4. unedited writings by oviadalemaddoxmorrowbell

4. unedited writings by oviadalemaddoxmorrowbell


change is opening into
blooms and leaves
and green things growing
somebody's already forgot
that last month it was snowing
but just because April's here
don't mean no more a snowy day
many's the times it's snowed in May
somewhere.

:-)
If life were a party, I wonder...
Would us teetotalers get invited?
Or would we be left out in the cold,
Shivering and shaking,
With no toddy to warm up our innards.
No Firewater to blast us off into
Fourth-of-July sky-explosions,
No Mountain Dew to
lick off the roses when we
get thirsty and dry
No barroom brawls
No spousal squawls
No shameful remorse
For stealing a horse
No sleeping on the street in puke.
Nor out in the alley of a juke.
Wouldn't it be great mate,
If the party's liquor were mild
So mild it could be drunk by a child,
But still and all
We'd all have a ball
As drunk as a skunk we'd be
But could snap right back
be sharp as a tack totally teetotal and free
We'd laugh and holler,
Kiss and Tell
Dance and snuggle and spoon
We'd stagger and stomp rip-roar and romp
Swagger and swiff and swoon
So if Life's a Party make it teetotal
If you wanna have a lotta more fun
For when a sot's all drunk, passed out in a funk,
The teetotaler's fun's just begun!!!
:-)






messages of love
written not only on the wind
or in a fog
softly soaking into skin
but also in bandages and tapes
gently pulled from skin tired and sore
and from the sound of
a footfall at the door.
... :-)



It's got me back all over again
In circles going around and around,
Should I eat the bird in hand Or
cook my goose in a roasting pan!
This bird's elusive, so hard to catch
Leaves me wringing my hands
like a little wretch,
but "that's okay," gran'ma say..
"just sprinkle a little salt on his tail,
and he can't fly away!"
But oh woe is me! Oh woe, Oh woe!
He's too tough, this old bird in the rough
He won't let me get nowhere near close enough!



other worlds wait
quietly
outside window.
night is very still
velvety smooth,
very still,
very quiet...
then suddenly the
pale, gauzy curtains
billow inward.
====


Ocean breezes blow
on prairie wheat fields
A souvenir sleeping
on horseback
Now to realize
This continuing dream,
Continuing with the far moon's
Steam rising from bayous
Where spring departs,
Birds call out to fish
For summer to move
Into season's past tense
Where jumbled up words
Make more sense...
=======

things change
like opening
of buds into blooms
blooms and leaves
into falling off the trees
into buds and blooms
and green things growing
spring springing into
summer
sun heating up skyhigh
sweat falling from brow
into fresh dug earth
dropping seeds___
"one for the blackbird
one for the crow
one for the cutworm and
one to grow!" :-)
=======

moderation
not too much, not to little
at the right time
in the right place
=======

passing clouds
misting, dripping
sparkling light on liquid,
"flowing everywhere,
to the left and to the right,
loving and nourishing all things"
today
here
now
-//\\-

Like a passing cloud
This lifetime has drifted past
It's shadow moves on
-//\\-

abra, cadabra, hocus pocus,
dominocus!
Shazam!

The magic of the night
comes creeping in
Words start to flow
from a magic pen
"ordinary" disappears
with one wave of a magic wand
out o'er the land where spiders fall
upon dewy grasses to weave their webs
of silken threads into intricate patterns
which will surely enthrall
All
Who come near to the magic of night
wrapped warm
around a little pool of fright
made by some magical new formula
floating along the surface in swirls
UP! UP!
=======

There was an old buzzard called Bud
Who built him a house outta mud
It dried and it cracked
As a matter of fact
Old Bud's house of mud was a dud!
=======

Sunshine and showers
Butterflies and flowers
fluttering and flying
drenching and drying
yellow and pink
and tender green
sweetest time
ever seen

---
march marching out today
summer's surely on it's way.
April fool!!!
==============

Mind so clear, so Real
Where nothing can ever be
Yet where all is made
============

Bird nest in a tree
Bits and pieces together
Woven by nature
=========================

I walk every day.
My trail winds it way
around, about and across
my special bridge and
under my bridge
where it's shadowy and dark
even at high noon
there lives an old Troll,
hoary, wizened and wise.
He never comes out.
I have never seen him.
He never makes a sound
yet I always know he's around.
There's something in the air,
tromp. tromp. tromp.
quiet little sounds
not the loud Tromp! Tromp! Tromp!
of the Big Billy Goat__
Not wanting to hear the words
"Who's that walking on my bridge?!"
I walk in silence.


Daisies creep across the meadow
pushing back the snow;
Seeds of grass beneath the crust
push up and start to grow.
Winter slowly moves
Up to the mountain peaks
As Spring softly stirs and speaks
The warbling meadowlark
And cooing turtle dove
Turn every man and maid
To thoughts of summer love.


The Philosophy of
My Own Art:

Every time I open my books
and read some Real Poems
I get my come-uppance.
I am always amazed
at my Audacity
The Nerve of Me!
To sit here all day long
writing my own so-called "poetry!"
And to add insult to injury
Against Genius,
I actually have the gall
to enjoy it all
and let a little grin
hang above my chin!
...
I grab my paints and brushes
and in a reckless frenzy of feeling
I paint whatever I wish.
Then later, when I look
at Real Paintings
I get my come-uppance
I am always amazed
at the audacity,
The Nerve of Me!
to spend half my life
creating my own so-called "Art!"
and to add insult to injury
Against Genius
I actually have the gall
to enjoy it all
and let a little grin hang above my chin!
================

in the space between
things potentially green

Cosmic dust invisible
Mind and Matter indivisible
===========

deeper and deeper
into a forest green
where light beams shimmer
lighting things unseen
little creatures there
cuddle beneath the shrubs
others root around
searching out bugs and grubs
we follow a well worn path
into the shadows there
walking soft and quiet
through the steamy air
deeper and deeper and deeper
into the wood we go
absorbed in what we see
compared with what we know
we soon forget the sunshine
of meadows we left behind
while walking in the light
we discover in our mind
==============


chickens, eating corn
cackle over eggs, and
strutting around the pen
roosters crow on kegs
farmers plow the field
children hoe the row
mama's keep their brood
very well in tow
sun rise in the morning
lighting up the world
making heat of passion
rise in boy and girl
keep the ages rolling
keep the earth aflow
mountains rise and fall
feelings come and go...
======

Mountain tops white and cold
Written on sky in lines so bold
Their highest beauties go untold
Life lives up there on the peaks
Love lifts it's voice and speaks,
Doves hold olive twigs in their beaks
Vast blue skies and space and stuff
Clouds hovering around like floating fluff
Looking and seeing is never enough...
-=====

LIving on, in, and with the earth
seeing days flow like smooth rivers
rippling by- singing, tumbling over
rocks around fallen trees,
peacefully swiftly, noisily, quietly,
full of all kinds of
happenings....actively moving
living in peace
loving the earth and all that's in it
loving "vast empty space" and all the
"nothing" it's full of.
living in something that is equally
nothing and everything

---//\\-just being.


Suddenly seeing from some deep bottomless well of self, these green fields spreading out as far as eye can see in every direction, the deep, winter aquamarine blue of the sky, the outline of fences, hedgerows, and wateroaks in the distance, at this very instant we lose any notions we had about them, and from now on they're farther away in mistiness than a lost garden of eden...
Suddenly seeing them so unreal and strange that one can only shake one's head, smile and go back to working the plow, feeling a certain growth has taken place and surging forward with a sense of well-being.
===========

Love is like sunshine
Bringing light to all
And when it's romantic
Beating hearts enthrall
Love magically makes mountains
With lofty peaks to thrill
True Love loves openly
Like bluebirds on a hill.
-//\\-

And yet whilst roses grow in the garden of love
Those gentle tears fall in streams like
As burning lids swell up to burst the eyes
and overflow into the sea of dismay
To water those still growing roses,
to pluck away the thorns with bleeding fingers
so that Lost Love might
remain endowed with all the right to
leave that memory's token intact;
unbroken:
She hearkens for lampwicks to light
upon the window sill where fear so gentle
stiffens her spirit and confounds her senses...
There shall be no going in,
No entry to the castle behind the moat, nay
For the snapping jaws of wild crocodile lie in wait
to protect the ruins of Love's Garden of Roses.
===========

The voices of earth
Sweetly sing from one great throat
Hum, hum, hum, humming...
============

Pure sweet butter churned
Freshly dipped up in a bowl
Small sprinkle of salt
================

==========

You've forgotten that village
lost in the rows and rows of swamp in
a pine-wooded territory where no
scarecrows ever stand in orchards:
The crops aren't worth it,
and the roads are also just
ditches and brushwood surface.
All these Cypress Trees are dead, I
take it, and their stumps too, for
sure, and if not, they're
down in the cellar there
being made into something:
the headboard of our bed, say
or a wicket gate,
or some kind of shed.
In winter we're chopping wood,
and turnip is all we live on.
A star blinks from all the smoke in
the frosty heaven,
and no bride in chintz at the window,
but the dust's gray craft, plus the
emptiness where once we loved.
===============


I see five stars twinkling,
each with six points of light
(I see one star that's green..
How odd a thing to see tonight!)
I see seven more stars so far away
Do they also twinkle? I can't say...
And faintly oh so faintly
I see some stars of blue
I would never have seen these stars
If it had not been for you!
-//\\-
=================




passing clouds
misting, dripping
sparkling light on liquid,
"flowing everywhere,
to the left and to the right,
loving and nourishing all things"
today
here
now
-//\\-

ah...to be a fish
...but then of course I probably am
I'm sure I'm not a can of spam
Nor a green-eyed cat from Siam..
But what is this stuff I'm in?
I thought water was thin?
I can't see where I've been!
I feel good! Couldn't feel prowder!
I hope this stuff is not chowder_
If it is, I'll have to holler louder,
Yelling for "Flipper"
Flipper's chipper.
He'll come to my rescue,
See? I told you!
-//\\-


For who hath I to be but me
?
From each shining star I borrow
an influence for tomorrow.
I know not from whom I gain the light
that makes the musing of my mornings bright
for I am like a speckled calf in the pasture
grazing on the grassy green slopes
whilst swelling dewdrops kiss my face,
and little spiders weave patterns of lace.
Do not mistake my shape for human
for I dwell not for sake of rumen
Nor feed my soul with naught but thee
who live in sweet stretches of salty sea
What if I should proudly proclaim
my heritage, my land and my name?
would these wires fold empty across continents
and solve the myriad mazes of wanton green?
Aye, no! But we who are undistinguishable
shall remain forever within the crucible.
Undefined. Unidentified. Undenied.
So now let the night with hymn be blest;
Someday the moon will unravel the rest.
But I shall forever remain only:
__me.__
- -//\\-


Time Flies
Even little children wonder:
Why is time flying by so fast?
They don't know how once upon a time
it stood stock still.
Or crawled by so agonizingly slow that
young ladies were won't to "have the vapors!"
The idle sound of a leaf falling
Could bring running footsteps
to see if someone might be calling. But no.
Those lights were not yellow headlamps
of a vehicle turning in at the lane
They were only old Ms. Henry's lamp
finding it's way up to the outhouse on the hill
or a bright and shining harvest moon
floating up from out of the treetops.
No one came calling for months on end
Nothing to say. Not even a letter to send.
Senses are appalled, spirits confounded
when time runs amok or stops,
because we cry, then grow numb
when time stands still on dead clocks.
Nor can we bear the blurring race
of the dial disappearing from off her face!
Now-a-days, running hither and thither
time madly hurries by, who knows whither!
The clock runs, and now she will no further
turn back to the rate we think we'd druther.
For though in childish error we might be afraid
There's things to be done, things to be made.
before we open up that upcoming door
of the time before the time when time is no more.
========

once upon a time she stopped upon a dime spun
around a cotton candy stick picked up a guy a
stranger with a lie took a sharp-right turn just
in time to burn a little rubber ducky-lucky strikes
were out there would never be no doubt he was a
dirty low down no good for nothing sorry excuse for
human being in a tizzy was no way to hop on a
tin lizzie that's what grandma used to say but
what does she know anyway said the poor little
fellow with his thumb in his mouth then taking it
out all shriveled up to show to the whole
house it was the only one that was clean
whereupon his momma turned green and went
outside for a while trying to find a reason
to smile before somebody said why don't you
just go jump in the lake you dumb idiot, but
then they put a bandage on the skinned knee
and after a while there was a big brown crusty
scab there looking horrible but soon it was
gone too and the shower waters poured down
nice and warm and soothing and they all grew
up at last and became adults who sat in the
corners quietly working on their own separate project.


=======

Time ___turns into memories.___
Old men talk of good old days, __
_ while youth spins new
fodder for future yarns._
__ Then one day the old man_
__ sits unmoving in the sun___
on a rickety old rocking chair__
_ out by the barn._
_ They say "leave him alone_
__. He's dreaming dreams."__
_ Old men do dream dreams they say,__
_ and young men see visions._
__ Even so, time still goes.__
_ It blows across the land again._
__ And nothing is there anymore. __
_ Not even memories.__
_ Yet all is there again as before.--.



=======


Time-Clock
It's about a half-past never
a quarter until ten
time to go out and come back in.
Clock keeps a tickin'
keeping up with time
watching out for hours
knowing when to chime.
Early in the morning
before a bird can crow
clock starts alarming
get up and go!
Throw the dad-burn contraption
in the garbage can
but time keeps a ticking
in the world of man --.


=======

Source of a Stream
O Woman
Are you so different?
Your heart beats
true to life
your breast swells
and over flows;
your body curves
around the seed of man
Til he swells
and fills the earth
then he reaches out his hand
and gives to you your birth.
=========

The laughing buddha
Travels.
I see him everywhere, bringing joy and smiles
to all.
He takes an old, ordinary, hum-drum day
and brightens it up into something
well worth hopping up from sleep to see--
makes
little squirrels all "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed"
causes
those who might plod downtroddenly to dance,
swing and sing
takes
work out of work,
finds nuggets of fairydust fun
brings life into places
where before there was none.
The laughing buddha's eyes
reflect fathomless skies
With Sparkle... :-)
-//\\-


When the sun goes down, the air becomes chilled
then after a spell of darkness it's moonlight filled
We don't notice the dew 'til morning nears
That's when we pull our quilt up to our ears

When sun starts to rise to bring along heat
the wise old owl beats a retreat
The mockingbird's ready with many a song
With which to make music all day long.
-//\\-


Time Flies
Even little children wonder:
Why is time flying by so fast?
They don't know how once upon a time
it stood stock still.
Or crawled by so agonizingly slow that
young ladies were won't to "have the vapors!"
The idle sound of a leaf falling
Could bring running footsteps
to see if someone might be calling. But no.
Those lights were not yellow headlamps
of a vehicle turning in at the lane
They were only old Ms. Henry's lamp
finding it's way up to the outhouse on the hill
or a bright and shining harvest moon
floating up from out of the treetops.
No one came calling for months on end
Nothing to say. Not even a letter to send.
Senses are appalled, spirits confounded
when time runs amok or stops,
because we cry, then grow numb
when time stands still on dead clocks.
Nor can we bear the blurring race
of the dial disappearing from off her face!
Now-a-days, running hither and thither
time madly hurries by, who knows whither!
The clock runs, and now she will no further
turn back to the rate we think we'd druther.
For though in childish error we might be afraid
There's things to be done, things to be made.
before we open up that upcoming door
of the time before the time when time is no more.
-//\\-

Day embraces Night, lovingly sweet
Beside warm-watered lake retreat;
Willowy branches cling to leaves,
Wanting one last waltz with birds and bees.
One mortal man walks alone and sees
That dreams are made of such as these:
The wedding of night betrothed to day:
Launch empty boat and ride away.
-//\\-


move on move on
stop and stay still
alligators roar
waking whippoorwill
sawgrasses sway
southern winds blow hot
peeling pungent roots
to add into the pot
stirring community stew
stoking low-heat flame
belly full and drowsy
contentment is a name
=======

Spacious and content,
Without confusion from
Inner thoughts of grasping,
Effectively overcome habitual behavior
And realize the self that
Is not possessed by emotions.
Be broad-minded,
Whole, without relying
On others.
- Hongzhi Zhengjue (1091–1157)










I see the sun in the beam of light burning a hole in the sky
Light is light is light no matter from where it comes or why
Burning into and through every particle elementary
Being one thing here and another there compartmentary
What's that I see coming in there for a perfect landing?
Could that be a dragonfly? One with understanding?
Of what it is to be what a dragonfly must be,
The way I must come to know what it is to be me?
Aye, What a scene! What a natural call,
'tis wholly beautiful, it is...cattails and all!
:) -s



Ain't love grand?
Let's go carve our initials
On shifting sand.....
You all shaved and splashed
Me all scented and sashed
We'll find a moon,
bill and coo and spoon.
Ah.....
Ain't love grand,
On shifting sand?....
-//\\-



That night the window framed
The valley below in moon
The river wound it's way around
A mellow shine-own tune

They softly sang together
In perfect harmony
Then went outside to stand
On the beautiful balcony

They dreamily gazed the distance
Could see the whole wide world
Where many a delight awaited
This couple, this boy and girl

For many a year they lived
In Lover's paradise
Where growing old was natural
Like their eventual fated demise

Today their love awaits them
Up there in that retreat
Up there on top of the mountain
Where they will always meet.
-//\\-


A mountain retreat;
Washing and drying in air
High up on a hill

Well, now what's wrong with being a cow?
You could stand all day with your feet in daisies
and chew your cud,
doing nothing more nervewracking than
lowing
You'd be love'd by all, well tended, and
much appreciated for your contribution
to society:
(butterfat.)



Well, now what's wrong with being a cow?
You could stand all day with your feet in daisies
and chew your cud,
doing nothing more nervewracking than
lowing
You'd be love'd by all, well tended, and
much appreciated for your contribution
to society:
(butterfat.

I see the bears
sleeping peacefully
in hibernation
looking so innocent.
But I tiptoe away
as quietly as I can,
not to awaken them.
Knowing
how very hungrily
rambunctious
they will be
when they rise from
that long sleep...
-//\\-


abra, cadabra, hocus pocus,
dominocus!
Shazam!


The magic of the night
comes creeping in
Words start to flow
from a magic pen
"ordinary" disappears
with one wave of a magic wand
out o'er the land where spiders fall
upon dewy grasses to weave their magical webs
of silken threads into intricate patterns
which will surely enthrall
All
Who come near to the magic of night
wrapped warm
around a little pool of fright
made by some magical new formula
floating along the surface in swirls
UP! UP!
Abra Cadabra, Cala ma zoo
Hasbar discovers library magic:

Hasbar learned to read! What a marvelous thing!
He astonished the court, the queen and the king,
he picked up the poets and such as that
He plucked down the tomes, both thin and fat
He read all day and he read all night
by sun and moon and by candle light
But alas and alack his magic grew rusty
His Bag O' Tricks more dirty and dusty
But his Brain grew bigger and bigger by far
Than his elvin body no bigger than a jar,
"til finally at last nothing was left
But a humongous head on the library shelf!
-//\\-





http://www.selfdiscoveryportal.com/cmOtherChanMasters.htm
The Dharma goes on forever, and never abides in anything. You must not therefore be attached to nor abandon any particular phase of it. To sit yourself into Buddha is to kill the Buddha. To be attached to the sitting posture is to fail to comprehend the essential principle.'






This is AprilStarr,
Your expert on:
Crypticity gone berserk!
running off with the goat
When nothing has
anything to do with
anything~~like this:

a thousand that i have forgotten
words wearylegs money in purse
look you, naught be worse
who does so, solemn talk
partly guess slightest folly
on the aisle blushing walk
weary thy hearer
broke from company abrupt
searching of wounds kissing of petals
chapt hands weeping tears mortal
nature aware break shins
fashion growing stale beyond stump
wood faint shallow rivers falls
a thousand that i have forgotten
-//\\-


A mile from the house,
There's a wide but shallow
Branch of water.
The road runs unimpeded
Through and across
the sweet stream.
The smell of wild azalea
drifts among the tall pines.
We walk our bare feet
In the cool water
swishing slowly and gently
To other side.
-//\\-


Those Blue Velvet Things:
The Swampcat would pick them off
and put them all in a white canvas bag
Which she would wear out there
Slung haphazardly
over her shoulder with no care.
She'd fill it so full that soon the heaviness of it
would feel like a Smoky Mountain boulder
Which of course would make her hungry
For some real blueberries,
Instead of all these weird-looking little people
and bugs and even one village church with a steeple
That she picked from that blue velvet ART
So now that she's taken them all apart
She's going to give them to Millicent,
or perhaps to Jake-
Who, I'm sure will enjoy many games of fake,
Which is the one that always begins, "see...."
And ends when Ellie gets stung by a bee,
But no matter, no matter, 'tis only imaginary
She's now marched off to Tipperary!
-//\\-


and also a great pleasure
to learn from one another,
the things shared of what
has been discovered
along the way
in day to day
living__
experiencing, thinking, being,
finding, feeling, seeing
sharing and sharing alike
one with another...
...what a pleasure it is
to learn and unlearn...
-- :-)


I cannot name you
but you are always here
I speak to you in thought
I love you in heart
I sense your presence
I am aware of you always
Yet I know not how to describe you


Christmas Shorts

Add a litttle story for Christmas here,
Give us all a little Christmas cheer---
We'll love you forever and call you "sweetie,"
we might even knit some booties to warm your feetie,
We'll hang your stocking up on a star
Santa might bring you a Saturn car!
With keys dangling musically from your belt,
most yummy goodies you ever did smelt
will waft across your nose
and lead you up close
to heaven's gate where the angels are host
to the biggest Christmas party you ever did see
One for the bla ditty dopplerdude and one for me!
So put your story here for all to see
'n you'll fall up the chimmney with glop itty glee!
--Z.


"Oh Lordy have mercy!" yelled Old Grouse
When a sinkhole swallowed up his whole house
It sunk of sight,
Oh what a plight,
For the poor old Grouse and his spouse!



po·em (pm)
n.
A verbal composition designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, characterized by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme.
A composition in verse rather than in prose.
A literary composition written with an intensity or beauty of language more characteristic of poetry than of prose.
A creation, object, or experience having beauty suggestive of poetry.


poetry \Po"et*ry\, n. [OF. poeterie. See Poet.] 1. The art of apprehending and interpreting ideas by the faculty of imagination; the art of idealizing in thought and in expression.

For poetry is the blossom and the fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emotions, language. --Coleridge.

2. Imaginative language or composition, whether expressed rhythmically or in prose. Specifically: Metrical composition; verse; rhyme; poems collectively; as, heroic poetry; dramatic poetry; lyric or Pindaric poetry. ``The planetlike music of poetry.'' --Sir P. Sidney.

She taketh most delight In music, instruments, and poetry. --Shak.
========