Tuesday, May 31, 2016
“I seen another world. Sometimes I think it was just my imagination”
- (Private Witte) The Thin Red Line, Book - James Jones, Movie - Terrence Malick
So what is it that causes what seems to be a casual coincidence into a generational blessing that continues to perpetuate itself? Who is really behind this grand design? Is this initiator a magnificent artist with a secret palette who knows no boundaries or limitations? How did this pilgrim get the notion to go to a watering hole on an island where he had never been before that one night in December a lifetime ago ? How is it that the woman who would become his pilgrim companion and mother to their sacred gifts arrive at the same place at the same time? What caused this pilgrim to turn right into a mutual friend who became the catalyst for the two strangers to journey together on that road less travelled? When will we learn that there is a greater hand at work carefully moving pieces on the chessboard of the universe?
How is the virgin staff papered ledger filled majestically into a magnificent symphony? Who would have thought that music would be created by the silence that interrupts tones and pitches creating melodies? Are the songs that birds sing at the breaking of each dawn really random? Is that sweet salt air sacred incense intended to sanctify the moment where the soul becomes aware of the divinity of everything? Consider the millions of stars and planets of the universe and the blood flowing by the pumping of pilgrim hearts or the gift of a perfect atmosphere that feeds and nourishes the lungs of wandering pilgrims, creatures and plants simultaneously. Who really thought of all this? What have we done to deserve any of this?
Was all of this the paradise that was promised? How is it that such a magnanimous lover and gift giver permit the existence of the horrors of violence and illness? Were we given too much freedom? Did we not understand the great generosity and love that has been given all? Will our self-absorption and greed be our undoing? Will we get permission to get lost in the now? Is it wrong to hope that this is not our only chance at salvation and that the promise of redemption for eternity is a reality?
Questions for the Angels – P. Simon
Questions – Moody Blues
Thin Red Line – God U Tekem Blong – Hans Zimmer
These are The Days – Van Morrison
*Inspired by The Thin Red Line – Book James Jones, Movie – Terrence Malick
Copyright all rights reserved 2016 – JF Sobecki LLC
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Nothing is more practical than
finding God, than
falling in Love
in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination, will affect everything.
It will decide
what will get you out of bed in the morning,
what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, whom you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.
Fall in Love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.
Well the seasons go round and round
Captive on a carousel .
They say it’s our birthday
It’s his birthday too, yeah.
Would you like to dance?
Trouble melts like lemon drops
Bluebirds fly freely
And the blue skies
Shows the world the end of the rainbow.
It had been a long and lonely winter
But here would come the sun.
She would defy gravity
as I was limited
Leaving hand prints on hearts.
I am changed for the better,
Because I knew you.
She no longer calls for daddy,
Her momma looks in wonder and she doesn’t know how
“Our baby escaped, no more cuddling now
She’s a big girl now
Our baby’s gone.”
She earned the chance
Counting on every bead with a prayer
Keeping all the hopes in her heart.
She went from spikes to ruby shoes
She’s a woman you all should know,
Singing soft and low to babies,
A daisy-ed nightingale in training.
Oh brown-eyed girl,
Do you remember when we used to sing?
She was just waiting for this moment to be free.
She would begin to travel on to
Where she will be one with another
And there is love.
This marriage of their spirits
Has caused Him to remain
For wherever two or more are gathered
In His name
There is love , there is love.
If we could have one wish
Darling, it would be this
“Love and happiness….to you.”
Love and happiness – Emmy Lou and mark Knopfler
Our Baby’s Gone – Herb Pederson
For Good - From Wicked
Wedding Song – Peter , Paul and Mary
You can click through right to You tube in the video
or on this link
or on this link
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Copyright JF Sobecki 2016 All Rights Reserved
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry. ―
- Jack Kerouac
“If you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Follow your bliss and don’t be afraid, and doors will open where you didn’t know they were going to be.”
- Joseph Campbell
He once wrote,
Martians used to preach
Of days they would reach the earth
Now they’ve given up
Finding what it is worth.
He was wrong, there had never been a serious consideration for Martians to explore the earth as it looked like a dying planet. “How did they get such an impression?” , he wondered. And so the journey began for him to comprehend how this perception could evolve.
Out came the yellow high-liter with the history and sociology books as well as the laptop googling thousands of trends and facts about the evolution of earth’s inhabitants their attitudes, institutions, political structures, beliefs, culture and changing. Charts, graphs, narratives and all types of analytics were created to visually illustrate the doors of perception. Then a wave washed him up onto the shore of enlightenment.
“Poetry! They have never read or heard our poetry! Poetry is the language of our hearts and souls, the living proof of the existence of the sacred within sentient beings. ”
He also thought of music as the voice of the divine but continued to wonder what the Martians might think of earth and her inhabitants if they read and heard our poetry, as it was the root of what would become songs. “Poetry is evidence of: our compassion and passion; our love and desire for peace and concern for the common welfare; our devotion to and appreciation for the beauty and wonder of all that mother nature provides; our humility and hopefulness; our resilience; our ability for our own spirits to transcend our vessels of clay; and, our enlightenment of and faith in a great magnificence who is the reason for every aspect of the universe.”
But with this awareness he also became depressed, as he knew that many in this world had lost their sense of poetry and most poets had been minimalized or trivialized. Many contemporary poets had lost their voices or desire to have their inner voice heard. Some "would be poets" had been led to join that carousel where reaching for a brass ring became the objective rather than being an authentic channel of passion. Furthermore many had become silent out of fear of being ostracized for being a voice from the wilderness. There were some champions who would fight the good fight but they seemed to die young.
“Maybe if I just continue to encourage others to allow their authentic selves and voices to flourish through poetry, that may be enough . No need to worry about the Martian perspective now as we all have a greater challenge at hand…to save ourselves.”
Understanding Poetry – Dead Poets Society
Immediately NOW watch the next click…don’t wait!
Why do we Read and Write Poetry – Dead Poets Society
Now Some things for pilgrims and Martians to consider
Song Of Myself – From Favorite Poem Project
We Real Cool – From Favorite Poem Project
The Favorite Poem Projecthttp://www.favoritepoem.org
"Poetry is an act of peace." – Pablo Neruda
"To be a poet is a condition, not a profession." – Robert Frost
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Soneto de la Noche
By Pablo Neruda
Cuando yo muero quiero tus manos en mis ojos:
When I die, I want your hands upon my eyes:
quiero la luz y el trigo de tus manos amadas
I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands
pasar una vez más sobre mí su frescura:
to pass their freshness over me one more time
sentir la suavidad que cambió mi destino.
I want to feel the gentleness that changed my destiny.
Quiero que vivas mientras yo, dormido, te espero,
I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep,
quiero que tus oídos sigan oyendo el viento,
I want your ears to stiil hear the wind,
que huelas el aroma del mar que amamos juntos
I want you to smell the scent of the sea we both loved,
y que sigas pisando la arena que pisamos.
and to continue walking on the sand we walked on.
Quiero que lo que amo siga vivo
I want all that I love to keep on living,
y a ti te amé y canté sobre todas las cosas,
and you whom I loved and sang above all things
por eso sigue tú floreciendo, florida,
To keep flowering into full bloom.
para que alcances todo lo que mi amor te ordena,
so that you can touch all that my love provides you,
para que se pasee mi sombra por tu pelo,
so that my shadow may pass over your hair,
para que así conozcan la razón de mi canto.
so that all may know the reason for my song.
- Pablo Neruda, trans. Nicholas Lauridsen
Choral representation of the above poem
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved JF Sobecki LLC
Thursday, March 3, 2016
Well, ok they said with biblical promise
That spring would arrive at any moment.
They said authoritatively “it will soon be here.”
They said their prophecies would be realized:
The hibernating beasts would slowly wake;
Robins clearing their throats in preparation to fulfill their purpose; and ,
The buds magically appearing on grayed branches while buried bulbs would begin to reach out in resurrection.
The proclamation on the cathedral read,
“The end and the beginning is near!”
They would write and preach about the forthcoming immersion
Into that ocean of merciful warmth and illumination.
Endless rhymes, mind wandering melodies and echoes of
Midnight choral chants spiritually satiated seeking souls with anticipation for sacramental satisfaction.
Yet, in the nave of the sanctuary
El Nino Demonic Naysayers whispered rhythmically
“No peace. No spring. No Peace. No Spring”
Were they right? Who was wrong?
Was all of this noise just half-hearted speculation?
Would winter’s curtain be torn wide open ever again?
Meandering pilgrims scrambled here and there
consumed with conjectures about the prognostications, beating their chests desiring absolution and redemption
for their faltering faith and lack of trust.
The warmed up Easter white vestment adorned players
Prayed anxiously waiting to take the field.
Frail fallen branches from the bitter wind,
Remnants of the dark frozen gray sky,
Lay prostrate in penitential submissiveness
To the ultimate sacred grace.
Does it matter if meteorological prophets are pseudo-psychic?
Does it matter that the exiled deportees got lost
On the way to the promised land ?
Those once lost birds of paradise could be heard singing
to anyone who stopped to listen
“ the great love is never really absent -
- just open up your heart .”
Wild Geese - Mary Oliver
(Can't see vide? Click on link below )
Here Comes the Sun - Paul Simon with Crosby and Nash
(can't see video ? click on link below)
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
JF Sobecki LLC Copyright all Rights reserved 2016