Poetry On The Ridge Work In Progress By Stephen Craig Rowe

     There is ever poetry on the ridge in the greening and change of seasons that is a joy to behold.   Even on the grey days there is a glory in the light as some sleep late in dreams and others hear the bells ring dawn’s first calling.

      Some mix paint with words, or words with paint and some just dream that it is all a work in progress.  For that it is as all is a work in progress.

 

    Indeed there are times when a part of the painting is greater than the whole or when one word stands out in a poem to make a line turn into itself turn about and seem to write free and alone as the author pauses. 

      There is ever a rush of ideas, that cause a most curious this and that, as one brush stroke or well placed word may change the world forever.  Perhaps the painter is bold while the poet is cautious for they are one in the work in progress for the betterment of all.  Poetry, painting, fine art.   So very near and dear, yet you are so near and dear with a voice like no other.  I turn into paint and words, place my fingers on steel strings and make the violin sing wordless songs that dreams cause awakening.  Rattle on the keys, sling the return when the bell rings and keep on typing because of poetry and the work in progress.   As ever be well, with love,  Stephen Craig Rowe

Stephen's Painting Studio: A Moments Grace, by Stephen Craig Rowe

Stephen's Painting Studio: A Moments Grace, by Stephen Craig Rowe

A Moments Grace, by Stephen Craig Rowe

     It was another cool dark damp day dripping drizzling misty rains all along and into the greening of lawns and garden.  I kept to the house cleaning, laundry, ironing and such.  In the evening was at the computer and felt some light at my shoulder, turned toward the source and through the window was a glowing that drew me to the yard camera in hand and I touched the sky in my eyes, as the sky touched me.  Then I faced the internationally famous ridge behind the house and was caught in an intricate net or web of trees, limbs, lines, light and shadow.

     Was stunned momentarily by the simple complex depth and force of the image of the woods calling in and out of the light most poetic, rather like a moments grace.

     As ever be well,  Stephen Craig Rowe

Thoughts About Holy Week And Easter By Stephen Craig Rowe

   Good Friday rains kept some indoors until an afternoon pause allowed one to walk damp streets strewn with storm debris, gaze in wonder at the greening of lawns, trees, the morning mad sky gone quiet now, for a bit, with ominous clouds still swirling a promise of more rain while sad-glad wildflowers shook and shimmered rain drops as their colors drew the eye to nature’s silent poetry.

   There was no other as I walked, though my prayers are for those near, dear, in dreams and so very far away.  Near and dear as Saints and the ghosts that dwell in my blood, bone, mind, heart and soul ever eternal.  Everlasting from before time began, shall go on forever for time shall never end.  That which is, is forever.  Or so it is written.  Or so they say.  I for one ever fear to follow, yet never fear to follow myself through burning run for there is the stuff of life given as a sacred gift and trust.

   To me, the trust is for humanity to assume stewardship for the planet Earth that we are gifted to dwell on.  Ignore it and it will go away.  Cosmic dust is also eternal.   See all the stars in the sky,  See all the nails on the Cross.  See all the seas gone dry, see all the lands gone stark.  Never see the stars for some have closed their eyes. 

  Not me on my watch this Good Friday, or ever, Earth Day is every day and you are stewards of the Earth in Heaven and here.

  In my wildest dreams, I pray.  Some keep me awake all night long because I talk to the Host, the Ghosts, the Saints, Spirits, trees, sprites and the old ones.   Sometimes they talk to me.

    Just some thoughts about Holy Week, Good Friday and Easter.  As ever be well, with love,  Stephen Craig Rowe

 

National Poetry Month In A Jumble Of Words By Stephen Craig Rowe

   Indeed the colors of spring are loved by all for there is a feeling of regeneration in the first wild flowers as they grace the lawn and woodlands.  There one may wander in thought and pause for moments or hours in the beauty provided by nature.  In the most profound poetry of silence is an ocean of peace that no words can tell.  A personal experience that one knows yet fail to express because the word and image are drawn within and without, frail as a flower, soft as a feather, shrill as the cry of a gull, and light the sky in explosion of thunder and storm. 

     This gift of life is an ever evolving poem, personal only in perspective.  The work in progress is not about me, the poet or painter for it is about you and the experience you gain from the images and words.   Some say they see angels, some say it’s just rain.   

      As ever be well,  Stephen Craig Rowe

 

Center Stage On Saint Patrick’s Day A Word Or So By Stephen Craig Rowe

 
     Though the day was long and gray I took to walking in soft spring winds just this side of rain and mist where each step felt good.  A quiet inside kind of good rather like a knowing and not a fear as I tried to wrap my mind around current events while walking.

     I thought of Irish things and places in my dreams rich in County Cavin Riley lore that flows in my blood, touches my heart enough to cause words of light even during the seemingly darkest days.

     I took it upon myself to enter a tavern where I was unknown.  A stranger seeking nothing but a pint of Guiness and time alone with thoughts of those.  There was not an interruption as I sipped in thought.  There was a din of conversation and some Irish music in the background but I did not hear for I was alone by choice.

     I finished my beer and silent conversation with ghosts, tipped the bartender and made my way home thinking of how very fortunate I am to never be alone.

     I came home and took to center stage as a poet is wont to do in honor and respect.  As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe

Liberty And Dragon Cry In The All A Word World Poem By Stephen Craig Rowe

Liberty shed tears and woke the Dragon as the Ice Princess touched the core of the earth and shifted things about a bit. 

Teutonic plates deep within the Pacific rim moved not only the earth but also the seas as the sea rose and fell, falling city, town, village and all in the wake of the quake. The tsunami rage and roar touched and changed the world.  Countless deaths, individual pain, suffering and grief compounded with possible nuclear disaster has caused pause for the poet-painter to wrap my mind around an event of such magnitude. 

Dragon woke and nearly blinked curled upon his treasure trove, the Old Boys sing and gain profit by the loss of countless others in pain and suffer.  Scales and tails slapping each other on the back yelling in stock market stalls,  Up the price of oil!  Buy body bags!   Go green!  Drill now!  Nuke plants are clean safe source of power!  Not. 

Poetry is only spoken quiet in the space between the words.  The reality of events is explosive, evident, clear and concise.  A moment in time twisted like a slide shown sideways in the present.  In the Light of the world and the tears of Liberty as she shines.  As ever be well,  Stephen Craig Rowe