The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
than I was when I was far more visible than I am now. Furthermore, numerous kind -- and tactful -- fellow bloggers have given me opportunit...
Thursday, 7 July 2011
View from the Asylum
van Gogh's "Wheat Field with Rising Sun" was this week's prompt from Magpie Tales
I'll pour the paint on to the canvas
the way the sun pours light upon the field -
the same field, never twice the same.
Sun's paint is infinite in its variety.
If only I could paint like that!
Awake the wheat and shake the ears
to bring forth newness to the canvas field.
The same field never twice the same.
The same field from the same small window,
the same scene bounded by the same stone wall
that keeps me and my wretchedness confined -
the same despairing me.
So who then guides the paint I pour
and steers it into such convulsive power
to shake and shock and rake the world -
all with the same small field once more?
If I one day will leave this field behind,
and Doctor Gachet and his therapies,
will I still pour the colours that I see
with all the freedom as this blazing sun?