Morning Trip (248)

“November – with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes – days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees.”
–Lucy Maud Montgomery

Cacophony Light (or Mourning Wake)–Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

faint watercolor waking

sun

along thoughts of sand

but trees

swaying in the water

of the dawn

violets summering across the lawn

pinks rising

hearts singing up the sun

cacophony light

thinks the view of the dark

stretching sinews

receding further

luscious

silky 

sleep

scatters on the grass,

glittering jewels

oceans of dew

dreams melded with the day

breathing and alive

–by elisabeth connelley

Morning Trip (50)

“The man who promises everything is sure to fulfil [sic] nothing, and everyone who promises too much is in danger of using evil means in order to carry out his promises, and is already on the road to perdition.
Carl Jung”

“The road to perdition has ever been accompanied by lip service to an ideal.
Albert Einstein”

And now this, to express the other morning ponderers within…
“The early hours of morning; you still aren’t writing (rather, you aren’t even trying), you just read lazily. Everything is idle, quiet, full, as if it were a gift from the muse of sluggishness,

just as earlier, in childhood, on vacation, when a colored map was slowly scrutinized before a trip, a map promising so much, deep ponds in the forest like glittering butterfly eyes, mountain meadows drowning in sharp grass;

or the moment before sleep, when no dreams have appeared, but they whisper their approach from all parts of the world, their march, their pilgrimage, their vigil at the sickbed (grown sick of wakefulness), and the quickening among medieval figures

compressed in endless stasis over the cathedral; the early hours of morning, silence — you still aren’t writing,

you still understand so much. Joy is close.”
– Adam Zagajewski
Without End

Joy within, even in Perdition.