Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
~ The Inspired Emily Dickenson ~
Autumn Angel & Fairy Art and Moth Art Deco necklace © LizaPaizis.com
” Don’t seek to recall yesterday that is past
Nor repine for tomorrow which has not yet come ;
Don’t build your hopes on the past or the future ,
Be happy now and don’t live on wind…”
The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam
When we love
we are as Angels :
our deepest thoughts become limbs, become wings
to carry us
beyond the realm of doubt
of worry and fear
(our true enemies)
and over a wide sea of so many obstacles
that separate us
to the realm of Imagination
where we can be free to truly love
in reality.
Words and Music John Robson 2008
*
She’s playing around inside her head a mind full of colour
The random thoughts that manifest sometimes turn to gold
Francesca muses lonely in the afternoon light
Far from tabloid minds far farther as she goes
She’s an ancient soul passed down in time to where she’s standing now
So many lives so many dreams are flowing from her hands
And on approach of the crimson ghost she dips her fine haired wand
Into her palette of memory into a well of song
And the time is now Francesca feels at home
When the day is slow she lets her secrets known
She’s well versed in mythology she attends to her dreams
By morning light she is Aphrodite by dark she is the moon
The poets come to court her the minstrels come to play
She greets them all with cinnamon hyacinth and sage
And the time is now Francesca feels at home
When the day is slow she lets her secrets known
Dionysis plays guitar and sings from the vine
Francesca listens in as she dreams of other things
And on approach of the witching hour she dips her golden wand
Into her pagan heart into a well of song
And the time is now Francesca feels at home
When the day is slow she lets her secrets known.
you can hear John’s powerfully evocative original songs on his MySpace page:
http://www.myspace.com/nitesongs
A soldier rode up on his tumbling black horse
to the woman under the Tree,
“What are you waiting for ?”, he said
“For Death”, answered she.
.
He asked “May I wait by your side?”
“Sit down” she beckoned him there,
and he sat beneath the shadowy branches
As she began plaiting her hair.
.
He watched as her fingers parted her tresses-
turning this way and that ,
and she gathered some flowers, grasses and clover
and knotted them in with her plaits.
.
” What are you doing?” asked the soldier,
Desire creeping into his heart
” I am gathering my possessions around me
before my funeral may start.”
.
And he saw how lovely she was
There in the shade of the Tree
“Surely you are born of this meadow
and lie waiting in it for me…”
.
He took off his armour and he took up his sword
as he brushed the hair from her face,
and he entered it into her body
with beautiful sly, gentle grace.
.
She clung to him whispering softly
so that only the Tree could hear
Just finished this painting of what I think may be a self portrait with a swan.
Again, Blue is the colour of a certain emotion…. we are both dreaming of something…flight, perhaps ?
It is done with watercolour, gouache and pen on a beautiful 100% cotton rag Italian paper -and I think one of John’s gorgeous recycled timber frames in white Federation moulding will be perfect for it!
Liza Paizis Original Art and Jewelry Blog 