MOUNTAINS MOVE.

On Mon, November 24, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

‘Unless your heart be the size of a grain of mustard seed, mountains are moving.’~

It may be true to say that mountains move. At least, whenever i look i find them to be moving. Better still than moving mountains is to be able to be moved by them. Though many may remain unmoved, and move along lacking a loving look.

It may be true to say that mountains rise up from the earth, and equally true to say they fall down to the sea. They are even seen to be rising from the deep. Diving like leviathans down to the ocean floor, only to arise again as a distant shore.

Peaks are often seen in passing, half hidden by a range of hoary hills. Like diving dolphin fins, or starkly surreal as spectral ships with sombre silhouetted sails.

 

Vanishing behind rising ridges like humpback whales with scaly skin, brooding dark against a sinking twilight sky.

While, on a still and distant gulling cry of day, a blue limpid liquid mirror laps. Fringed by froth and foam of lulling fronds, the slow rise and fall seeps back between singing stones, a line erased to sink in silted sand. The swish and pull of the swaying sea.

Low window view between backyard walls, of a distant peak. A constant kitchen companion, weather warning from the west. When opaque grey approaching rain, blanks the mountain long before a downpour pelts the glass.

A quiet inner affection pervades all such small familiar facets and details of the day. The worldly world of war regards as mundane facts, void of innate significance. Insulating ego from feeling, present poetic beauty in the ordinary.

Naturally, noting such as being signs and promptings for projects of imaginative creation, the mountain called forth an intent, the seed of peak experience. Through days of late November rains.

A new day dawned though i woke late, to a pure blue oasis of a day. Down to the round curved strand and jutting headland. Flat low tide around the promontory point, to see what the sea had to say.

Zooms fall short of the pyramid-peak, rugged ridged with rounded shoulders down, and the island’s tail bearing small green fields below.

Boulders backed by a cleft cliff face, scattering the rock strewn place. Black stones green stained dragged down to where the tide turns.

Spreading outward across a smooth expanse of unprecedented cloud-free cobalt sky and sea, such that adequate words fail me.

The focus of original intent ‘literally’ moved by circumstance or chance, to ‘pan out’ (could that be a pagan term?) the context all inclusive and there may be a lesson there.

Being but an exploratory trawl, casting about for artistic inspiration and netting a good catch, twenty seven shots in all. Many other possible focusses reflected on along the way in coming round to the point.

But what a calm and tranquil sea. Cloud-free sky as blue as blue can be.

A wish of peace in late November.

Images of beauty to remember. ~

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.

A WOOD OF DREAMS.

On Sunday, August 3, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Eyelids shade the high sun's glare, relaxing in high meadow grass. Just a pleasant summer breeze, and time becomes forgetfulness.

Childrens' voices fade away, on the path which leads through 'the wood of dreams.'

There may be mythic dragons there, antique fish that swim through trees. Footfalls on the trodden trail, spaces where the silence rings.

But for a single twig's sharp crack, nothing but bright sunlight streams, through hazel leaves and hawthorn limbs.

Around where willow nestles down, in loosestrife lush and meadowsweet, arteries of Earth's heartbeat.

Till time became forgetfulness, meandered on by contented streams. Deep spaces where the silence rings, with nothing but bright sunlight there.

One might settle here, or there. Manifest a table and a chair.

Something solid, made of wood, grounded in the living earth. Pause a while and take a rest, do what's wise and for the best. One could even build a nest.

Oh, but now what's this ? Thought has power it's clear. Whatever is imagined, instantly is here.

What kind of creature needs such a nest ? It seems rather large, and full of pine cones ! Whatever made it, must be friendly, glad i see no sign of bones.

Pine cones... Pine cones ? 'Pineal', that's it !

Straight from the mind's third eye.

But how in such a world as this, is a soul to take a rest ? I seem to recall somehow a bed is best. Passing through a wood of dreams, with the comforting voice of lilting streams.

When thinking of rest, a bed manifests. Tiptoe on stepping stones and tinkling pebbles to try it for size.

I find myself (whatever that means) on an archetype bed, and it's right in mid-stream.

What i didn't count on when thinking of snoozing, the mattress is soaked with water, and oozing ! I wasn't intending on taking a bath. I better keep moving and follow the path.

Must learn to read signs. But what signs ?

Signposts ? No that's silly. That way looks promising... (feeling chilly). Now i know how Alice must have felt, "curiouser and curiouser".

All very strange !

Signposts. Do you follow the signs, or the posts ? ... "FOLLOW THE POSTS."

What was it, i learned back there ? ' If you really must think, think clearly. Be precise and don't equivocate.' The tree deva says "put your best foot forward."

So now, with that clear, i'm entering a clearing, breaking cover, and there's a post but it's a totem pole !

It's a bit two-faced, looking both ways at once,

which i suppose makes sense when you've lost your direction. It does have an owl on top so i must be wising up a bit at least.

 

 

Wising, or waking ? 'Spaces where the silence rings.' 'But for a single twig's sharp crack.'

'Nothing but bright sunlight there.' ...

Eyelids shade the high sun's glare,

relaxing in high meadow grass.

Just a pleasant summer breeze,

and time becomes forgetfulness.~

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin. a.k.a. 'Makes Rainbows'.

( Special thanks to Wendy for the way which i wended.)