art music poetry

de buddha says all life is sorrow so be happy when you can
and happiness is only a state of mind
as children, petting a happy friendly dog was happiness
as an old person and/or artist … if we but remember
happy little things
and best of all is the help we get from our friends
…..Summer Breeze

A look at Artvilla in November 28, 1999

As you can see Artvilla was “Modern art, poetry, music, the cats and the kitchen sink”. I had to drop the kitchen sink because of traffic to the keyword. I should have turned into a kitchen sink store, I’d be rich now. Ha.

Archive.org and the Wayback Machine have archived much of the early internet. It is a noble attempt to capture a fleeting moment or two which would be lost. It is a noble attempt to capture a slice of folk creativity and energy which would be lost.

These are all magnetic spots which are there because someone has paid a bill somewhere. If the bill is not paid no one considers what is lost. The lights just go out so to speak. Ten years of work and creativity can disappear without a flash. Over the years I have seen many of the early great internet sites disappear. Thousands of poems by unknown poets lost. I guess only an unknown poet can cry a tear for them.

I hope Archive.org can pay their bill.

Hush, child-

Hush, child- hear
the aches of the gypsies
lingering in hearts that lay waste to the
moon

The ice has swept
from lily blossoms, holding strong
the wheels that
turn as the stars in the painted
skies of autumn light.
it sways in the
eyes of the songbird
and the tears of an angel
stooping low to brush
the soil with its lips of heavenly
afterglow,

How can this faded world be so brave?
the sun shines far too bright
to be seen

the incandescent fingernails
strum remorselessly on these
strings of
dragons’ heart, sounding
stricken pine and sullen oak,
they tell of the chaos of
song, this sick, fluorescent happenstance,
that graces the earth, then
flutters to the
gaping space-

an eternity is vast, though
freedom is locked,
captured in chains,
and in vine,
the fruit of such rising
to the biting cold of a
winter’s day,
finding its home in the endless chaos of
life and of
death and of
marital arguments

This winter is a coat,
a glaze
over us, the world, and it whispers
of predicament in its
wake, and ecstasy in its
wane.
shall we stand, or
shall we fall?
cries the minister,
as he reaches for the door
of his magisterial honor
and falls short,
since he has thus been
chained himself into the earth and sun
and cold and moon and vines
of
reality

Here is Elliah’s blog:

http://elliahpoetry.blogspot.com/

And yes they sing with my soul
the poet’s song to sigh.
Nameless places and other schemes
are of the thoughts within my mind,
But yet they wander aimlessly
through fields yet seen in dreams
and walk the world of deep discord
in my unconcious screams.
For there are people yet unborn,
and the future will yet bloom
and singing, sighing, fading out
without my pin to tune
***