Debussy, Reflets dans l'eau (James Boyk, solo piano)

Debussy, Doctor Gradus ad Parnassum, solo piano

Joni Mitchell , Woman Of Heart And Mind

Joni Mitchell , Taming The Tiger

Tiger, tiger burning bright
(Fight to the light, fight to the light)
In the forest of the night."


"

Björk, History of Touches (Vulnicura Live)

John Martyn, Couldn't Love You More

Monty Python's Flying Circus , Beethoven (sub castellano)

Ewan McTeagle, the Scottish Poet, Monty Python's Flying Circus

he is not a very nice cat

although there is no-thing to say, i keep on writing.
it is not a remedy nor a drug but happens without
me wishing for it.

It is in the following way a bit like playing golf  or sex -what i saw
in an Irish pub: it is not important to be good at it
but to enjoy it.

in one view writing is most certainly not communication
because i am alone when i write just the same
as i can play golf alone.

concerning sex, hum, it is far removed from sex-
intimacy is when communication turns into communion,
else loving has failed to reach or/and  to let reach
the wounds and heart.

The opening of soul and body is intricately
connected with fear of the death of ego,
with the letting go of  control.

the price for joy and happiness are pain and
vulnerability.

the price for life is death, and it is good.
i see a deep sense and i can feel the release.

as music is best in silence so is all communion
and so are 'good' poems.

going back into silence for a while.
my cat told me.
he is not a very nice cat.
he is as he is.

the spiders and the bees

patterns and cycles

patterns and cycles

can’t stop rain

can’t stop sun

ain’t no place to hide

but inside this pain

whatever we gain

is not what we won.

the battle goes on.

patterns and cycles,

pattern and cycles.

if it wouldn’t hurt

maybe we could laugh.

the mind ploughs fields,

the snow covers all

and we fail and fall, 

we fail and fall,

we stumble, we carry,

we carry on and on and on, 

all tries to pull us down

we fall, we fall apart,

this is the way, no

easy path to follow,

none to carry us across

we forget, we lose words,

remember silly wounds

which should have healed.

sleep once a good friend

sends us dreams, we wake

and are not awakened, 

winter has come and it

is so hard to find light

we have tried and tried

but the bluest sky

is cold and does not

colour the days

we shake it off, do tricks,

ain’t no place to hide

pattern and cycles,

patterns and cycles

maybe in spring, maybe

in autumn, maybe even

in summer we can have

a few days in the breath

and wind of God who

sent unicorns and dance

after floods and fires,

wars and pestilence

maybe this is God,

maybe we did it,

without humility

trying to rule

us and others and 

this earth which has

no other response

left but to fight back.

maybe it is God,

maybe the earth,

maybe us:

patterns and cycles

and the primeval tides

rising and ebbing

until the last one goes

back to the stars

under the sea, under

and up is the same,

the moving and turning

until we are all gone

and then maybe the

spiders and the bees

make love and the birds

sing and sing forever

come sweet sleep

in the space opening

inside and on ground

which moves and gives

way in and out and

up and down, deep

in the core i am afloat

i don’t know what you

will feel nor do you

nor is there a rock 

i can climb to point

to my heart and say:

see. because mostly

the top of mountains

is shrouded by clouds

and the fog ascending,

all transient and nebulous

but when i feel, i can

only feel what i feel.

we are like that, 

limits of perception,

fear of known and 

of un-known, small

derwishes trying to

sing and dance out

of gravity holding

us down, beautiful

islands with hells

raging in the jungle

so where do we go,

will we learn to fly

and is it not sad to

go to the gate alone

time will solve nothing

but all happens in its

own time. maybe it

grows to good, maybe

good is wrong. all is

now like this: maybe.

walking towards death

we see and give birth.