My Writings (New 2)

The Staff Of Perfection

An artist of long ago
Lived in the city of Kouroo.
A perfect work he sought to make
Being free of flaw or mistake.

For years no wood could he find
To make the staff of just the right kind.
In time his friends grew old and died,
But he in youth did abide.

For time kept out of his way
In his search for the wood each day.
Before he found a stock to do
In ruin was the city Kouroo.

He shaped it on and on
While dynasties had come and gone.
Kalpa no longer the polestar
When he smoothed the staff of mar.

On the ferrule and the head
The most precious jewels he did imbed.
When the finishing stroke was done
His creation was the fairest one.

The material and his art
Were both pure in every part.
Wonderful was the staff to see.
How else could the result be?

The Gold Winged Bird

From out of the sky he flew
Flying alone in the sky so blue
This gold winged bird so fair
Did sparkle flying through the air.

There dwelt a little child near,
Each morning at the bird did peer
From his bedroom window he
The gold winged bird ever see.

The child at the crack of dawn
watched the bird until he was gone.
His heart would fill up with song,
And he was happy all day long.

No one knew what made him glad.
Why they had never seen him sad.
His mind on the bird did stay,
And his joy could not pass away.

One day he looked in vain,
No bird did pass his window pane.
In sorrow that day he went.
A day filled with tears he spent.

Next morning it was the same,
No gold winged bird by him came.
This boy though a man now grown,
Yet looks for the bird once known.

The Heavy Laden Burro

Along a steep mountain way
Came a heavy laden burro one day.
Walking under a load so great
He nearly buckled under the weight.

Up and up the mountainside
Where a weaker burro would have died,
Bearing a burden few could bear,
And still he plodded under it there.

He heaved with all his might
Until all he had left was fight.
He kept trudging on up the road
Sweating and straining under his load.

Under the noon sun he went,
Ever upon his weary task was bent
Toward the high peak before
This most faithful beast of burden bore.

Worthy creature that he came
Unto the top though battered and lame,
And there his burden he lay down,
But gained not praise nor a crown.

The Flower And The Honey Bee

The flower was the fairest blue,
And dwelt in the morning dew
In a valley filled with peace
Where beauty did never cease;

And here there came a honey bee,
He this fair flower did see,
From the sky above this bee did dart
Piercing the flower in the heart;

But not pain did the flower feel,
Though the bee did sweetness steal,
And gather in his mouth and fly,
Away unto his home on high.

Alone the flower in the wind
Did wait for the bee again,
And when seeing the bee from afar,
Did wave to him the fair blue flower.

The Snow White Dove And The Sleeping Fawn

Over and over the snow white dove
Flew over the fawn filled with love.
The fawn asleep upon the forest green,
The snow white dove by the fawn unseen

The dove 'til the daylight hours were gone
With eyes full of love watched the fawn.
Then when night covered oer the land,
The snow white dove by the fawn did stand

Never leaving the fawn for her own nest,
The dove did stand while the fawn did rest.
With the night all around the dove stood there
The snow white dove and the fawn so fair.

Quite gentle scene those two in the night,
The sleeping fawn and the dove snow white.
Beneath the bright stars shining above,
There sleeps the fawn and there stands the dove.

A Few Thoughts

Finally we come down to just a few thoughts. Pride, contempt, honor, and pleasure all evaporate away, and what is left is a butterfly fluttering over green fields. Fear, hatred, anger all condense into nothingness, but dewdrops on a rose's petal last. Wanting, longing, needing pass from sight, while bluebirds sing and pass eternally before the mind's eye.

On a twig in May are the happiest thoughts of life. Ill has no power to harm a heart where crickets and frogs serenade in recollections each night. Woe and grief lose their power when the wind and rain of a thousand blessed showers returns to sedate the mind.

I have loved some things, and that cannot be taken from me. The past has had some precious moments for me. I remember mornings in spring when fragrance, warmth, and beauty was everywhere. Then I cared, felt, and I most surely loved. I remember summer evenings just before dark, and the quiet settling over me. These memories can never be lost regardless of what happens in the future. Surely nothing can block out those good thoughts. That is all I have, a few dear memories, that is all I really own, all I really am.

Special Days

Our heart yearns to explore, to reach out and communicate, and to find something to love and believe. We need something to reach out for even if only a straw. There are days we seem to have the whole world right there in our hand, and our thoughts go wild with hope ringing from every word, and happiness is in every smile. Then on the other hand there are days that are just plain empty.

There are days of sunshine when faith breathes in our heart. There are days that sweep us right off our feet into those billowy white clouds, and we forget the objectors until our feet touch terra firma again. There are days that come with a sweetness we cannot define, and whisper music in our ears. Life is all a sham except for on some special days when we remember to believe.

The Moonlight

Otherworldly images in the night
Beneath the moon shining bright
Forming in the mind
Apparitions of every kind;

Clouds across the moon flow,
Unearthly images in the moonlight glow,
Darkness in the trees,
And voices calling in the breeze;

Shadows fall all around
Forming images on the ground
Moving seems to me
In some eerie hidden mystery.

Divine Regret

Often there comes to one
A regret almost divine
Of some thought not quite won,
But which lingers in the mind.

Bordering near the heart
Lies the regret without name,
Itself does not impart,
But regret just the same.

Is it past memory
Of something beautiful lost,
Something one cannot see
In the mind tossed?though it does give some sorrow.
The thought is not complete,
Perhaps I'll know tomorrow.

The Goldfinch

The goldfinch bathed in a cool stream, a being too fair for reality, and more appropriate for dreams and music. Vivid yellow and black, the goldfinch seemed to glow in that water. Then it flew to a nearby limb scattering water droplets as it went.

The goldfinch burst into sweet song from that perch; song that one expects to come from a creature so brightly marked. It was no larger than the elm leaves at its side, a tiny bundle of cheer.

Hastily I turned from that too lovely being, for here was beauty beyond anything I had ever experienced in my own life, and it made me feel sad and alone. Here was proof of how wondrous life can be, and I was reminded of my lack of faith.

From The Way That I Think

I realize the power of my thought
To myself and others also.
Happiness may be brought,
Or sadness may grow
From the way that I think.

I can create heaven before me,
A paradise Before my eyes,
Or Hell and misery
Where all the good dies
From the way that I think.

I make myself happy or sad,
To laugh or to cry with sorrow,
Either peaceful or mad.
I make tomorrow
From the way that I think.

I cannot blame anyone at all
If somehow my life is not right.
The blame on me does fall,
Life is dark or bright
From the way that I think.


Springtime is a movement. It is a thing that must be, like the sun must shine and the rain must fall. Indeed, it comes in spite of all. Spring comes in spite of wars and deaths, in spite of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, and in spite of social unrest and upheavals.

It comes beautifully, serenely, and simply like it always has and it always will. Regardless of what happens in our personal lives, the ups and downs, the disappointments, the fears, the doubts, the loss of loved ones, our illnesses, our heartaches, and the changes in our lives, spring always comes again, and not one whit changed. Spring is always youthful, jovial, and fresh each time around.

The chief contention of spring is that there is something better. In springtime we look over our condition and perceive there is room for improvement, and because everything is so bright and cheerful we really believe we can accomplish it. As the twigs put on new buds, we too reach out in new directions with new life.

It is a time of awakening and quickening, when life is prodded into action once again. All those hopes and dreams we had put to rest are revived. Pleasant thoughts flit across our mind more often, making inroads through the bramble and tangle of last winter's despondency and desperation. In spite of ourself we take on the season's face, and our heart stirs with happiness. The ice is melted in the pond, and the dormant fields bloom once more.

I can never seem to get over my fascination at the effect the spring warmth has upon living things. Suddenly the sap rises in the trees and the insect becomes animate. Remarkable changes occur, as myriads of colors meet the eye, and multifarious sounds serenade the ear.

The bare forms and outlines are decorated in an infinite variety of ways. The shapes of bushes, trees, and vines take on such rich modifications as to overwhelm the senses and try the imagination. Before our very eyes the transformation accrues as accretion upon accretion of green luxuriously entwines the world in the springtime.

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Background For this Page from Victorian Elegance.