Monday, October 21, 2013

The No-Colors of the No-Moon


Long after dark, I will paint you
with the no-colors of a no-moon.

If I start with moonlight, whatever is added
will make the portrait darker.
If I start with darkness, whatever is added
will make the no-colors brighter.

I start with darkness.

Every outcome is possible
before you are born.

I consider the possible,
close my eyes, and...

Begin.

As I work, I see light becoming,
becoming you,
light is...
you.

Now, consider...

Painting on darkness
makes no-colors glow.

Let the no-colors decide
what others see.
The outside of your body is like a funeral -
important to everyone
but the guest of honor.

I will look for you with whippoorwill
birdsong to guide me.

When the mountain moves you,
where the water soothes, you
are walking with ghost deer.

Now, it is quiet.
The earth breathes.
Soft rain adds the weight
of teardrops.
The Heart at the Center of Things
is beating.
The no-moon sets with the
promise that next evening will be lit
by a slight sliver of darkness.

I will let that no-moon paint you
in a different way...
the way you will always be becoming.

Peach -
by the light of the no-moon.
August 12, 2011
NewMain, Virginia


Thursday, August 08, 2013

false dawn

false dawn...
sleep will have to wait
for sunrise

He told me how he got two
cold blue echoes for eyes.
I want to call them blue echoes,
but they are closer to mercury
pools with little ripples from
something inside came
loose and slick-slipped
behind the mercury of his eyes.
I'll call them cold blue echoes so
he don't get excited, but,
there is something broken...
in the blue he doesn't want to know it is.

Monday, June 17, 2013

Jimmy ThePeach: First Kissing Warm Rain

Jimmy ThePeach: First Kissing Warm Rain: fireflies kissing First Kissing Warm Rain Soft is the night yellow misty in the throw-glow of streetlights. In the hour of ...

Friday, June 07, 2013

Watching Sunset With A Dog


"Fearless" Frito
June 7th and after a night of thunderstorms in Virginia, first light feels colder than yester-May. Tiny berms of maple-blade seed-feathers trace the high water line where gutters flooded into the street. How many sunrises… how many sunsets… and the days between…

With a whoosh winter,
winter wind sweeps June
back before summer
started.

Yes, restless from the reminder,
how quicker the wheel turns
as slower the motor runs

No bow strong enough can throw
any arrow farther
than the target,
time.

a small thing,
watching sunset
with a dog

- Peach

Wednesday, June 05, 2013

Instruments of Good and Evil

Tenzin Gyatso, 14th Dalai Lama

A person who hates
and wants to eradicate
those who believe in God,
is not an atheist;
they are an instrument of evil,
just as clearly
as the Dalai Lama
is an instrument of good.

Monday, June 03, 2013

Driving West Into Arizona

looking towards Las Vegas
Driving west into Arizona I find myself in scrub flatlands. The Little Colorado River is the same sandstone red as the dirt roads that peter out into the high desert on both sides of US 40.
I pass a sign, “Elevation – 5,000 ft.”
            Then another as I pass six thousand. Finally, the San Francisco Peaks appear ahead. There is snow on the mountains. It must be about 35 miles to Flagstaff.
            I pull off the freeway and drive a ways up an unmarked dirt road. I park in the shade of an old juniper and get out to stretch.
            In a while, I’ll leave a big rooster-tail on the dirt road, get back to the freeway, and head for Las Vegas.
            Now, though, I grab my guitar and serenade the wind. It’s dropping off the mountains and blowing east, towards everywhere I’ve been.

                                                on guitar
                                                            playing something
                                                                        to forget

An excerpt from the upcoming book, “A Short Journey To The Far West,” based on a 5,622 mile wandering across these here United States.

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Jimmy ThePeach: Breakfast In Bed

Jimmy ThePeach: Breakfast In Bed: Ah, Scotty and Lorna . This is a classic toasting . I remember listening to this song over and over the first time I heard it. Loud, th...

Friday, May 17, 2013

Breakfast In Bed



Ah, Scotty and Lorna. This is a classic toasting. I remember listening to this song over and over the first time I heard it. Loud, through great big speakers. Good God!
“Ahy!” Scotty squeals and away we go with Scotty skankin’ and rankin’ and hootin’ and a shootin’ lines.
“Now good God, do it to me Lorna.”
Lorna starts singing, “You’ve been cryin’.”
“One time,” Sotty slips in.
“Your face is a mess.” Lorna finishes the line.
And the back and forth continues, her sweet melodies calling and his smooth, sly replies.
“Good God. Weaywheeeeeee!” Scotty screams. “What ya cookin' for me garl, Arkansas fish?”
“Breakfast in bed,” sings Lorna. “You don’t have to say you love me.”
“Uhuh, you don’t have to say you love me.” Scotty says. “And what I want you to do is to rock it to me, you got to shock it to me. Yeah!!!”
Then all of a sudden, Scotty stops the band.
“ Whuuhhhh????
Cut! Cut! Cut, cut! Tell me somethin'. whadda ya’ll doin' in the studio?"
A quiet voice replies, "I used to live in the restroom, suh."
“Tell me somethin’,” Scotty says. “What da ya cum why don’t light ting-tings up up? You can’t play a bass. You can’t play a drum.”
“No suh,” the man says.
“Eh?” Scotty pauses… How ‘bout, how ‘bout, tell me somethin’. You can play argan, eh?”
“No, indeed I cannot suh.”
“What the! So you can…”
And right here Scotty starts yelling, “Leave the studio man. Yea understand. Leave the studio. I don’t want you inside here.”
Then without losing a beat Scotty says, “Watch out. Riddim, come farward.”
And it did.

And it does…

...

Thursday, May 09, 2013

The Strand

maybe it is time
to write something
besides haiku

haiku mirrors the rhythm
of my slowest breath…

it is the poetry of now
and the remembrance of now,
the reflection of no-shadows thrown
on a noh-journey in
this noh-home I call home.

I awaken writing,
my transition from sleepful dreaminess
to dreaming wakefulness
is a cutting place,
a kireji,
a fulcrum balancing the juxtaposition
of everywhen with everynow
of everywhere with everyhere.

today…
I will ever say,
writing on the sand
of the strand between…
                                                            waves


Tuesday, April 09, 2013

you are not alone


Things change.
The colors of spring return
with birdsong wildflowers,
a simple breeze,
the taste of life.

You are not alone.
I am here to tell you -
You are not alone.
I have made it this far,
if only to tell you -
You are not alone.

Come tomorrow's tomorrow
It will be you that says...
You are not alone.

Sunday, April 07, 2013

empty day...


Miles (L) Frito (R)
empty day...
from the dog's goodbye
a hair in my eye

Bleak are the days of spring. 
Where other April's were spent 
with cherry blossoms, 
in trees, and clouds, 
shaped by spring
into perfume dunes
and settling onto the surface
of the Tidal Basin, 
this year, 
across the Potomac River, 
Patti and I are holding
our beloved greyhound, Frito.
To the bone cancer has caught her
between bounds,
crippling her hind leg. 
What we thought was a sprain
or a tear we learned Friday
is a fill-in-the-blank
permission slip, already signed - God

Friday, February 15, 2013

First Kissing Warm Rain

fireflies kissing

First Kissing Warm Rain

Soft is the night
yellow misty in the throw-glow
of streetlights.

In the hour of time stops
we walk between sidewalks.

In our hands, the sound of
eucalyptus and front flower beds
dripping warm maple,
syrup-sweet.

Noh-traffic tattoo
footsteps and fingerprint cartwheels
in the middle of the street.

How the only one here is her.

Where I lost myself, leaning back
on every tree I will ever touch
after this feels like
first kissing warm rain.

For my Inamorata Sighs
February 14, 2013


Tuesday, February 12, 2013

The Nuts and Bolts of Razzamatazz – Hemingway, Nietzsche, HL Mencken, and getting closer to our daunting standards

Neal Cassidy and Jack Kerouac

What follows is an exchange of emails between myself and my longtime friend and colleague Emory Holmes II, a Los Angeles based writer. We are both members of Art Chat Podcast, a weekly group of artists, musicians and writers who gather in our shared virtual creative space and exchange news, interests, and projects started, in the middle of, or completed. With no plan other than to meet on Skype or Google+ Hangouts on Mondays, 10am Pacific. At the end of the most recent ACP, Episode 69, I brought up my correspondence with Emory and it was suggested we post the emails and, perhaps, continue to correspond on these topics. It is quite possible one or all of the ACP participants might add their own thoughts.
Oh, remind me to tell you how Emory and I first met - Peach

Feb 6, 2012
from: Jimmy thePeach
to: Emory Holmes II
subject: talk about writing ruts and get you to look at something

Hi Emory,

I am wondering if we could arrange a time to talk about a couple of things.

1.       Talk about the practical nuts and bolts of finishing your work/projects, a particular problem of mine.

2.       Balancing creative time with other social obligations, your inside with your outside, your I/we/us razzamatazz. My mind is either focused (not sure focus is the right word) on the arrangement of ideas or just turned off. Not sure if you are familiar with this.

3.       Another thing I am very interested in is any thoughts you might share with me concerning this time to be alive, 21st Century, I mean how did you get to who you are? Did you bargain pieces of yourself away in an attempt to knuckle down and be a grownup? Have your ideals been beaten into plowshares?


I imagine you worked hard all your life to do what you thought was right, and at some point took responsibilities as a parent, a husband, (a brother?)and a son. These things and more shaped and grooved you.

I do not know where to go with this.

I am discouraged. Not a deep, soul-splitting discouragement, to be sure. Not talking about the obvious stuff of course, the external descent into chaos. More discouraged with myself...

In the Second Coming, Yeats declares, “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…” Rather than the big picture post-World War 1 civilization, the external world as it were, I suspect he was talking about himself. He was around 54, in 1919 when he wrote the poem. He lived another twenty years.

Consider that my malaise is not a monster, not an all-consuming, watch-that-last-step doorway I have passed through. No, my grey days are a little thing, really when compared to others.

Still I have this feeling of having let someone down, of not fulfilling the promise of the first buds of spring. Mostly the misuse of time, a result of the baser things, anger, jealousy, inconsolable loss.

I suppose I hope that talking with you about such things will cut my burden in half. Advice I often give to others when they ask.

Unfinished, though I send this and hope you are well. This evening I feel the déjà vu of an earlier lifetime you and I might have shared, tethered as it were, by the writing and receiving of correspondence such as this.

Jimmy

"I'll play it and tell you what it is later." Miles Davis (1926-1991)



Feb 7, 2012
from: Emory Holmes II
to: Jimmy thePeach
subject: re: talk about writing ruts and get you to look at something

What a fine piece of writing, Peach. Reading that back to yourself a few times should provide you with evidence of the sparkling originality, not to mention the focused machinery, of your mind. We have a choice, either to talk brilliant stories, or write them down. For artists like ourselves, I've learned that the most edifying choice is to write down our stories first, and then brag about them after they're on paper. Hemingway depicts this eternal dilemma in his autobiographical work, "A Movable Feast." Write first, then talk, the old man advised. Of course, that's easier said than done, as we both have learned, but there it is. Nietzsche wrote about the artists' crucial need to embrace both laziness and "procrastination," explaining that the fallow times that seem to halt one's creativity, are actually essential to the work of creation, allowing the artist to "gather strength" for the inevitable tasks to come. The despair you express is part of the aging process. We look back over our shoulders to assess the path we've walked and all we've accomplished and see only paucity and banality. Perhaps you are aware of the quote, attributed to HL Mencken, one of the greatest and most influential authors of the 20th century, which I'll paraphrase as: "Every day, as I prepare for work, I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and repeat my fervent hope that today no one will finally discover what a fraud I am."

I always welcome a talk with you. I'm pushing myself down the same paths you identify in your note. It's hard to take serious the deadlines for achievement, which we impose on ourselves. And, too, life -- including the day-to-day chores and obligations that give life its substance and meaning -- continually interrupts and lays waste to our "best laid plans." Be patient with yourself. Confidence, as well as achievement, may seem long in coming, but they will come. I don't think any artist is qualified to judge which of his achievements matter most. I'm sure you have had the experience of creating a poem or song, which you judge to be godawful dreck, only to have everyone you know and love praise it as one of your best; while the work you labored hard and long to craft and perfect only rates a yawn and looks of bafflement and boredom from the same admiring crowd. Our job is to make the best of the talent and the time we are given -- to be the very best Jimmy Aaron or Emory Holmes we can be. That's the best we, or any living soul can achieve. The closer we can come to that daunting standard -- to find ourselves, to find our own voice and strengths, and take pains to express them, clearly, memorably -- the closer we will come to achieving the originality (and by that I mean, 'the genius'), we alone can lay claim to, and are born to express.

I've got visitors in my house; and a crew of workers hammering on the roof, but you can call me anytime (555 55 5555), to discuss this further. If I miss your call, I'll catch up with you when I get free. Also, I think this subject would be a great one for our next podcast. Until then, keep punchin', my friend. You'll get where you're going -- not always where you want to go -- in due time. Of course, this is something you already live and know; this is just a gentle reminder.

All the best,

Emory
  

Clacking the Ribs of Ferdinand Magellan


when a bite of the wind soothes
the roaring in my ears and after

the rain come traffic rainbows you
will find me herding dogs in

the tops of the tallest trees clacking
the ribs of Ferdinand Magellan

together like a pair of claves
and singing forgotten songs
-- Peach


Tuesday, January 29, 2013

If Love's A Song





If Love’s A Song

Caught looking at you,
in an unexpected moment
I am lost inside your eyes.

Whispers kiss at our hearts’ horizon,
and I inhale a heady spice
that is there when I am near you.

If love’s a song that makes us smile
then that explains the feelings on my face
from the inside.

Long after the future
fades into the past,
we will still be only children,
holding hands.
- Peach

* * * * *


Wednesday, January 02, 2013

The Unabridged History Of Sand On A Beach



The little flame is fierce
and refuses
to go out. Now, a fire,
it burns brighter,
fed by an infinite breath.

I fall to pieces
I break apart...
Like a grain of sand,
up close
is a lonely amber.

In reflection,
this smallest pebble is
solitude…
A choice
to stop and smell the rhythm
and blues.

Now, I look around,
what seems the Milky Way,
is the flicker of separate flames
from here to where
I can only imagine...
From over the horizon,
the flickers are the flame
which illumines a secret chord.

This must be how a grain,
the Third Ṣtone From The Ṣun¹,
becomes a footnote in
The Unabridged History Of Sand On A Beach.

ë ë ë ë ë

Peach in newMain, Virginia. January 2, 2013

Jimi Hendrix - Third Stone From The Sun


¹ "Third Stone From the Sun" is a song written and originally recorded by Jimi Hendrix and released as "3rd Stone from the Sun" on the 1967 Are You Experienced album by Jimi Hendrix Experience. It is mostly an instrumental, but includes pieces of spoken word, performed by Hendrix, over the music.
Because the song mixes the styles of rock and jazz, it is often cited as one of the earliest examples of fusion. The title is a direct reference to Earth, which is the third planet away from the Sun in the Solar System.
The song features slowed-down voices and dialogues between Hendrix and his manager Chas Chandler. They wanted to reproduce the spacy sounds from Star Trek[citation needed]. The word "Stone" in the title was a way to depict the Earth from an alien point of view.
With the track sped-up by a factor of two (or playing the 33⅓ RPM LP at 45 RPM), one can clearly hear what is said, especially at the beginning of the song. The version heard on The Jimi Hendrix Experience: 1966–1967 begins with the overdub session for the dialogue, including Hendrix and Chandler's first "verse" at regular speed, including two incomplete outtakes:
Hendrix : Star fleet to scout ship, please give your position. Over.
Chandler : I am in orbit around the third planet of star known as sun. Over.
Hendrix : May this be Earth? Over.
Chandler : Positive. It is known to have some form of intelligent species. Over.
Hendrix : I think we should take a look, (Jimi then makes vocal spaceship noises).

source – (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_Stone_from_the_Sun)


ë ë ë ë ë