Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Can you hear the crocuses?
The hyacinths? The baby's breath?
Can you detect their gentle yawn?
Their awakened zeal? Their glory on the
heal of winter fury, their tender harmony,
their vehement outcry
their assurance, their authority?

Confidence is a redundant beast.
He sits patiently in morning mist,
legs crossed, diligent, a guide to
flourish, an usher to consistent
change.

He takes the lead. He maneuvers
from one stance to the next. He creates
a dance with Nature, ignorant of her
control.

Can you hear the sparrow
break into song? Can you measure
the significance of a long wait for
wonder and illusion?

Confidence is a magician,
a fake, a stagemaker, a pathfinder,
a conductor.

Can you hear the robin's mating tune?
I am confident that if you listen well,
you can sense the certainty of Spring.

Bring me
your lips and
I will whisper a maiden-tune
into them with mine!

It is time. It is time.
Reach down to ground-surface.
Feel the breaking of soil!
Can you hear the world revolve
1/4 of an orbit around a fireball?

Come close.
I will show you the
garden, vernal –
desired!

I can never write as many verses as you
my spring is a slow gurgle from the earth
the teeth of suspicion and floundering
magic is only skin deep
lika crackpot rocket suspended in spring

words crocus together
a colour amidst the impressionist dawn
as spring paints the planet up and down

in disguise but sampling h'ors-d'oeuvres
mixing in with sudden visitors from mars
earthlings gather round a bottomless well
a penny tossed
and a dream in an outrageous dress
slithers up a long cord
a comic strip come alive
a POWer in electric mobility

spring is bold
on a day before day begins
there is no taste for coffee

spring peels open the page
with no warning
sudden unexpected visitor

birds try on summer tunes
toss throaty experiments into the wind
they know it's all a prelude
to hot time hysteria

I took a photograph the day
I tossed a penny into a bottomless fountain,
the discus-wish, my lament, a flip spent
on dreambliss. A perilous delay made
its way to a lethal surface. It was as if I had
photographed autumn's intent to represent
the virtue of hue, but this time, an unexpected
tint, a prelude to resilience, brought residue
to the top, like tonic or sparkling spring water,
his voice, my remembrance, an eruption
on surface dreams, a still life captured
by a lens.

Summer is tense.
Winter, bleak in absence.
Spring brings
air currents
current
into
view.

When I want to see you,
I release the image
into my hand,
polaroid,
apparent,
persistent,
wish-filled,
valid like
permanent
ink.

spring is a sumi-e brushstroke
on a silken mind
ink dries in scented seconds

i think my photograph captures spring
but once done
it's already last season's entry

spring is forever new
a perennial prelude
an invitation not quite accepted
anticipation
vibrating life with desire

http://www.guate-color.com/images/orchid.jpg

the hand is a pipeline
senses for reception
we agree to assist

spring is when
young lovers discover goosepimples
early flowers play peek-a-boo with snow
my windows get washed

The Break of Spring

Cold Goes.................River flows.
Winter's gone...........At the break of Dawn.
Earth tips..................Away snow slips.
Rain falls...................Ants crawl.
Nature sings.............Trees spring,
Blooming love...........The sun's above.
Greening Grass.........Bluejays sass,
In the trees..............The buzz of bees,
In a hive...................All is alive.
Birds throng.............At robins' song.
Morning dew............A sky of blue.
Far and near...........Spring is here!!!!

I have never given up on Spring.
I have succumbed to the reckoning
of curiosity. Worms worm their way
into holes in surfaces covered by moss.
Insects inspect portals; the portholes of
trespassing – wormholes into deepspace –
tentacles which represent delving in.
Insects. Worms. Caterpillar moths.

When I was twelve, I danced a ballet.
Or maybe I was fifteen.
It is hard to distinguish
birthrights. We wore sackcloth,
woven burlap wrapped around our shoulders,
demi-plies, inched onto the stage from stageleft,
smoke sifted from the eaves, each direction produced
by an off-camera dilettante, and we stripped
the fabric off, our arms wired with cellophane
paper mache -- bright dignity! Primary
palette colors, secondary accents!

Wings to fly! Wings to fly!
Wings to fly the butterfly dance!

Ah! The chance
of Equinox! Ah! The spin! Ah,
the mating! Ah, the querulous
revolution of seasonal questioning!
No, I have never given up on Spring.
I have never given up on Spring!

Bring me my Pointe shoes!
Hurry! Hurry!

some of us wear our wings
hidden
folded beneath our cotton shirts
a single cord awaits
one pull
and a wing emerges
a colourful silken parachute pops into view
and butterflies
we float on the wind
never a foot touches ground
as silken ecstasy laughs on the breeze

edit:Yes! i edited. How unspontaneous my dear
surely this is against spring and it's live for the moment philosophy
but yes! i edited.

Oh Yes! Oh Yes!
Some of us wear exclamation
like the Wind, reticent, fluid, native,
intact, inate, born!

Oh Yes! Some of us wear
ready-to-land easily-laundered
flightsuit costumes with ripcords
and some of us don't play chords at all
in diminished
sevenths, flatted fifths,
augmented minors.

We are not
definitions of
music terminology.

We are leapers from air-
vehicles! We are pollen
blown from a flower-pistol -
We are fertilizing air!
We are fertilizing air!

Oh Yes! Oh Yes!
Some of us wear parachutes!
Some of us wear garments to protect us
from the fall!

I am one, though often I am Eve
and I wear nothing
at all.

i confess
i'm nude
(what are you wearing now?)
i am wearing the sound of a computer fan
i am humming a refrigerator croon
i am listening to inner forces - more yin than yang
i am waiting for yang to grab me by my heart
and hurl me into that luscious abyss

i confess
i'm nude

I am naked as a jaybird,
clothed only by the reflection
from a lamplight.
Moths hover my
flame. I name them
like pets.

I am only clothed by a
faint aura of forgiveness.

I have elected to relieve myself
from my skin, layer by layer, silken
discovery by silken discovery, pattern by
pattern, no matter the designer signature.

I am unclothed.
I am totally nude.
I am under the lamplight
of inspection.

Judge me for my skin texture.
Judge me for my exposure.
Camera angles don't mean much.
Catch me at dawn when the residue
of lighting makes its way
into your iris.

I am quite fortunately undressed.
My silken robe is at my feet.
I have no desire to retrieve it.

I am a dreamnymph comfortably
rid of unimportant superficial skin.

I have discarded the burlap.
I am naked as a jaybird.
WYSIWIG

what you see is what i get
what i get is what i want
what i want is what i crave
what i crave is what is real
what is real is what i feel

i,(what?), see