Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

Buried in disappointment I set out to trace those wanton steps, their outlines white on white, no tea leaves left in a cup.. Crisscrossed traces staining, weaving patterns, losing track. Winter staggering, weighted with hopes,  insides icing over. But it was only yesterday! My honeyed heart! Dripping and sunny! Pulling summer apples from the nourished air, soaking up love from life like a wick. How could I misplace that happy glue that spackled up my soul? Where is the relentless sap that limbers up these stiffened winter limbs? My mind can see a thousand years, why can’t I see around that corner? On East 90th Street, looking West

It was just yesterday the skies were coddled grey, clotting in their pre-snow situation, waiting, waiting, maybe for dawn, with a new messenger at the gate.

Rusty with life I flee the stainless streets, escaping to the border places, neon blinks through half a sign. Dark wood angles jut and flounder on their way to make up a house. Galvanized garbage can broken on the sidewalk, lid almost covering the mess inside. Loose wires hang over broken grass, holding on in the front-yard dust. Green planks cross-hatch behind the steps, covering the belly of the porch. Inside the floor is still swept clean; There's a curtain instead of a door. Hangman stalks the inside house, waiting for a turn of events. Across the Harlem Meer

The world is frought but I am not. Two Central Park Trees Falling in Love

Is there a pathway to that unknown destination? Traveling, traveling, turning a corner here and there, Labyrinths and crossroads, matrices and a web of life; Is that a trace of the Master Weaver Spinning out our destinies?

Sept 21, 2013:  Eat 90s New York City

Conservancy Water Lily, August 2013

Harsh lights gritty sidewalks, squeaking grating doorways, Metal glass chrome doors, decals pealing and maybe a bell, Hard to remember where I left those cut-up dreams. I let one go the other day, just a crumple and a toss and a "So what now?" There’s another one around the corner, right? Dim-lit yellow hallways, bathroom down the hall, Shredded carpet, bruised and dirty, Don’t even think about the paint. A single cot, thin mattress, square table made with wood, That single bulb hanging on to a cord. There in the corner, I saw the crumpled might-have-been. Missed the rusted basket; poor shot. I walked out with it, of course I should have left it there along with the rest of the picture. Instead I spread it out on an ironing board, Ink worn through and faded, edges broken and frayed, But maybe it could have been salvaged. I think I see a painted house, light green, and a stoop. There’s a bay window, I remember now, pink reflected in the window pane,

The night dies and a day is born, when do we turn on the timing? Is it the lights and the dramas, or the harvests and the noon time bells? Go ahead and take the stars, for I have no more use for them. Take the sun away and let me cope as best I can, pale blacks and white greys will cover the differentiations. Madison Avenue and 106th (dawn/dusk) Your Mission, should you choose to accept it, is to pause midway between, say, this and that; or between, say, here and hereafter, where and why, or whichever and whichnever. Take a pause only long enough to see the commonality of things, and then--back to splitting seconds!

I once was a flower of spirit & elan I can’t remember when I was part of a cluster of beauty you see But I didn’t see it then I think I had a sweet bouquet But I can’t remember when My beauty faded, like it does I regret it now and then I lost my petals and fell to the ground I’m not sure what happened then Somehow this summer I came back again But I can’t remember when! Snowball bush in the Secret Garden -- 2013 Mission for the day: 1. Select a time when you should be doing something else 2. Breath deeply. In......Out. Iiiiiiinnnnn..... Out... 3. Picture a clock in your mind. (how many of you pictured an alarm clock with a bell on top?) 4. Now think: Tick! jump! Tock! jump! Tick! jump! Tock!! 5. Finally, recall the quiet, sweeping second hands of old...... tiiccckkkktocccckkktiiccckkkktocccckkk May you be blessed sweeping petals and slowly changing things, ( was a bloom with esprit and élan,)

Individual at Metropolitan Museum of Art holding virtual head Perseus, Perseus Immitator, and Perseus Immitator's Frightened Observer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Perseus Immitator's Birthday

I heard about it a time or two, This particular path is big taboo, But what else is a person supposed to do? The entire garden is calling for you! There are blossoms! and Sunlight! and Forks to explore! and the Birds! and the Bees! It's too much to ignore! The leaves are so green and the scents are so nice, Sometimes the answer is, Don't Think Twice.

fer·ry    /ˈferē/ Noun A boat or ship for conveying passengers and goods, esp. over a relatively short distance and as a regular service. Verb Convey in a boat, esp. across a short stretch of water. Synonyms ferryboat - raft         (Quiet, now....let's not cause disappointment.  I mean, even if the ferry is seriously late, there is always the chance of a raft...) Harlem Meer in July 2013

Clutching after reality I make my way in the setting sun (Seeking out the unlit door, Paper bag rumpled in the corner, Old man hunching up the dirty steps.) I walk through the iron-studded door into the mythic sanctuary (Walls covered with metaphors, Banks of unlit penny candles, Stained glass.) I light the wooden stick from a nearby flickering prayer (Smell the old dust and new wax, Kneel on the seasoned wood, Listen for the echoes in the cubbyholes.) One for you, one for me, one for the middle ground

Once upon a time, in the near reaches of Central Park, there lived a very large Elf-Fairy. Confusing as elf-fairies are in general, ours has learned to answer simply to the call of El Fair the Fair One, or Elffo the Fair for short. Elffo seldom appears in person (during the day), since elf-fairies are so sensitive. For many years they were held in captivity until they escaped their original planet. Usually, they find a low-lying bush in which to dwell. Now Elffo is among the most lucky. The amazing Central Park Smoke Tree has made a place for Elffo under its inner most branches. For a few weeks each summer, Elffo can use Smoke as a Screen, and gaze out at the New York fauna at will. Only the trained eye can find Elffo the Fair! Can you find Elffo? If so leave a comment or an email and I’ll post your description of Elffo!

I crave those times I refused to notice, when I lived behind the separator, catching reflections in the transparent screen: red snowsuits glancing by in January, spring-green boots. August—limp, dry, sticky with sap. Camping in the lodgepole pines, quiet needle carpets crunching, hiking, breathing, always such a long way to go. Why am I always, always last? I am weighted down with last year’s dinners. I see a paint drip frozen dry on the yellow wall. Why notice it now, when the time to fix is over? Staring out the dusty window, Rain throwing spatters down my face. From Light to Dark on Madison Avenue

I crave that weary, empty cave Those unremitting ribbons of geology Those booming echoes drip by drip Sneaking down the cranial walls Etching with acid despair. I crawl into the water, weighted by the world Slipping into the muddy bottom Staring down the midnight eels. Vitality drawn thin as a crack. Do not inhale, don’t do it! Do not drown in watery inches! Wait for one more morning sun Shafting through the silting creek beds, Dappled with leaves and colored stones. Green with Garden Hose

Our dedicated Park researchers have identified a very disturbing trend:  After watching many joggers zigging and zagging for no obvious reason, our researchers submitted their observation to their trusty data warehouse software. The ensuing data analyzing, modeling, graphing, reverse decision-tree detecting, geographic and holographic (AMGRD GH) plotting uncovered a disturbing dynamic. Joggers are avoiding any possibility for self-reflection and that means avoiding mudpuddles. So far we are not concerned, since the avoidance activity remains passive. Should these same joggers decide the problem is not in themselves but in the mudpuddles, we will have to take action. Although mudpuddles are immortal, they have been forced into hiding and into entirely new locations during past anti-mudpuddle campaigns. We are standing fast. North Reservoir Path, Central Park in Late Spring (2013)

Innocent lion-taming maiden unaware of the evil forces of Rodin rapidly closing in. Metropolitan Museum of Art

There are those who will quibble and nibble and gripe About focus and lighting –well you know the type. They miss all the fun with their nitpicking jury: Some pansies are born to be blurry!