Art is the signature of man,
wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.
Okeh, mere glance away, we see
two yellow feathered birds, in a bush, but
the body of each, surely delicate,
creature, is not
all yellow, even the yellow
part is graded,
more or less yellow where it fades
in to white, or nearly white, which fades to fully
grey, graying gradually to black,
but seen, closer than Audubon could,
though he did
imagine, who could help? who could stop
seeing how deep the beauty of almost, almost, almost
perfection of graduated choruses of color
shades life at every level?
GK Chesterton appeared in my feed today, as he has done
in yourn, ye'll note, on this line.
I happened to have heard of him, so I listened and he said:
Art is the signature of man, and…
I felt the tug, not the hook, the net, is closing
as the fishing forces draw us closer.
Mere reality.
Signature effect after exposure to one's own kind.
Swans are never merely black and white,
no line, in living things, is sharp,
merely graded to reflect in
angles as waves,
from distant shores revolving spirals in spirals,
seen from the surface as
as near perfect circles pulsing from many suns.
Nothing more than this, nothing less than that
mere perfection,
in these little, grey birds, now, outside my window,
far from the maddened crowd,
I thank goodness you may freely call a name,
the goodness is the same.
I thank the cause of time and chance that I may
watch the dance as if this is my task,
my reason to exist, the act
of my being merely real.
Mere, as a word deserves, as a friend de-
serves, and becomes familiar,
a friend that sticks closer than a brother, in a word;
mere serves no man,
mere is free to mean more than idle minds insist when
calling any word or man or living thing, mere.
Pure is mere's sister. Wisdom is wit's mom.
Mere reality, if we agree,
in realms of only words, mere feathers on thoughts,
form fins we fly with to escape the net,
and see,
this is life, at the edge of all that was, it fades into ever
ever after, as the breezes draw bats back to their
cave,
already to be as any bat is in the daytime,
as the world turns…
yes, child. The world turns,
and winds return, long-I, short-I, wound around
a reason, winding threads from
a merest of whys, wist ye not?
Grave decisions, are cuts. Cessions in skins,
letting go the tie that binds
this thread to that,
this point to that,
ripping tides,
mere reality.
Minds wander, much as winds and rivers, meander.
Art is the signature of man, wombed and un;
the creature or construct of time and chance, which
thinks and uses things to make things, ****.
This is that, man as we agree we are, as a species,
a kind, like no other kind;
a kind, with whom we procreate and imagine
mmm who
are you, if you are not me, at the moment hearing an
insistent bird, seeming to wish
my attention, then at the mention, it flies,
I think I felt it laugh, like
Maijalookmaimaijalook.
Sapience, mindfulness, sense, to the degree
given birds in my mind,
save in a formation of birds, like starlings or geese,
each bird flits or swoops or soars
at will, on whims not pushed,
nor pulled by winds, but
lifted, it appears by will of the bird, not the wisp.
Whisper hearer, hearing me, have we any wool,
have we gathered, since the summer, all the holly held?
Shall we sit and twist it into thread and take
a sabbath's journey
sitting in the shade
of this great rock our home sits upon? If we agree
we may,. any may, any one, may
imagine might-as-well- be tales to sweep away lies left to seem
as true any tale a crow can tell,
when she's in the mood.
At the core, we age gracefully or rot. Mere reality.