hi lisa. i hope this finds you near a horse. thank you for being a friend here. have a great summer's end and thank you for creating peace in our world.
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.
Hi it’s good to know you. Stay blessed.
Regards, love and peace.
Rashad.
Chairman: Hope development organization.
Email: chairman@hopedevelopment.org
www.hopedevelopment.org
We are all marching in the same demonstration here…dreaming in our earth-walk to encircle the globe. Sometimes we need to turn to one another—as simply as offering a drink of water—and say Hello. - David
Not everyone comes wearing
a red dress.
Many are content with
white shirts, plaid skirts, blue jeans.
The wounded are wearing
overcoats,
because for them
the world is prematurely cold.
The silly and the cleverest
are dressed as clowns.
And the angels are
naked, between the eyelashes
of our setting sun.
Not everyone comes wearing
the reminder of black,
although pain is everywhere
and loss attends us.
Those who are painted in blood
have wept in the wasting of war.
And those who are
painted with light
are here to heal us.
Friend,
even if I came to you
in the rags of weariness,
the cloak of invisibility or
dust of neglect, the
web of a spider,
would you offer me a drink of water
seeing thirst,
and help to decide
a way, at the crossroads of life?
If I look into your
hands, what will I find:
a golden thread,
the strength of beauty,
a loaf of bread?
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.
iPeace.us
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Love & peace
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.
Spicecomments.com - Good Day Comments
Regards, love and peace.
Rashad.
Chairman: Hope development organization.
Email: chairman@hopedevelopment.org
www.hopedevelopment.org
Not everyone comes wearing
a red dress.
Many are content with
white shirts, plaid skirts, blue jeans.
The wounded are wearing
overcoats,
because for them
the world is prematurely cold.
The silly and the cleverest
are dressed as clowns.
And the angels are
naked, between the eyelashes
of our setting sun.
Not everyone comes wearing
the reminder of black,
although pain is everywhere
and loss attends us.
Those who are painted in blood
have wept in the wasting of war.
And those who are
painted with light
are here to heal us.
Friend,
even if I came to you
in the rags of weariness,
the cloak of invisibility or
dust of neglect, the
web of a spider,
would you offer me a drink of water
seeing thirst,
and help to decide
a way, at the crossroads of life?
If I look into your
hands, what will I find:
a golden thread,
the strength of beauty,
a loaf of bread?
David Sparenberg
18 July 2009
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
i thank u also for accepting me in ur world.Welcome to
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