Broken Images

Pieces of a broken mirror
give broken images
but each
piece is perspective
in and of itself.
the hardest part is context
a red cloth becomes
a pile of saffron or
the blood on a bandage or
a stain from yesterdays cherry pie...

Broken images
reflected
lost
and then found again.
Does the eye see it
as many pieces of the world scattered or
as the world reflected in many windows shattered or
many makeup mirrors held in many soft smooth hands
what use a broken mirror's melted sands.

What is art but
the view
from the artist's shard
harmonic reflections
disonant deflections
shadow deceptions
and pieces, pieces, pieces.

I think sometimes that broken images
can show more than a crystal clear
photo.

Falling into life

The speed at which the years pass can become frightening.
Life
is like jumping off
a very very large building
First the fear of flying
then joyous abandon
to the freedom of free fall
then the casual consideration
of
the possibility
of the ground,
and then finally
the absolute certainty
of the ground's
inevitability.

When I die I hope that I get a glimpse of the title of the booklet of me.

Whoa now

Embodied energy, embodied cost
we must embody
responsability
for what is lost.
We must cease
defining our relationship with the universe
as one of predator to prey
Man consumes everything he touches
from dirt, guano, shark fin soup,
rocks
if it can be priced
it too
can and will be thrown in the pots
Predators that
are too sucessful
are soon extinct
peace

Nested garden?

When I was a young man just old enough to ask interesting questions my father told me, " Life is like a garden and when we are young the garden is a small one contained safely behind the warm walls of our parents and our family and as we age these walls are replaced by the walls of our friendships and as we age further our jobs become the walls and at the final stages of our life our mortality becomes the walls.
I am glad I have seen some of the garden.

More on perspective

The great writer finds the nut of that perfect sentence, paragraph, or story within their past's pleasures and pains whether real or imagined. It really is the writer that does the writing. We the reader know that the author is all of their characters, all of their hearts, all of their fists, caresses, and kisses, all of their skinned knees and bandaging hands because it is the author who writes it, creates it, forms it from that pallatte of their soul, palettes of many colors or not.