Her music haunts me
in such a knowing way
it makes me weep
and causes my heart to ache.
Pele's volcanic lava glows
In the evening’s twilight hour
With passion filled desire
Surging with her power.
Oh giver of life, you glorious Sun,
You instinctively know what must be done.
I bask in your warmth to gain energy;
Marvel how you raise up each plant and tree.
Our cold crisp air augurs an early snow before Thanksgiving. I need to look for my warm fur-lined gloves. The snow tires are heaven knows where in our cluttered garage, but they must be searched for now not later, when frozen fumbling fingers complain loudly from the cold. Every year at this time, daydreams of warm weather on a tropic isle are floating through my mind.
floating blossoms drift
like snow in the tropic wind—
I never knew I’d be in heaven
In the autumn of my years;
Or that I’d be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
At Ben Bulben’s feet Sligo stands
The home of such creative hands
Where poet William Yeats did grow.
Ballet is poetry...
And both share in
The magical movement
That is defined as art.
Take notice of your hand.
Each finger moves separately.
Each finger is a different size,
Yet all belong to the same hand.
When the rains burst forth
from heaven's lofty heights,
Apollo deigns to repress his golden light.