing for water walking without destination sleeping without rest they have been lost through the cities hold them still and the people are ashamed for having them and the people are weary with seeing them and the people are afraid of becoming them. They must have love in life if any of us feel justified in happiness and in hope then allow them to be loved for you are allowed to love allowed to build a beautiful house allowed to grow the garden flowers allowed to let the stranger inallowed to cook a meal allowed to eatknowing love is in these walls. Love is in that grass love is in this food you eat and feel love fillinf and see love growing and love built and having built a house you wish to share its beauty wish to share its beauty wish to share your space with another who has not had a home for some time who has beggeed for crumbs and acavenged for scraps who has gone dirty and old who now is a useless human being who is not worth your weary seeing who does not need your weary sighing who does not need your weary keeping and does not need your weary crying but needs warmth and refreshing gentle breezes and glowing fires wind and heat earth and ai. They need  all this as do you. lLve the lost or lose love as the cost.

We are thankful for the uniforms we ware  though they tighten our breathing lungs  we are pleased for being useful though the use is not for us we are glad for being alive though the meanings dug out from us we must say “have a nice day” though clearly its getting worse. When was it when the lies begun when we have time to guess who said it was for the best before our carriage became a herse

Tree soaken mists crawl and cling over the tops of spiky firs as they stand silently in a crowd without an inch of space between each wet and damp other without shivering or sneezing but swimming still  in the moisture

Rocky bones uncovered by the skin of grass or the clothes of trees showing off frozen water packed up in it’s crevices retained for warmer days to melt it into a liquid that will run down the cracks in the side of the rock running down and soaking in the soil below where the green leaves above flutter by the wind but held by the branch

Clouds dot the trees pretending to be snow and a sea of smoke. The sea swoops the air and swirls in clusters just under the tops of peaks just over the tops of trees mysteriously covering the landscape with soft textures of trechrous vapors clinging hanging like paintstroke of a frozen fire of a coldly burning immesnse ghostly entirety stretchted out along the middle of the side hovering in either death or sleep beneath the burnt mountains in the frosting forests warming and cooling

Thin rain dripping rain stem-like rain falling like a heavy mist drops of cloud that clouds the air

If these are men of the world than the world is smaller then they let on and they fill it with their egos with their pricks and their silence let me be small with violence

Arthur Koestler and eyes closed feeling the wind in his face the pain in his memories feeling the pain in the wind

Kafka rides a coat but cannot move a note because his coat is stone he cannot move by stone alone

Men who don’t get tired but are always weary men that are not frightening but are always scary men who say they’re men but wonder where their mothers are men who speak of gold but really spout out piss. These men I do not care they are not brave or friendly whereever theiir lain footsteps are I shall not follow gently. Let me not fail as they fail.I’d rather catch a train than a tail

We cats cannot love we cats are alone we are full of pleasure & sadness we are cruel & used we cats cannot make connection we stretch & yawn our teas away we are tired by selfish yearings we care for our kittens but our sloves link away beautifully loved & gone we curl up in comfort where they should be we feel the empty spaces with our sensitive whiskers our tactile feline touch of our drooping species  we are cats we only love the lost things

Poems are perfectly formed pearls of sweat drawn ot from the back darkness of the mind & brought into light

Green a patchness of green going past & brown dots the leaves. Trunks sprint across hedges grow & die in an instant of speed. Grey headers remain uniform with a clear certainly it won’t change befre it does. It is mostly alive with exceptions of the usual collections of dead stone & brick- corpses in a festival- the outline of an absent actor- cosy & unhaming in its’s harmful way- a bed of blemish with sick sleepers silent- it disappeares quicker than it’s built. A margin of leafy men line amoung the footer not waiting but waitful as a presence of patience for a slow performance

Unforgiving tesselated paths set in fields mappa from cords threaded beaded & fashioned through by the long steps back the high short tip-toes now here. Quietening sets of poits pointing to an overcast cressedance forebearing the optimittance of sound. Broken through stillness ordinary unassumed being without trial or harrassed strokes of sun shifting through the lenses of twigs root & wood overround. Here something found the ever-discovering routes of unplicking fruits by ever- grossiping running storage which ends with waking while walking the distance is a long way down off beating paths- the corridor of business for a gardener with an office of space neatly growing in weaving hands stictching the bark to the wood the left to the branch in a green embroided blanket of oath scattered with autumns