Snowfall

The snow falls quietly:
white flakes
softly floating to the ground,
like the passage
of the seconds,
the minutes,
the days
that silently mark
our brief sojourn.

Like the snow,
the accumulation of time
ultimately forms
a blanket,
a shroud:
a transient monument
to the fleeting blaze
that is our lives.

If we examine each flake,
each precious minute,
slowly we comprehend
a minute portion
of the magnificent complexity,
the glowing splendour,
the magical triumph,
the living tapestry
of our passing Season.

Jim's Retro Village Coffeehouse: Five

The Folksinger has lost her voice after singing her heart out all evening. She was now sipping a café au lait and listening to the Poet-with-the-Beret who has a Che Guevara look in his eyes. He is more than pleased to have the opportunity to explain his vision of what the Lake Poets were really saying. The Folksinger’s guitar stands forgotten, as she considers the depth of the poet’s eyes.

The Older-Bald-Guy sitting in the corner is contemplating universal truths. He is considering poetry as a Performance Art form. He visualises the title “Poetry as a Plastic Art” wrought in pink neon tubing using a wonderfully retro Art Deco style. He is waiting for a new pot of his favourite blend to finish dripping.

The words that he has written in his steno pad are arranged in a roughly circular pattern. They reflected his appreciation of Hinduism, and the form of his words represent the eternal Circle of Flame within which Siva, as Nataraj, dances his cycle of destruction and rebirth. They are reproduced below, and should be read down the left side and up the right.





Note: To see this properly, you may have to copy the jpeg image then enlarge to view.