I Can See Your Tracks

“Oh I can see your tracks
But I won’t follow them
I’ll just hope for rain
Or some kind of crazy wind
To erase them
And chase them into oblivion

Oh I can smell the smoke
From your fire, babe
But I’ll leave you alone
And sleep in this lonely cave
And pray for
A storm to scrub this dirt away

Oh I can hear the snakes
Creeping cross the scene
I’m quaking in my boots
But you won’t hear me scream
You’re half way
Down to New Orleans
You’re half way
Down to New Orleans”
–source

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One Shoot Sunday and Peek:Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

Here is entry number Two! There is a lot that can be done with this week’s image!

Good Morning! It’s One Shoot Sunday again! The following is quoted to attribute the photographer and the site that supports and encourages The Poetry Challenge of One Shoot Sunday.

“Hello one and all – welcome to the latest edition of One Shoot Sunday. Normally, you would hear me (Chris Galford) wax philosophic here or provide you with an introduction to our latest photographic find. Today, however, we’re simply going to be providing you with a prompt from an old friend of One Stop’s.

You may remember Roger Allen Baut @ChasingTao from the early days of OneShoot (Roger’s One Shoot Interview). If not, you should definitely take a look now. A talented and friendly photographer, he makes his return to One Stop today with something a little more abstract. Look beneath the surface. What speaks to you here? Let your imagination go for this one.”

Accept Today’s Poetry Challenge!

Peek–Purple Profundity:Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

snow
snow
and more snow

falling gently
covering
crossing and uncrossing
a toe
stuck up a man’s nose

stolen kisses
objections of wind
shrieking at the seams
of windows
frosted over with steam

reflected
in the mirror over the sink
seen
by eye
at the center of you
peeking

–by Elisabeth Connelley, Purple Profundity

When I am here–Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

When I am here
what part of me do you love
do you fantasize about
without knowing
me
understanding you
smiling at
who
you can paint
yourself
when you feel
near
me
myself
who are you
do you ask
do you dream
illusions and puffy things
you wake up
you think me gone
eye
was never here
missing the view
of the image
in the mirror
smoke
wisps of air
curling away

–by elisabeth connelley

Morning Trip (28)

“The major and almost the only theme of all my work is the struggle of man with ‘God’: the unyielding, inextinguishable struggle of the naked worm called ‘man’ against the terrifying power and darkness of the forces within him and around him. The stubbornness of the struggle, the tenacity of the little spark in its fight to penetrate the age-old, boundless night and conquer it.”

“Some crackpots search for God, thinking perhaps he lurks somewhere amid the branches of the flesh and mind; some squander precious life, chasing the empty air; some, still more pigeon-brained, think they’ve already found him and work on his compassion with their begging whines till their minds break from too much joy or too much pain. But others, great brain-archers, know the secret well: by God is meant to hunt God through the empty air!”
– Nikos Kazantzakis

Morning Trip (6)

Motive

Motive

“Nothing is an awe-inspiring yet essentially undigested concept, highly esteemed by writers of a mystical or existential tendency, but by most others regarded with anxiety, nausea, or panic. Nobody seems to know how to deal with it (he would of course), and plain persons generally are reported to have little difficulty in saying, seeing, hearing, and doing nothing.
The friends of nothing may be divided into two distinct though not exclusive classes: the know-nothings, who claim a phenomenological acquaintance with nothing in particular, and the fear-nothings, who, believing, with Macbeth, that “nothing is but what is not,” are thereby launched into dialectical encounter with nullity in general.

Motion

Motion

If nothing whatsoever existed, there would be no problem and no answer, and the anxieties even of existential philosophers would be permanently laid to rest. Since they are not, there is evidently nothing to worry about. But that itself should be enough to keep an existentialist happy. Unless the solution be, as some have suspected, that it is not nothing that has been worrying them, but they who have been worrying it.”
– P.L. Heath

“You may remember the story of how the devil and a friend of his
were walking down the street, when they saw ahead of them
a man stoop down and pick up something from the ground,
look at it, and put it away in his pocket.

The friend said to the devil, “What did that man pick up?”

“He picked up a piece of Truth,” said the devil.

“That is a very bad business for you, then,” said his friend.

“Oh, not at all,” the devil replied, “I am going to let him organize it.”
– Jiddu Krishnamurti

Morning Trip (4)

(Click the image to reach an amazing article about this $5,000 house.)

Here, where nothing is worth anything,
I’ve set up a grass-thatched hut.
After eating,
I just stretch out for a nap.

As soon as it was built,
weeds were already growing back.
Now I’ve been here awhile
its covered in vines.

So the one in this hut just lives on,
unstuck,
not inside, out, in between.

The places where usual folk live,
I don’t.
What they want,
I don’t.

This tiny hut holds the total world,
an old man and
the radiance of forms and their nature,
all in ten feet square.

Bodhisattvas of the Vast Path
know about this but
the mediocre and marginal wonder,
“Isn’t such a place too fragile to live in?”

Fragile or not,
the true master dwells here
where there is no
south or north, east or west.

Just sitting here,
it can’t be surpassed:
below the green pines
a lit window.

Palaces and towers
of jade and vermilion
can’t compare.

Just sitting,
my head covered,
all things rest.

So this mountain monk
has no understanding at all,
just lives on
without struggling to get loose.

Not going to
set out seats
and wait for guests.

Turning the light
to shine within,
turn it around again.

Vast,
unthinkable,
you can’t face it
or turn away from it.

The root of it.

Meet the Awakened Ancestors,
become intimate with the teachings,
lash grass into thatch for a hut
and don’t tire so easily.

Let it go,
release,
and your life of a hundred years
vanishes.

Open your hands.

Walk around.

Innocence.

The swarm of words,
and little stories
are just to loosen you
from where you are stuck.

If you want to know
the one in the hermitage
who never dies,
you can’t avoid this skin-bag
right here.
– Shitou Xiqian

Another view of this amazing home.

Many thanks to Terril Welch from Creativepotager’s blog for the joyous trek through beautiful, energetically pleasing, and amazing homemade homes for the past few days.  To inspiration and muses!