Sunday, June 19, 2011
There are only a few days left for the lily to bloom and flower so I make do with the images and share while there is time. I took time late this afternoon for a not so bright light that gives the images a flow that is rather like a field of view.
Eyes in the flowers, poetry on the plains and a shadow from the ridge cast a soft light.
I tend to keep quiet about myself and let the, paintings, photographs, and poetry speak as they may. There, the artist’s statement is the result of the works intended to inspire others to go on and do good works to inspire others and so on. On and on and on. To me, that is a good thing. As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe
Friday, June 17, 2011
Hey Dad, can’t believe it has been nearly four years since, well you know. You did the boogie, checked out, cashed in your chips, went flying in the blind, took a really long nap and never woke up, then went back into the All.
I know there may not be computers in Heaven yet, smile!, and that you are not reading this letter but you are in my blood, bones, mind, heart and soul each and every day.
I talk to Mom every Sunday and she is doing fine. This weekend Carrie, Pam, Kathryn, Mom, and Carrie’s little terrorists are all in Ohio. God bless them all.
Your flag is in a place of honor in my house and you are ever in my thoughts.
Love you Dad, More than words can tell, as ever be well
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Wait all the winter long for spring soft winds, rains and green in the warm for the roses.
The colors and scents seem to close a door to the world, yet open a window. Time in the garden, small though it is tends to take one away from the trial and strife of the day to day.
Or so it seems to me as I get into the roses and day to day see the roses run in life from cold winter roots, tiny shoots that become buds and blossom in late spring and summer.
There free and alone all the chit chat bird song and sound is absorbed by the images of summer as the roses are on the run.
Roses on the run, ever a joy. Here today and ever in memory.
Wonder not how sweet the blessing, but take and behold the wonder of the poetry in the fold of a rose.
Rose on the run no one can hold you forever. For we are also poetry held in the fold of the rose. There but for a moments grace we hold each other in the reality of a sacred image never frozen in time, for time is all time.
Rose on the run, petals in the sun rain on your brow smile as sweet as summer sounds spoken in silence against a screen door slapped shut in the wind. Spring held taught then wrap the buzz of night around you. None of the ghosts speak but rather sneak in your sheets and surround dreams tossing and turning as real as real is. In dreams as a rose on the run and reflections in the wine.
As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe