__We... had so counted on the old skills and crafts that had built this world, and yet today from so many corners, those arts of providing life... have been re-labeled as lowly functions.
__I ask you my friends to visit -Bicando- that link to the right... and I, back to the sands and the beach... with slight changes.
this sea
we placed in sands
footfalls that traced our path
as tides rose to erase each step
we are
- Magyar
- Cape Cod, United States
- __I see with young eyes, an old mirror. Here, I hope to offer... as I see.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Fog and Flute
Departure #6
__From the summer of 2005, my fictitious legend of a central Connecticut Native clansman.
_m
__Sunset had taken the day's warmth, and cold slid down the mountainside, out and over the pond's water where a fog was born, layering itself low and close, and filling the pond's hollow... resting in this bowl of trees. The song of a flute pierced the fog, and as I gazed across the water toward the music's heart, two fires peered back through the formless haze.
__As sunrise came, I slid my canoe across the pond and cut the water to the pond's far side where we Tunxi knew our spirits gathered. There, I walked this ground of the fog and flute, and I stood at the place of the night fire's dance.
__No traces of fires spent, or gathered wood, nor ashes or sooted rocks... nothing spoke of the fog and flute at this site of the dancing fires. There were only a dog's footprints in the sand among the stones, a pace trail that mapped its night's restless roving... footfalls, claw marks pointing outward into the fog of the night that once was.
morning
seeped into a sleepless dream
this spirit called
__An instant's haze claimed the stony point, and piercing through that moment's vapor came the song of the flute, and the dance of the fires; quickly the music faded to a song of silence.
__Then, there came a black dog, and it sat at my moccasins. He rose to his haunches... and in his eyes shown the dancing fires. His forelegs were thrust outward, and across them lay the flute... his offering to me.
__I grasped the flute; I knew the fires of this dream would join me.
__In one motion I launched my canoe, and rolled to my knees in the canoe's bottom. I pulled the first paddle stroke above the stillness; on the second stroke I looked up... and there the black dog's spirit had joined me. He had become my image. In the trust of my mind's dream, I am the song of the fog and flute, I am in the trance of these dancing fires.
becoming one
the dream and the soul
a paddle stroke
__From the summer of 2005, my fictitious legend of a central Connecticut Native clansman.
_m
__Sunset had taken the day's warmth, and cold slid down the mountainside, out and over the pond's water where a fog was born, layering itself low and close, and filling the pond's hollow... resting in this bowl of trees. The song of a flute pierced the fog, and as I gazed across the water toward the music's heart, two fires peered back through the formless haze.
__As sunrise came, I slid my canoe across the pond and cut the water to the pond's far side where we Tunxi knew our spirits gathered. There, I walked this ground of the fog and flute, and I stood at the place of the night fire's dance.
__No traces of fires spent, or gathered wood, nor ashes or sooted rocks... nothing spoke of the fog and flute at this site of the dancing fires. There were only a dog's footprints in the sand among the stones, a pace trail that mapped its night's restless roving... footfalls, claw marks pointing outward into the fog of the night that once was.
morning
seeped into a sleepless dream
this spirit called
__An instant's haze claimed the stony point, and piercing through that moment's vapor came the song of the flute, and the dance of the fires; quickly the music faded to a song of silence.
__Then, there came a black dog, and it sat at my moccasins. He rose to his haunches... and in his eyes shown the dancing fires. His forelegs were thrust outward, and across them lay the flute... his offering to me.
__I grasped the flute; I knew the fires of this dream would join me.
__In one motion I launched my canoe, and rolled to my knees in the canoe's bottom. I pulled the first paddle stroke above the stillness; on the second stroke I looked up... and there the black dog's spirit had joined me. He had become my image. In the trust of my mind's dream, I am the song of the fog and flute, I am in the trance of these dancing fires.
becoming one
the dream and the soul
a paddle stroke
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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