Monday, March 21, 2016



As every flower fades, so with all youth
And age brings different flowers at each stage of life,
Blooms each and every virtue and wisdom
In their time, and may not last forever.
From within every heart, life calls, be
Ready for parting, and each new endeavor,
To bravely and without remorse
Find new beauty in the next other.
In all beginnings dwells a magic
Protecting us and helping us to live.

We shall traverse realm on realm,
cleaving to none as a home,
The world of spirit wishes not to fetter us,
He will raise us higher, to wider spaces.
We're hardly at home in one circle,
Familiar habits make for indolence,
In someone who is ready to depart and travel,
The crippling habit may dismiss itself.

Perhaps even the hour of death
may bring us home to new fresh spaces
The call of life to us is never ending ...
Well, my heart, bid farewell continually!

–Hermann Hesse


Wednesday, March 16, 2016

the like is not intelligible save to the like


Unless you make yourself equal to God, you cannot understand God: for the like is not intelligible save to the like. Make yourself grow to a greatness beyond measure, by a bound free yourself from the body; raise yourself above all time, become Eternity; then you will understand God. Believe that nothing is impossible for you, think yourself immortal and capable of understanding all, all arts, all sciences, the nature of every living being. Mount higher than the highest height; descend lower than the lowest depth. Draw into yourself all sensations of everything created, fire and water, dry and moist, imagining that you are everywhere, on earth, in the sea, in the sky, that you are not yet born, in the maternal womb, adolescent, old, dead, beyond death. 

If you embrace in your thought all things at once, times, places, substances, qualities, quantities, you may understand God.

Giordano Bruno, (1548 - 1600) Italian philosopher and martyr to science

Arctic Wolf incheye1971

Imaginarium of Tears

a tear of sadness, (donated by my friend) because her dad was very sick and there was nothing she could do about it.

Imaginarium of Tears

Sunday, March 13, 2016



Already one day has detached itself from all the rest up ahead.
It has my photograph in its soft pocket.
It wants to carry my breath into the past in its bag of wind.

I write poems to untie myself, to do penance and disappear
Through the upper right-hand corner of things, to say grace.

–Charles Wright