Friday, May 17, 2013

Spring & all

The face of a man who has joy. Photo: Jessica Hill.
What a delicious morning! Drove my youngest to school on torn-up roads under heavy boughs of flowers, saw a happy dog chasing birds, sang all the way home, and fell in love with an old barbering man named Anthony Cymerys who paid right attention in church. Then I wrote a poem about it all.

I flashed around the sky and landed safely, and never once remembered Benghazi or IRS targeting or any number of things that tugged at me this week... On a glad morning, I feel sure that right things win through in the end, and that being in the world but not quite of the world will save us from the realm of Babel, jargon, and lies.


  1. Reminds be somewhat of Luisa's 'I do not want to die on a day like today' today...

  2. Oh my sweet, I too have been having moments of revelation that haul me out of the bramble patch in which I seem so often mired these days. The sun has come and iris blooms unfurl and birdsong is exquisite and deafening. A good moment to be an artist.

    Being in but not quite of the world, yes, that strikes the right chord. I shall carry that thought with me. Thank you.

    Animation editing today. We must haul form and order out of chaos, conjure light out of the dark. Here we go.

  3. And that's an inspiring story with inspiring images to go with it, the old barber in the park making sure that even the poor and homeless can be spruce. Thank you for leading me to that.

  4. Clive,

    I'm looking forward to the next version with you and Pete! Poor, innocent soldier...

    It has been rather brambly for the past few years, hasn't it? But all bramble patches have an end, even if they don't seem to have a path.

    And spring comes at last, no matter the brambles. And that is sweet.


Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.