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| Artist Frederick Franck |
Frederick Franck in writing
about spirituality spoke of the Bodhidarma in the 6th century who
said something like “It has been suggested that All That Matters is
transmiitted outside of all scriptures, not depending on words or letters but
pointing at the true human mind/heart making us see our true nature…”
Sometimes
in that birthing moment on the first of November
Chimes
singing from the autumn wind
Weaving
in and out of the great artist’s canvas,
conjures gold, reds, yellow-orange , and a few
reminiscent
lingering forever greens .
Sparks of salvation history
Illuminating
and warming the sanctuary .
Sometimes
songs and words of unawarded poets
Speak
for him more clearly,
They
become personal scripture,
consolations
to and from his soul .
Distracted
and momentarily lost from the present
Forgetting
why he is here and where he is headed
He
waits on the shores of the ocean of mercy.
"Going on November."
An Autumn 2016 Song and Poem List
Memory
Lane – Van Morrison ( click on link)
https://vimeo.com/185388253
"Memory Lane"
It's Autumn here,
going on November
I view the leaves in all their splendour
Is it déjà vu, I just can't remember
I stop a while and take in the scene
I stop a while and ask a stranger
Is this the place that was once called Memory Lane
I don't know where I am or what I'm after
I'm stuck here again back on Memory Lane
Now the leaves are falling and it's coming on to Winter
Nights keep getting shorter and shorter every day
One sign up ahead says 'DANGER'
Another one says 'STOP'
One says 'YIELD THIS WAY'
And it swerves and moves around the corners
And there's flashing lights up ahead 'round the bend
The road curves and twists and turns
And twists and turns and wanders
'Til you get, ' til you get to the very end
Now I'm back here again with more questions than answers
And I'm standing in the pouring rain
There's something moving, moving in the shadows
And it's getting dark now, up on Memory Lane
I stop a while and ask some strangers
Is this the place that was once called Memory Lane
I don't know where I am, don't know what I'm after
I'm stuck here back on Memory Lane
I stop a while and ask some strangers
Is this the place that was once called Memory Lane
Don't know where I am right now or what I'm after
I'm stuck here up, just up on Memory Lane
I'm stuck here up, back on Memory Lane
I'm stuck here back up on Memory Lane
I'm stuck here back, back up on Memory Lane
Urge
For Going – T. Rush ( written- J. Mitchell )
Autumn Poem by Mary Oliver
In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry
hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of
heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this
world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
The Layers
I have walked
through many lives,
some of them my
own,
and I am not
who I was,
though some
principle of being
abides, from
which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look
behind,
as I am
compelled to look
before I can
gather strength
to proceed on
my journey,
I see the
milestones dwindling
toward the
horizon
and the slow
fires trailing
from the
abandoned camp-sites,
over which
scavenger angels
wheel on heavy
wings.
Oh, I have made
myself a tribe
out of my true
affections,
and my tribe is
scattered!
How shall the
heart be reconciled
to its feast of
losses?
In a rising
wind
the manic dust
of my friends,
those who fell
along the way,
bitterly stings
my face.
Yet I turn, I
turn,
exulting
somewhat,
with my will
intact to go
wherever I need
to go,
and every stone
on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest
night,
when the moon
was covered
and I roamed through
wreckage,
a
nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the
layers,
not on the
litter.”
Though I lack
the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the
next chapter
in my book of
transformations
is already
written.
I am not done
with my changes.
The Journey – David
Whyte
The Journey, a
poem by David Whyte
Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.
Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
first, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.
You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades
quickly now,
you are arriving.
amdg
Copyright 2016 JF Sobecki All Rights Reserved
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