Kateozmania

Lone Woman dances

where rains

drop

and etches rivulets of

fire

as thunder

sings above

Lone Woman

just can't stop

life flowing

making

creating

turning

into being

what must become.

I hear the wolves gone long ago

in deep vales they run

their breath a heavy mist

I hear thunder clap

and leaves crackle

in the dead of mornings yet to rise

and  the moon gently sway

I hear them circle the hills

and pad through thick blankets of time

my pack have come for me .

Lone Woman

Winter is blowing cold - not out there on the land , but deep within.

He infused me with energy ( his words touched my soul and released my own energy) :

" deep water following its course,moss and leaves and forests deep; tall trees and whispering - saying so much - they just can't stop - and I hear it all , the deep chant that throbs and leaves me both famished and powerful . I feel it all the power of being alive and ungarded and loving - because love flows freely into honeyed milk rivers that seek your lips. "

Yet he has retreated into silent darkness, leaving emptiness where he once stood .

My paintbrushes won't stop working - the rivers will keep flowing - hope just can't die .
Merlin's heir is on his way into winter.

Merlin's  heir

sings far forests to sleep -

he toils until

the small hours , brave , focused,

(while cities and towns all rush and glare)

I call him deep within my pulsing heart.

A man by the name of

Al Lez Vamm

comes knocking.

He knows them all

the boulders and stones

and pebbles and rocks

and he knows them too

the green pastures and

mighty springs - all part of

his territory,

even though he does not

walk there anymore.

A man by the name of

Al Lez Vamm

came knocking.

Through space I hear him

hidden in the cave , under boughs and roots

I call him -

"      " ...

The leaves whisper on his passage

along the way

my crushed heart wildly beats

as in the dark I chant and chant

the coming of

Merlin Al Lez Vamm.

You come knocking at my house

and I shed tears.

I could hear you in the wind

even though you stood silent.

You are here and not here yet

so acute is your absence.

We have been roads lives apart

yet the right key

might send us home .

Painter  to Writer .

Change of seasons indeed - Your poem evokes the golden sun that is absent today - and was shying out yesterday . Gold is gone right now - just a mute grey light - a sort of expectation , that suspends time . Yet time runs by , cells age unnoticed .
Morning .

I am slow going again today .

Is it the lack of light ? I could not say .

Something slowing down within me ... I am probably adjusting to the slower pace of nature, folding in vibrant breath , storing life under cover . I might let a shot of it out - a sudden bird across the sky - but without sun (and Demeter underground!) I don't feel quite myself .

I  have wonderful memories of autumns long ago , when I was a child and used to cycle to school , and could beathe the rich smells of the earth and moss and decaying leaves , the promise of mushrooms , chestnuts , over-ripe grapes .
Now in town, there is none of this . I miss it all . The relative silence (engines roaring in the distance , either tractors or a lonely car crusing along empty fields) , and the excitement of a life to live , wonders to be discovered, and a world far from complete and mapped .

I guess what I have been trying to do these last few years is to un-map my world, un-write the rules I was given , lay out some new ones -my own- and try-proof them , question them, and also forget about them at times .

I have been trying flexibility - so that I hear myself say - very often these days , and quite unintentionally - when I am asked about something : well, it depends ... It depends whether ....

I am circumnavigating my life , criss-crossing experiences , motivations, desires and more . The time may come when , at some stage , I can draft new tentative 5 or 6 D maps, very personal ones , that will reflect the folds and creases and light and dark and secret movements of the once lived-in sea-shells danced-rubbed-coaxed into sand  under the ceaseless waves .

My morning thoughts !

Enjoy your day -

coffee-bright light-evening rolling over the horizon- whatever time it is when you get this ...

Cloaked in autumnal grey ,

The Painter .

I am a painter , yet I also thrive on words, not just any words, but words that echo deep or light , words that evoke or conjure up ...

Words have as much power as paint and are material in a similar way , yet function along different lines.

Words are rough material that I sometimes find heaped up in the morning : they need to be formed into something , and the demand is on me to do just that: make them what they're asking to be.

The creative process , whether working with paint or words, is the same , there is an intrinsic need in the material(s) and the blank "space" and how I apprehend them , that calls to be made into that precise something that I recognise when it is finished.

What I am after when I work with words , is not quite breath , not quite thought , it is rhythm and truth - and more : meaning , like a mirror of my individual truth.

(This is my belief : there is no such thing as reality : there are only individual truths).

Here are some pieces I wrote recently.

More writings:

My Crazy love for you

My crazy love for you surfaces, bubbles and burns.

It is hot lava, painful, redeeming – difficult too , to admit my craving, this passionate and desperate longing for your presence, your voice, your company. For your body too : your touch, your skin your embrace your hands on me your deep kisses. For our mixed breaths and common surge of mutual desire.
My crazy love for you runs wild – checked, buried , it destroys me – Wild and free it leaves me broken hearted.

Reasoning has no power over it .

So I let it be , let it submerge me and drown my inner peace , burn me down , leave me battered and sunken.
Because at the best of times it also shines through me , this rough well of a diamond mine.
Whether your respond or not , whether you let yourself be loved and love me back or not , I am alive , and feel every bit of it.

And therefore my wild , crazy love for you celebrates life.

The Painter to the Muse

My love for you is old and deep

My love for you is old and deep.

It runs through times long before I knew of you . It runs through light and sun and earth deep , through oceans deep , carried by winds and rocks – Dormant it lay in the wake of dawn, patiently ambushed . It caught the sign , sprang into open daybreak sky , and now reigns over the land and seas , relishes in the swells , hums in the gusts of fanciful breeze , dances in the willie-willies – it drives me high and low, starves me , nourishes me , points to the well of life.
My love for you is love of life in its most tender forms , it calls for sharing, respect and celebrating.

My love for you will outlive whatever course our paths may take together before they diverge. It is wound up deep in my being's throbbing weave.

The Painter to the Muse

I have been writing these last few days :

Would you be my canvas ?

Would you be my canvas as well as being my muse ?

I'll draw the ebb of tides , the star fish , the shells and the underwater world on your body.
I'll draw sleepless starry nights – I'l draw the wind's embrace and my hungry lips will play rivers of light.
I'll pray for your hands to raise the birds of joy.
- We might even let the dance of dawn gently erase the outlines of a primeval camp.

Will you be my canvas ?

The Painter to the Muse