So, you look at those captains and then at yourself and you wonder: “Why them, and not me?” As you paddle along in your pitiful state, a canoe you hope no one will see. But there’s just enough room for those trusted to you for safe passage, provisions, and tare. So, you keep to yourself, and you follow the shore, making passage for those in your care.
Out where the river runs wild and free and only the brave dare row; where the rapids are deep, and the challenge is fresh and it takes them where it means to go. With breakneck speed, grinning into the wind, standing straight on the bow of their craft, just a glimpse now and then of those captains you’ll catch flying by, near capsizing your raft. They’ve no time for advice to those standing on shore or to aid the ones just wading out, for their task is to pilot this current, they think, and it’s all they can do to stay out of the drink, and their lives could be gone in the space of a wink should they lose but a moment to doubt. Standing tall, they never must doubt!
Out where the river runs wild and free and only the brave dare row; where the rapids are deep, and the challenge is fresh and it takes them where it means to go. With breakneck speed, grinning into the wind, standing straight on the bow of their craft, just a glimpse now and then of those captains you’ll catch flying by, near capsizing your raft. They’ve no time for advice to those standing on shore or to aid the ones just wading out, for their task is to pilot this current, they think, and it’s all they can do to stay out of the drink, and their lives could be gone in the space of a wink should they lose but a moment to doubt. Standing tall, they never must doubt!
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon, high up on the left, forgot to go away.
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon, high up on the left, forgot to go away.
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
a painting of a man holding a ball
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.
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.
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.
In days to come I stood amazed, walking through that forest, at the blazing symphony of color it brought forth, seemingly just for me. I grew to love my friend’s words in a new way, through the astounding beauty of the spectacle he knew was coming when he said them. I was young then, and didn’t know I had many autumns ahead of me.
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.”
In days to come I stood amazed, walking through that forest, at the blazing symphony of color it brought forth, seemingly just for me. I grew to love my friend’s words in a new way, through the astounding beauty of the spectacle he knew was coming when he said them. I was young then, and didn’t know I had many autumns ahead of me.
a painting of a roman warrior holding a sword and a shield
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.”
a bronze statue of a warrior holding a sword and shield
a statue of a man holding a sword and a shield
a painting of a man holding a sword
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Southeast Asia. Modern day. Nearer to the city now, the bus thumps and bumps to a slower pace. Grinding gears mark spaces between dirty children, playing obliviously in the road. Neither village nor metropolis, outskirts have no identity: Just a blurry line of encroachment; a temporary half-life on the way to something more. Dust springs up from the tires of trucks headed both ways on the road. A little girl stands crying in a mud puddle; her brothers laughing from the sides. She has to learn rejection to participate in this brutal, belonging dance. A little life, and a little death for a product truly worthy of its name: a good woman is hard to find.
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. 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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
a painting of a man kneeling in a tunnel
a painting of a man kneeling in a tunnel
a painting of a man kneeling down next to a woman
a painting of a man reaching for a bird
a painting of a man kneeling in front of a bird
a man and a woman are posing for a picture
Kadar 6.:Same young rural female entrepreneur with brown hair in a ponytail, wearing a simple green dress, standing in front of her family farm gate. On a wooden table in front of her are jars of bean spread, glass jars with layered bean salads, and small eco paper packages of traditional bean seeds with labels. Warm afternoon light, optimistic atmosphere, cinematic comic illustration, semi-realistic style, detailed, storytelling panel, consistent character design, same face, same hairstyle, same clothing. Add a speech bubble. Speech bubble text in Serbian (ijekavian, Latin script). Use EXACTLY this text. Do not translate: "Prerada i umnožavanje sjemena znače veću dobit." Kadar 7:Same young rural female entrepreneur with brown ponytail and green dress, standing together with other young farmers in front of a rural cooperative building. They are smiling and holding a tablet showing online shop statistics. There are promotional banners, workshop tables with tasting samples, and rural tourism elements in the background. Bright hopeful atmosphere, cinematic comic style, semi-realistic illustration, detailed, storytelling panel, consistent character design, same face, same hairstyle, same clothing. Add a speech bubble. Speech bubble text in Serbian (ijekavian, Latin script). Use EXACTLY this text. Do not translate: "Biljni genetički resursi postaju osnova ruralnog razvoja." Kadar.:Same young rural female entrepreneur standing confidently next to a chalkboard with a written business formula. She is smiling proudly in front of her farm landscape at sunset. Warm golden light, inspirational mood, cinematic comic panel, semi-realistic illustration, detailed, consistent character design, same face, same hairstyle, same clothing. On the chalkboard write in Serbian (ijekavian, Latin script). Use EXACTLY this text. Do not translate: "10 ha × premium cijena × direktna prodaja × prerada = 100 000 KM godišnje prihoda" Add a speech bubble. Speech bubble text in Serbian (ijekavian, Latin script). Use EXACTLY this text. Do not translate: "Nisam izmislila ništa novo. Samo sam sačuvala staro — i pametno ga iskoristila."
Un agujero, y que esté saliendo una araña gigante
First century Jerusalem at the "gate beautiful" to the temple grounds. Peter and John were going up to the temple at the hour of prayer, the ninth hour. And a man lame from birth was being carried, whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple that is called the Beautiful Gate to ask alms of those entering the temple. Seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, he asked to receive alms. And Peter directed his gaze at him, as did John, and said, “Look at us.” And he fixed his attention on them, expecting to receive something from them. But Peter said, “I have no silver and gold, but what I do have I give to you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk!” And he took him by the right hand and raised him up, and immediately his feet and ankles were made strong.
First century Palestine on the road toward Jericho. In a treacherous pass, a man lies on the roadside, beaten half to death. A passerby with a donkey is trying to help. The story of the good samaritan.
a painting of a group of men riding horses