T Art

a man in a blue sweater covers his mouth with his hands
a painting of a man holding a silver ball
a woman laying on top of a bed next to a wall
a painting of a man standing on a beach
a poster of a woman with a speech bubble above her head
a statue of a man holding an apple
a statue of a man holding a sword and shield
a man sitting on the floor in front of candles
a man sitting in front of a cake with candles on it
a man in a red shirt and black shorts
a painting of a man sitting in front of a plate of candles
a man in a black tank top is posing for a picture
a painting of a woman in a green dress
Ancient celestial vision: the blazing sun unites with a translucent moon, the moon rendered almost invisible, swallowed by the sun's overwhelming radiance yet delicately outlined as a glass, beams of divine light pouring through, the moon spiritual symbolism of hidden union and concealed intimacy, ethereal golden and silver tones, sun and moon the same size, golden rays enveloping a dark transparent moon.
Ancient celestial vision: the blazing sun hovers directly above a translucent moon, the moon rendered almost invisible, swallowed by the sun's overwhelming radiance yet delicately outlined as a glass, beams of divine light pouring down, the moon a silent witness beneath the sun's glory, spiritual symbolism of hidden union and concealed intimacy, ethereal golden and silver tones, sun and moon the same size, golden rays enveloping a dark transparent moon.
Ancient celestial vision: the blazing sun unites with a completely translucent moon, the moon rendered invisible except for a silvery faint outline, swallowed by the sun's overwhelming radiance yet delicately outlined as a glass, beams of divine light pouring through, the moon spiritual symbolism of hidden union and concealed intimacy, ethereal golden and silver tones, sun and moon the same size, golden rays enveloping a transparent moon. Moon is ethereal and the sky is blue.
A cinematic oil painting of the 'harvest of reward.' Glowing silhouettes of souls gathered in celestial halls made of clouds and amber light. In the distance, a metaphorical field of golden wheat representing the harvest. Warm, glowing color palette: burnt orange, gold leaf, and deep mahogany. Soft brushwork, divine and majestic atmosphere.
Epic surreal illustration of sun analemma (golden figure-eight path) and lunar analemma (silvery figure-eight) converging side-by-side to form a massive glowing "88" in the twilight sky over a futuristic cityscape, from the central convergence point, all 88 constellations burst forth like exploding stars and mythical figures in chaotic motion—"the crazy 88" as zodiac warriors and celestial beasts emerging with energy trails, dramatic starry background with nebulae, high detail, vibrant colors, sci-fi fantasy blend, cinematic lighting with god rays and volumetric glow
a statue of a man with a hat on his head
a painting of a man with a disc in his hand
a painting of a woman in a green and red dress
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.
Now, we’ll all have our time on the rapid And we may end together, alone, going ‘round and about in an eddy bruised and broken and soaked to the bone. But the eddy keeps silent the wild current’s call alongside those now grateful captains and all we are given reprieve from a death at the fall as we move to and fro’ in the spin. We stand safe, as the spin takes us in.
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.
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, high up on the left, 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.
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.
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.
a bronze statue of a warrior holding a sword and 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.”
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 roman warrior holding a sword and a shield
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.
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.
a painting of a man reaching for a bird
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
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.