Friday 12 July 2013
Friday 30 April 2010
parental presence
Your support for your child
Like an oasis which is no illusion
is like sunshine appearing
from behind a mountain
of cloud obstacles to happiness
Like a beam of light in the fog
after a storm lashed ship
has almost grounded
upon the rocks
Like an oasis which is no illusion
where your troubled child may drink
the clear refreshing water of wisdom
after wandering in a desert of confusion
Dave Lewis
April 28 2010
clear heart vision
tumbling out the box
upturning faces
accumulations of old dreams
hidden disappointments
unresolved in disarray
guarding the past jealously
blocking gateways
to future satisfaction
moon shadow cast
light into darkness
new night dreams of hope
clear heart vision
Dave Lewis
29 April 2010
upturning faces
accumulations of old dreams
hidden disappointments
unresolved in disarray
guarding the past jealously
blocking gateways
to future satisfaction
moon shadow cast
light into darkness
new night dreams of hope
clear heart vision
Dave Lewis
29 April 2010
Thursday 29 April 2010
please excuse my scepticism about mother's day, it isn't the writing to one's mother to say happy mother's day that I find surreal. it is the notion that there is just one day when one should buy a card to acknowledge something that ought to be a daily sublimation. same with father's day. what about daughter's day, son's day?
it seems to my feverish mind that it is just another money making scheme by multi national card company's who then cut down the trees which they planted in what they call sustainable forests, but are really plantations which deprive local people of the arable land and agricultural availability to grow their own indigenous crops.
it seems to my feverish mind that it is just another money making scheme by multi national card company's who then cut down the trees which they planted in what they call sustainable forests, but are really plantations which deprive local people of the arable land and agricultural availability to grow their own indigenous crops.
Tuesday 9 March 2010
Little clock
Task: set by Phoebe Wilcox;
Pick a mundane object in your house to feature in a story or poem.
Pick the prominent emotion in your breast to feature in a story or poem.
What do you and this mundane object have in common?
Could you anthropomorphize an appliance to lend meaning to a story?
How do mundane objects reflect us culturally or spiritually?
How do objects humanize or dehumanize us?
I am thinking more and more of computers and cell phones as I write this...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Clock
My clock does not tick tock
sitting still beside my bed
it digitally decides
to sound as if its dead
I know different!
Between its contact points
there is a living cell
Which knows me very well
sitting beside my glasses
as every moment passes
It counts the seconds of my life
Always reminding me
when to rise, so
that nothing chronologically
crucial can take me
by surprise
tho` my own personal
little indolent imp
tries and tries
Oh, how it tries!
The two are very well matched
It's a genuine feeling of hate
I hate, I hate , I hate,
to be very, very late
Buses run on time
and trains used to
clickety clack along
the track creating a
reassuring rhythm in
our ears which
satisfyingly allayed
our fears
We are on our way
We will get there today
And where? is now
the question everybody asks
Where are we going?
As if we didn't know
There and back again
to and fro to and fro
just like the pendulum
which swung with my
little clock's granddaddy
Sometimes when I'm off
on my travels, I pack
my little clock, she
wouldn't like to be
left behind the chimes
and if I'm on a beach
tho` the sun goes down
behind a red horizon
she's never out of reach
Counting away the seconds of my life
Dave Lewis 9 March 2010
Pick a mundane object in your house to feature in a story or poem.
Pick the prominent emotion in your breast to feature in a story or poem.
What do you and this mundane object have in common?
Could you anthropomorphize an appliance to lend meaning to a story?
How do mundane objects reflect us culturally or spiritually?
How do objects humanize or dehumanize us?
I am thinking more and more of computers and cell phones as I write this...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Clock
My clock does not tick tock
sitting still beside my bed
it digitally decides
to sound as if its dead
I know different!
Between its contact points
there is a living cell
Which knows me very well
sitting beside my glasses
as every moment passes
It counts the seconds of my life
Always reminding me
when to rise, so
that nothing chronologically
crucial can take me
by surprise
tho` my own personal
little indolent imp
tries and tries
Oh, how it tries!
The two are very well matched
It's a genuine feeling of hate
I hate, I hate , I hate,
to be very, very late
Buses run on time
and trains used to
clickety clack along
the track creating a
reassuring rhythm in
our ears which
satisfyingly allayed
our fears
We are on our way
We will get there today
And where? is now
the question everybody asks
Where are we going?
As if we didn't know
There and back again
to and fro to and fro
just like the pendulum
which swung with my
little clock's granddaddy
Sometimes when I'm off
on my travels, I pack
my little clock, she
wouldn't like to be
left behind the chimes
and if I'm on a beach
tho` the sun goes down
behind a red horizon
she's never out of reach
Counting away the seconds of my life
Dave Lewis 9 March 2010
Wednesday 10 February 2010
Thursday 14 January 2010
1954
I’m 10 years old.
Young Queen Elizabeth has been occupying the throne for 2 years and the streets are sizzling so much in the summer heat that the black tar is forming large tacky shiny bubbles.
Inside the classroom the atmosphere is warm and drowsy.
Teacher is preoccupied with marking our books.
I think that it is seeing a white cabbage butterfly enter through one open window and out of the other that does it.
I just feel an irresistible urge to remove myself from the stifling heat of the room.
I’ve been daydreaming I suppose, watching the dust motes floating in the space between my desk and the ray of sunshine that falls upon a corner of the blackboard.
To put it simply, I start to do some floating myself.
Mingling with the specks of chalk dust in the air and merging with the colours of our paintings, which are displayed on the wall, rather like the way a ray of light strikes a prism and separates into primaries.
I shift my shape so slowly that no one notices me slip out of the open window and settle on the grassy bank that surrounds the playground outside.
For some time I sit quite still, not really surprised, although I’ve never done anything like that before.
Its more like a kind of fascination with everything around me.
The leaves on the trees shimmering green against the impossibly hot blue sky.
Ants following each other in crazy dance patterns through the long grass.
Some are carrying bits of leaf, some are organising the removal of a dead bee.
They are taking their finds toward a crack in the asphalt.
I imagine how it must appear to them, travelling through what must look like a jungle of tall grasses, towards the vast plain where they encounter a chasm which leads them down into a dried up drainage system and their citadel, full of thousands of other ants.
I see that the crack widens and I feel a sudden impulse to follow it and explore the depths of the earth.
The school bell rings for the afternoon period and the playground suddenly fills with whooping and jostling kids rushing around as usual.
They don’t notice me, maybe because of a trick of the light or the sense of freedom goes to their heads and they just carry on playing.
I follow the widening crack, which leads me around the back of the school chapel where the asphalt gives way to ancient slabs of grey slate paving stones, uneven and partly covered in moss from many years of lying in the shadows where dampness never really dries.
Rusty and falling down in some places, an old iron railing fails to protect the stone catafalque that it is meant to surround.
Fading words are carved into the crumbling surface, letters and numbers that are now undecipherable, giving it an air of mystery, almost as though a lost language of the runes is waiting there to be discovered.
Behind one of the deep buttresses that forms an alcove behind the stone chapel, the skeleton of an old piano lies abandoned.
The wood panelling has been stripped away leaving just the frame.
Inside the classroom the atmosphere is warm and drowsy.
Teacher is preoccupied with marking our books.
I think that it is seeing a white cabbage butterfly enter through one open window and out of the other that does it.
I just feel an irresistible urge to remove myself from the stifling heat of the room.
I’ve been daydreaming I suppose, watching the dust motes floating in the space between my desk and the ray of sunshine that falls upon a corner of the blackboard.
To put it simply, I start to do some floating myself.
Mingling with the specks of chalk dust in the air and merging with the colours of our paintings, which are displayed on the wall, rather like the way a ray of light strikes a prism and separates into primaries.
I shift my shape so slowly that no one notices me slip out of the open window and settle on the grassy bank that surrounds the playground outside.
For some time I sit quite still, not really surprised, although I’ve never done anything like that before.
Its more like a kind of fascination with everything around me.
The leaves on the trees shimmering green against the impossibly hot blue sky.
Ants following each other in crazy dance patterns through the long grass.
Some are carrying bits of leaf, some are organising the removal of a dead bee.
They are taking their finds toward a crack in the asphalt.
I imagine how it must appear to them, travelling through what must look like a jungle of tall grasses, towards the vast plain where they encounter a chasm which leads them down into a dried up drainage system and their citadel, full of thousands of other ants.
I see that the crack widens and I feel a sudden impulse to follow it and explore the depths of the earth.
The school bell rings for the afternoon period and the playground suddenly fills with whooping and jostling kids rushing around as usual.
They don’t notice me, maybe because of a trick of the light or the sense of freedom goes to their heads and they just carry on playing.
I follow the widening crack, which leads me around the back of the school chapel where the asphalt gives way to ancient slabs of grey slate paving stones, uneven and partly covered in moss from many years of lying in the shadows where dampness never really dries.
Rusty and falling down in some places, an old iron railing fails to protect the stone catafalque that it is meant to surround.
Fading words are carved into the crumbling surface, letters and numbers that are now undecipherable, giving it an air of mystery, almost as though a lost language of the runes is waiting there to be discovered.
Behind one of the deep buttresses that forms an alcove behind the stone chapel, the skeleton of an old piano lies abandoned.
The wood panelling has been stripped away leaving just the frame.
Wires and hammers are broken and rusted, the ivory teeth yellow and cracked with some keys missing.
This is a real find.
A treasure that I know I will have to guard.
And I do, only telling my friends of it after they have been sworn to secrecy.
We will return to that quiet place, day after day throughout the summer, using the strange machine as a covert ground control where we contact the rocket ships and flying saucers of our imagination, inventing worlds and languages of our own until the day arrives when we find that it has been the target of an alien attack that has resulted in its complete and utter disappearance.
Soon the summer hols arrive and it is all forgotten down the years.
David Lewis May 2005/ reviewed January 2010
This is a real find.
A treasure that I know I will have to guard.
And I do, only telling my friends of it after they have been sworn to secrecy.
We will return to that quiet place, day after day throughout the summer, using the strange machine as a covert ground control where we contact the rocket ships and flying saucers of our imagination, inventing worlds and languages of our own until the day arrives when we find that it has been the target of an alien attack that has resulted in its complete and utter disappearance.
Soon the summer hols arrive and it is all forgotten down the years.
David Lewis May 2005/ reviewed January 2010
winter never fails to turn into spring
four seasons collage from my stint at islington adult art college in the early 1990s
Phoebe
i was inspired by Pablo Picasso to interpret my affinity with Phoebe, in this sketch she is not sad, in my vision she is contemplating the ground while her spirit is flying with the stars.
Tuesday 12 January 2010
Monday 11 January 2010
surface tension: causes
my eldest son, Rudi helped me to set up this site, but i hadn't quite understood what it was for at the time.
and so after some weeks, i'm just beginning to realise that i can use it to talk about the world, the environment, my place in it and find my own way of expressing my experience.
i have to thank some other bloggers for this, my shitty twenties, my boyfriend is a twat,and others, one of which led me to a site which acknowledges the memory of Alexandra David-Neel http://www.alexandra-david-neel.org/index_stat.htm , who I read when i was in my twenties some 40 years ago... Magic and Mystery in Tibet... she was the first female to be admitted into the echelons of the Tibetan Buddhists as a lady lama.
and so after some weeks, i'm just beginning to realise that i can use it to talk about the world, the environment, my place in it and find my own way of expressing my experience.
i have to thank some other bloggers for this, my shitty twenties, my boyfriend is a twat,and others, one of which led me to a site which acknowledges the memory of Alexandra David-Neel http://www.alexandra-david-neel.org/index_stat.htm , who I read when i was in my twenties some 40 years ago... Magic and Mystery in Tibet... she was the first female to be admitted into the echelons of the Tibetan Buddhists as a lady lama.
I was fascinated by her accounts of the journeys she made in the foothills of Tibet, encountering mystics and ascetic madmen.
One of whom was notable for referring to the priests as 'insects groveling in the dung' an expression which i recall relishing as my own experiences with some teachers & rabbi's had been peppered with punitive acts and derogatory sarcasm. (except for one rabbi who couldn't have been a more delightful man)
One of whom was notable for referring to the priests as 'insects groveling in the dung' an expression which i recall relishing as my own experiences with some teachers & rabbi's had been peppered with punitive acts and derogatory sarcasm. (except for one rabbi who couldn't have been a more delightful man)
i'm not sure where i'm going with this, and it's a bit alarming how easy it is to rake up old memories, so i will stop now and think about it a bit more..
in the meantime thanks to all who take the time to read and review.
in the meantime thanks to all who take the time to read and review.
Thursday 31 December 2009
Seat of Emptiness
The Seat of Emptiness refers to the wisdom that understands the essential nature of all things and to a state of infinite flexibility as vast as the sky. Daisaku Ikeda
Monday 14 December 2009
Tuesday 1 December 2009
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