if . . .

You play in dreams Blissfully free You shout You work towards dreams They change You age You search new dreams They stop You fail You lose most dreams Feel empty You wonder ... You wish all dreams Would reconcile You laugh You know some dreams Are foolish You cry You watch the dreams Pass by You remember You expand one dream It contracts You resign ... You forget other dreams Too late You reason You memorize last dreams Repeat endlessly You haunt You dream the dreams To death You finalize You dreamed a dream To wake You sigh ::Note::  ... you dreamt... not a dream ...

in the blue-grey lit room  they lie exhale sighs till full vibration open eyes to rose-gold  sunlight breathes  song  ::Note: ... wish everyday started like this day ... At end the day inquired from the student what song he had introduced he replied “For the Dancing and the Dreaming” emailing later ... “The song was written and composed by a man named 'John Powell'. He has composed a very large number of musical numbers for a variety of movies. The arrangement was by a gentleman who goes by the nickname 'ThePandaTooth' he has also done a variety of pieces that can be found around the media world. Here is a link to the original song as performed by the voice actors in the movie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLcrxhE_xQw I also have here a version of the song by a young vocal artist that I really enjoy as well: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0AgkDJ2NHg This version of the song adds a great amount of soul and care to the piece an...

trees breathe seasons time not still as boulders nor rapid as the river more like tall, tall grasses waiting waiting for a sign a companion's touch the whispering wind if I waited that long ants would devour me & the sky would darken to briefly open crying: "dance skeleton dance bitter before the moon." it was the bones singing with the one-eyed snake my father smiled from the bellybeast smashing fists down shaking his head: "Find the the lost eye." for years & years I have walked trails by the river listening for ancient stories the words no one knows climbing out over the water seeing nothing beneath but mud or the sun diamonds reflection sage & holy strangers, warriors & birds overhead I turn & wait another year to retrieve the flames under whatever floats around dancing whirlpools even under the ice of tears in this deeper absent sky "Find the lost." the uproot pelicans circle a...

... The Interdisciplinary/Multidisciplinary Woolf Conference  yielded two open parts to their program. A play & poetry reading: Angel in the House by Eureka at Greystone Theatre presented by the University of Saskatchewan Drama Department & poet Louise Halfe/Skydancer  reading at the Mendel Art Gallery ... ... what I love about conferences, though I was not a participant, is the research aura that surrounds these events ... a celebration of research ... both events ultimately revealed treasures of knowledge ...  ... just some simple notes afterwards ... ... who was Bloomsbury? Eureka? ... the play was partly " an exploration of the gender and sexual politics of Bloomsbury, her intellectual/artistic circle ... Bloomsbury's interdisciplinary nature ... Woolf's friends, family members, and colleagues suggest how a combination of academic work, artistic production, and political analysis can articulate itself through public engagement." ... " a ...

North of Sleep At night,  my body is a compass swinging to every direction: past borderlands,  the ruins of unknown,  empty streets  en route  to elsewhere, slipping into rooms  where bearings  jolt me to a  wakefulness of frigid air and dormant train tracks  wait to halt traffic  twice a day. By morning,  I approach nausea, relentless calls  to speak some truth, a light with no shadow  but a heaviness.  The howl, dragged  from northern lights I couldn’t even understand. I stop, let my soul  go on ahead. Show me. (Shouting now.) Show me. (Frightened now.) The flaked ceiling points  to a bitten fingernail scratch   throwing grief across the back as a one perfect window  diffuses time. Noodles & coffee:  in a fractal tell a  haunting dirty knot  of restless  grime & eyes  bleed...

Voices scramble thoughts all over the forehead Like a kool aid rash from hair dying. What can you tell from fallen locks Collected and wrapped in prayer flags Storied at the feet of marriage storks? Will they take on some meaning? The silly looks, smiles and smirks reveal nothing. A black toque hides, The altar carefully kept to honor Nothing less than a life of sand and ash. I am tired, beloved, of opening my heart To the want of eyes, Vibrating fully into empty space Marking time. I rub the darkness alone, here, under the cracking plaster of the cold.  :: Note :: ... tired ... 

:: Note ::  ... have always been fascinated with T. S. Eliot & Apocalypse Now ... thanks VorthosForum  ...

I   A wintastery Rice paper lanterns float on cascading milky ways. Thoughts stand frozen like star prints in the meridian. On the glacier  under the snow – the bones were crackling with the wind. Memories drift from the gauze of moonbeams – like a veiled volcano. Sleeping in the sparkling. There, I buried – forgotten in the frostline. II   Sharp claws of black scratch the surface – a curious rejection.  Roused from dream. I met an immense shadow in a pair of eyes. These meetings set out under ice  flows inside out. You see me I see you another no other. III   Go quiet as breath,   toward the density.  Troubles are a search. I hear the lament - the ballad of yesteryear. The red rhythm beats La neige blues meet We all fall down. I have been there - lying in times past gradient back traces. IV The ice fields open and he doesn't see...

                                                           Today all was usual                a hot July afternoon there were streams of poplar seeds on side streets he had been thinking about what she had said                        What is not spoken is unspoken often Cutting for more precision          on the index finger the splinter                 could not be removed He showed her in the shade to see her ...

The morning the gum surgery was scheduled we waded through fields of mosquitoes & walked the flats in rubber jackets & hiking boots mud heavy with soaked & sloshed foot trodden soles. From the lookout we saw glorious sandbars & followed paths to whitecap along the Saskatchewan while the silence healed the previous months hurt. Eyes bathed in the bright yellow canola summoning brilliance while the hay rolled under the power lines acknowledging our own steady fault lines. I saw the goldfinch flitting ahead his body a trace against the sky, the heavy overcast clouds dispersed bringing an even heavier drowsiness. I have read the world to which this man really belongs is far away through the fissures of dream & I have climbed steps down to rivers and oceans feeling winded & humbled and been glad of the green. In every sense have I felt on good terms with a clod of soil, an unknown song, the smell of sage. I have been cordial to the grasslands windswept face and the ...

No not a shadow. Like having midday darkness at your back you can feel but you can't see. As if it were boring into your skull, the shape of a recently vanished figure. He is not living where he really lives. The door leads into a hallway and up the stairs with a sharp corner. It's not that they shared the place long but the cigarette smell stopped lingering. There was only one door and it was magnificently quiet. Looking behind requires no effort. Came another with a feeling of dissonance, almost as troublesome. Not of being absent but building belonging. They were drying the air shifting possessions from one place to another. They moved along nailing and staining without agreements. He desired to make an invisible room. He left cans and crumbs scattered throughout. There was his black cat jumping to the window sill watching every move. Broke through the screen to escape, returning when called. A scheduled group came drifting in with stomps and grunts. If this took place anyw...

It is 2011, just before the thunderstorm. Here I am, repairing, and I am bleeding. I am located at the corner of alphabet village at the bottom of the hill. I need your help. You will find me surrounded by apartments, where the trees tower especially silent during the day, where shouts and cursing rubs the back alley. We roam to make one another suspicious; to fend from eyes that bring disease. We are running on borrowed time, recycled filth in the last cycle. Mouths open/shut. We would be criminals to one another stealing or scavenging. We would be sticky, dirty and in vengeful stench. We would be lost or, at least, struggling. Be hurt. Invisible except to the most callous observer. We will be sewer water. Potash tailings of bleach. Collapsed lungs. No, we must first collect. Be reused. Be taken apart. Be lightning. :: Note :: ... hovering before rising & falling ...

ancient troubadour dark glint of violence and amorality inhabits stark ugliness upfront archetypal misogyny nothingness :: Note :: ... created as an erasure ... missing ...

snow gone so go o o - :: Note :: ... playing with korean word 소조 (sojo) ... as Ae Ran writes her Moscow presentation ...

a day after departure found words a shimmer welled up from beneath not everything is saved from mistaken erasure and loss deep are the breathes that linger making absence "han" present recollections are not necessary I watch the snow fall gentle we dream our story - See: Personal Poetry :: note :: ... over the holiday season the Temple was broken into ... lots lost ... I even erased material I wanted to keep ... loss and erasure ...

About the distance to Paris, Saskatoon, Seoul & Tokyo, whatever else, it is enough to say it's far. And the distance between my love and me measured by snowstorms and oil massages, it is enough to say we're near. We cannot see beyond these worlds, pixels, resolving on flat white screens. And because of our love we have no other thought than to sip this white wine. - See: Personal Poetry Korean :: note :: ... apologies to Twentieth-century Korean poet Pak Chaesam (1933-1997, also transliterated as Pak Jae-Sam) & poem Enough to Say It's Far ... good to have my love at home ...

It is 2010, just after the leak. Am I here that I am reduced located inside the backspace & I need your trout mask. You will find me south of the snow drift, where the trees collect hoarfrost especially at night, where wind and cold rub the edges. We burn memories to shape one another; to stay the icefall that it not shatter toe slope wells. We are running out of shamanic time, pitch fork and axe. Rattles stuffed in the willow bowed roof and whistle lies wet with no breath. We should be singing to one another, grease and cedar. We should be fire, rock and steam. We should be still, or at least, bearing pain. Be in the fourth round of thanks. The light invisible except to the elder. We will be whited out. Early tailings of nothing behind the fence. One howls, screams. No, we must first be fire. Be kindling. Be wood Be embers. - See: Writings Poetry :: note :: ... an evening at Wanuskawin ... ramblings, riff raff ...

if only i feared death the sky would not darken if i had no word the grass would brown if i had thistles in my mouth the wind blown seeds would land if i had freedom in my heart the great flood would not come if i opened my eyes the sky would darken - See: Writings :: note :: ... nothing to note ...

Korean East Coast Originally uploaded by raYmon The ocean water, one thousand and eight eyed, opens its lids of white foam to axe you, wide and deep sixty years long. fall my heart, from the temple of time fall, you blossoms, from rain drenched branches fall, as tears fall from the widened eye Dark words, harder days are coming where Korea's sky blackens the earth, it's wounded tiger seeks a cave for its hate handing you the monks bowl of rice water. A handful of pain is lost in the sunken ships. Only hope cowers blinded by the flame Where Korea's earth blackens the sky, a hand looks for solace and fills the plaza with yearning. Before winter hears the call through the first sun the unspeakable, said softly, steals over the land. - See: Writings ::note:: ... the first anniversary of my visit to Korea ... an Ingeborg Bachmann In the Storm of Roses mashup ...

"They have given us war and we are going to give them war back." Who doubts a worse world may fall down. Together, not out of cowardice, nor provocation with tears carving the cheek as if a funeral, as if extinguished, whether at protests or among prisoners. The hooded, the convergence and those who lowered their visors, hoisted their shields dare. Isolated islands in the Han river dream leaders and visitors will not return to dream armament. Bear witness, for a moment, fear and force stopped. - See: Writings :: note :: ... attempting to see what cannot be seen ... how can one make any sense of Toronto & g20 ... too much was seen ...