If you do not find the mellow in the word happy, in the so called present, you might never find it.
Look for a bridge and cross it!
When you have to stand against the wind, stand tall, but always bend from the force of a typhoon.
Dreams are color lightning, ripened glass and solar storms you should always write down or sketch.
“Books are friends for a sandy foxtrot.”
(Réplique sous la direction de Optivion)
circa 1914 or 2014?
(Original watercolor and ink commission)
A luminous twisted wood
Chorus pulp of the ancient
In any age experienced-
Rings run endless spirals.
A timber floats above
Cloaked Chapter of the seasons
In any being wiser-
Ruling living scripts modestly.
A structure bound divine
Calling branches of the green
In any sense stronger-
Roaring breath feeds you.
A perennial code whispers
Circumjacent pull of the vein
In any task elegant-
Remnant rush silently regenerates.
The Hatter will never stop drinking his tea and never forget that The White Rabbit works for the Red Queen. Far behind the cherry blossom we can see the Fukushima hydrogen explosion. Perhaps a “New Beginning” with a new perspective on how we see the safety, potential harm and future of nuclear energy.
The art work was made from recycled materials.
(Commission, watercolors & Ink)
I am free
I am altitude of color and mint
converge on the waves of the gulf.
If you float salute me above the blue
reserve the title for another time.
You will only know my secret name
and hear the music from our sunset.
If next week does not come
this afternoon is enough.
The color of your shadow below the sands
your fingers measuring the clouds.
I am restless. I am flight of ink and
blooming burgeon harmony.
In my eyes you will catch a thriving dream.
Play it so and put it in your pocket.
Let the moon rise and you will always find home.
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.