Bill, My iPeace Friend,Al and the iPeace Familyand when You get this birthday wish, I would like toYou back Bill, to"So Let's Make a Difference for You & Yours & Everyone" and"Happy Trails" & "Happy iPeaceing"As You can see, We (the iPeace Family) are still here!
"Enjoy Life" and "Remember"
What if
we set ourselves to move with Bach
like organ-clock or
flourished in the artful ragas of India
There is a style of complexity
that is as smooth as silken tapestry
And human sounds might
teach to angels a
music grace that
counters hate And we
to be that motion that
recreates the genius-complexity of wind and
ocean hallowed lifting
flesh to dance
our souls to harmony
Therein would end would surely end
anguish and the agony
suffering and the tyranny of war
No violence would from soundings such as this
be wrought No
further consequences sought -What
if
at close of day toward sojourn’s end
one sat to write within a
dairy’s treasured foliage on
yellowed-scarlet leaves of time
these words alone:
My life is as concerto – allegro allegretto
to adagio Or rag Or jazz
like Kara Johnstad’s Berlin Wall
as “Summer Knows”* and
I am morning’s violin
piano’s slow and wending curves
or evening sitar One
twilight that invites the light one
twilight ‘fore the blush of night one
sounding of love’s sacred heart One
organ-clock
…like JS Bach
David Sparenberg
4 September 2009
*”Summer Know” a recent recording by Jazz singer/songwriter Kara
Johnstad, who lives in Berlin and whose “Wall” is a wave of sound, not
cement, steel and wire to divide but vocals to carry the placard-songs
of a global invitation.
hbi my dear friend Bill!! how you are my dear? i have to thank you for nice words and frienship!! have joy and love...and peace is that...love you,hug and kiss you...
The expression
of the beautiful genius
opens like a wordless
rose
and clothes us
in the fumes
of paradise.
Somehow
when we are
listening to the wings
of crows and the
tender melodies
of elfin butterflies
we feel embraced
by the breath
of angels.
Beating
so softly, so
delicate-sweet that
velvet on a virgin’s
skin
might touch us
with an offering.
Though
we are there, out
in that other place
the familiar cup
of a summer’s rose
rises
from this ground
to kiss us
with the miracle
of its pouring passions.
And
we are downed
supine
into the common
haunting symbolum
of earth’s
dense mystery.
Though
not a single
word has swollen
to the lips
like a cherry
freshly swollen,
but the heavy
buzzing
of a working bee
lost
in the ecstasies
of pollen.
And
we are spellbound
and complete.
Like fruit.
Like garden.
When the one who is awaited comes
and you find your face
within his face
and your heartbeat
living inside his heartbeat
as entwined as lover’s breath;
when the angel that he brings
bears your name as
clearly inscribed as his own
and the animal at his side
walks peacefully
in the shadow of your footsteps;
then will the Earth Revolution begin
like a child
awakening at the onset of morning
(a Dawn Child)
and green will be as red as gold.
And that which starts
prayerful in a whispered word
swift as lightning
or as wildfire consumes
not but bitterness
and the lusts of exploitation and war.
And it shall end in this:
The never ending fertility
of the dream of God
and the promise filling the fields
of holy prophesy. For we
in the companionship
of the awaited—of one coming on—
shall eat at the banquet of our preparations.
And the one will be invited
to sit here
and be among us.
That day shall be called
Abundance. And that night
Deliverance from the Apocalypse
of manmade evils. And the world
with the one at the center of
the everywhere from
now until always will dance.
Dance as people dance
around a tree of fire
that does not burn but
shines with joy. With life.
With redefining
Liberty.
David Sparenberg
6 August 2008
ON HEARING AGAIN BEETHOVEN’S
ODE TO JOY
In the terrible
conflagration of war
it is not only armies
that are consumed
but the obo
and the violin die
die tragically as well.
In the monstrous
rampages of hatred
it is not only the victims
of insidious propaganda who
are the targets of political rage
but the flowers of perception
are withered too.
Like a winter storm
the land that longs
for love of spring
wastes with wounds
and ugly memories.
Somewhere in the darkness
of petrifying screams
there is the smell of
carrion earth
an outcry of blood.
Music too
like a sweetness in the soul of
struggling even
as a song bird
nesting
in the heart of the angel
of human discovery perishes.
Who then pleads
for the others who
are scattered everywhere
like dust in the wind?
Comment Wall (10 comments)
You need to be a member of iPeace.us to add comments!
Join iPeace.us
"Enjoy Life" and "Remember"
iPeace is deleted from David Califa the end of June. Here you can find a new home.
http://peaceformeandtheworld.ning.com/
You are cordially invited.
Warm regards, Eva
What if
we set ourselves to move with Bach
like organ-clock or
flourished in the artful ragas of India
There is a style of complexity
that is as smooth as silken tapestry
And human sounds might
teach to angels a
music grace that
counters hate And we
to be that motion that
recreates the genius-complexity of wind and
ocean hallowed lifting
flesh to dance
our souls to harmony
Therein would end would surely end
anguish and the agony
suffering and the tyranny of war
No violence would from soundings such as this
be wrought No
further consequences sought -What
if
at close of day toward sojourn’s end
one sat to write within a
dairy’s treasured foliage on
yellowed-scarlet leaves of time
these words alone:
My life is as concerto – allegro allegretto
to adagio Or rag Or jazz
like Kara Johnstad’s Berlin Wall
as “Summer Knows”* and
I am morning’s violin
piano’s slow and wending curves
or evening sitar One
twilight that invites the light one
twilight ‘fore the blush of night one
sounding of love’s sacred heart One
organ-clock
…like JS Bach
David Sparenberg
4 September 2009
*”Summer Know” a recent recording by Jazz singer/songwriter Kara
Johnstad, who lives in Berlin and whose “Wall” is a wave of sound, not
cement, steel and wire to divide but vocals to carry the placard-songs
of a global invitation.
The expression
of the beautiful genius
opens like a wordless
rose
and clothes us
in the fumes
of paradise.
Somehow
when we are
listening to the wings
of crows and the
tender melodies
of elfin butterflies
we feel embraced
by the breath
of angels.
Beating
so softly, so
delicate-sweet that
velvet on a virgin’s
skin
might touch us
with an offering.
Though
we are there, out
in that other place
the familiar cup
of a summer’s rose
rises
from this ground
to kiss us
with the miracle
of its pouring passions.
And
we are downed
supine
into the common
haunting symbolum
of earth’s
dense mystery.
Though
not a single
word has swollen
to the lips
like a cherry
freshly swollen,
but the heavy
buzzing
of a working bee
lost
in the ecstasies
of pollen.
And
we are spellbound
and complete.
Like fruit.
Like garden.
David Sparenberg
When the one who is awaited comes
and you find your face
within his face
and your heartbeat
living inside his heartbeat
as entwined as lover’s breath;
when the angel that he brings
bears your name as
clearly inscribed as his own
and the animal at his side
walks peacefully
in the shadow of your footsteps;
then will the Earth Revolution begin
like a child
awakening at the onset of morning
(a Dawn Child)
and green will be as red as gold.
And that which starts
prayerful in a whispered word
swift as lightning
or as wildfire consumes
not but bitterness
and the lusts of exploitation and war.
And it shall end in this:
The never ending fertility
of the dream of God
and the promise filling the fields
of holy prophesy. For we
in the companionship
of the awaited—of one coming on—
shall eat at the banquet of our preparations.
And the one will be invited
to sit here
and be among us.
That day shall be called
Abundance. And that night
Deliverance from the Apocalypse
of manmade evils. And the world
with the one at the center of
the everywhere from
now until always will dance.
Dance as people dance
around a tree of fire
that does not burn but
shines with joy. With life.
With redefining
Liberty.
David Sparenberg
6 August 2008
ON HEARING AGAIN BEETHOVEN’S
ODE TO JOY
In the terrible
conflagration of war
it is not only armies
that are consumed
but the obo
and the violin die
die tragically as well.
In the monstrous
rampages of hatred
it is not only the victims
of insidious propaganda who
are the targets of political rage
but the flowers of perception
are withered too.
Like a winter storm
the land that longs
for love of spring
wastes with wounds
and ugly memories.
Somewhere in the darkness
of petrifying screams
there is the smell of
carrion earth
an outcry of blood.
Music too
like a sweetness in the soul of
struggling even
as a song bird
nesting
in the heart of the angel
of human discovery perishes.
Who then pleads
for the others who
are scattered everywhere
like dust in the wind?
David Sparenberg
25-26 July 2008