Smoke Fired Vessel With Feather Patterns Art

Southeast Asia. Modern day. Afternoon rain forces us into the coolness of the little house, surrounded by rice paddies, where Grandmother assembles strings of Christmas lights; bound for somewhere. Young mother watches three children grow, and wonders: What will their lives be? Can’t dream of what she’s never seen; can’t see what she can’t dream.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. Back out on the open plain, our bus hurtles toward the city. Smokestacks and temples rise up from the earth; two visions competing for the sky. The woman on my right holds a chicken in her lap; rural wealth for a city friend? On my left a Buddhist priest sits in quiet repose and presides over the world.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. This morning the sound of traffic in the street, scooters and tuk-tuks, taxis and trucks, was so loud I couldn’t hear my dream. So I turned it off and went dowstairs. Taking in diesel fumes ‘til it hurt to breathe, I found a hawker-stall and ate. It’s 100 degrees already; soon the rain will come.
Morning mist over lakes
A girl remembering her childhood
Trees are always trying to reach the sky; arms stretched out toward heaven ‘til their leaves turn brown and die. Then will come the winter, when they stand the icy wind. waiting for the sun to shine and spring to come again. The drama’s reinacted every year: Leaves come down like clouds of doubt and fear. While on the ground, the winter passes by, every tree keeps reaching to the sky.
Trees are always trying to reach the sky; arms stretched out toward heaven ‘til their leaves turn brown and die. Then will come the winter, when they stand the icy wind. waiting for the sun to shine and spring to come again. The drama’s reinacted every year: Leaves come down like clouds of doubt and fear. While on the ground, the winter passes by, every tree keeps reaching to the sky.
Life is all around for us to hold. Spring will come again when we forget the winter cold. Soon will be the summer, when the evenings linger long with jokes and quips and camping trips, a kindred summer song. The time won’t last forever, we can see; still, we should learn the lesson of the tree. In winter snow or summer’s long good-bye, trees keep reaching upward to the sky.
Wind-driven spiral dancer
Personal POV scene. Me and Jesus in the desert on a cool morning at daybreak walking toward a bright star. Jesus is wearing old clothes and carrying a satchel. I’m wearing old clothes and sandals just like Him. The air is cool and crisp. The sky is bright blue on the horizon with deep purple fading into black at the upper atmosphere. The air is crisp and clear. It’s like the desert in California looking east toward Arizona. There are desert hills on the north and south sides and mountains in the distance.
I lift up my eyes toward the sky; know my heart and home are there, where the ones before me lie. One day, I’ll be gathered up and carried to that place where I shall know as I am known, and see my Maker’s face. It’s appointed unto us just once to be: We linger here, but soon we’ll be set free. No more reaching upward ‘til we die, Our roots stay here. We stretch beyond the sky.
Coral reef formation
An interior scene. An old Bible with dog-eared pages, a black leather cover, and words of Christ in red sits open on a table. The camera sees the Bible at a 45 degree angle. The table and chair are old and worn, sitting on a worn carpet on a wood plank floor. There are some pens and highlighters, along with a red ribbon bookmark, a half-empty drink and some paper clips. The room is in low-light, and a small window is in the background. Someone has been studying and just stepped away for a moment. Some lines in the Bible are highlighted yellow.
I sat, long ago, on an Asian hill with a Shakya Mundi friend, and watched the autumn leaves fall down from high above, giants in the forest casting off their wakefulness, falling progressively into winter’s long, white sleep. “The important thing to know about trees” he said, “is that they are most beautiful in autumn; just before the winter snow. They live and grow through the entire year just for these brief moments of stunning beauty. We are like that.” He said, “but we have only one autumn, and a very long winter.”
Platter with peacock and fruit garland border
This day, though, I hiked another autumn wood. Eastern Europe ancient; overgrown. So thick the view was dark at just a few feet off the path. All red and yellow; orange and brown, a million trees, each one in blazing preparation for long, frozen winter. I cannot but recall my friend’s words, lasting long, though he did not, and the instant truth that follows. Looking upward at the fiery canopy, matched against the bright cerulean sky beyond, I embrace autumn! Winter surely comes one day, but spring beyond. I have a winter to prepare for, but it is not yet.
The monster (Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost above behemoth shoulders. Snake-like clouds adorning her, I crane my neck, Gaze fixed past the big white house toward uplifted boulders. And at the South, like his namesake martyr, Hyacinth (Mt. San Jacinto) has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue backdrop he wears that legacy proud. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: Accentuate Sonora’s west extremes, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
An Asian Slice At the dark end of an alley on a moonless night, A youth squats low to the ground, turned toward the wall with his face in his lap. Someone might think he’s sleeping. He’s smoking heroin. Soon he’ll fall over and soil himself, and stay right there until dawn. Back at the neon-lit mouth of this dark alley, hookers walk back and forth, hurrying to get past the alley, either for fear or because is smells so bad. Eyelids, all painted golden, Asian whores always look like they’re made of candy. Candy it is; but a snarling cat awaits its prey.
Southeast Asia. Modern day. The damaged and the broken ones; all rooted in the past, live life the way it always was, from their first day to their last. Motes of dust in beams of light, in the darkness of this day, we tip the hat and give a nod, for the truth we can’t convey. Everything is real, but nothing matters, anyway. Where life is only what must be, from the cradle to the grave. Everyone does what they can: Nothing less, but sure no more. Tip the hat and give a nod to the ones who’ve gone before. We tip our hats and give the nod to the world we’ve all ignored
a painting of a woman in a green dress
bicyle resting against a wall
a painting of a man in a blue suit
portrait of two people together
Art Nouveau Style Style Transfer Example
house with front view
animal standing in natural pose
serene landscape with mountains and water
a painting of a woman with a flower in her hair
wide landscape with natural scenery
a tree in nature
still life with everyday objects
urban street with city activity
still life arrangement of fruits and flowers
Art Nouveau Style Style Transfer Example
portrait of a person with expressive eyes
Nayoma washed his bowl and sat down in a meditative state. I’ll meditate first, then practice Bushin no Jutsu, then Body Flicker, then wall walking. After that, I’ll take a cold shower and sleep. He opened his eyes, jumped out of meditation, and formed the hand signs for Clone Jutsu. A puff of smoke appeared, and a clone popped up right in front of him. It wasn’t perfect — its earlobes were stretched oddly — but it was still a success. Well, not so perfect… but with time I’ll correct my mistakes. Hmn, I guess I really had it easier than Naruto. I’m sure even Kibe‑sensei couldn’t do this on his first try. The clone disappeared with a puff of smoke, leaving Nayoma standing there, satisfied but already thinking about the next step.
urban street with city activity
a tree in nature
animal standing in natural pose
still life with everyday objects
bicyle resting against a wall
Ice Crystal Macro Photography Style Transfer Example