spectrum

a friend bemoaned rare sun by invoking fair juliet and my internal taoist voice praised rain

go figure

Our Island of the Sun

Our Island of the Sun
by Winston Riley

Legend
A king whose ship was lost at sea pleaded a course of sanity.
Dependent on each other, the crew on deck should have sought esprit.
To such a ship came King O'bom.
Instead the crew, intent on blame ruled by anger, they sought to shame each other
on this land, whose name
was Island of the Sun

Two sides were formed, the red and blue. Which sword of these, they knew not whose
was tempered best. For strength be true, the test was hope for all--not few.
All eyes were focused on O'bom.
From far enough above, the ball seemed motionless and could not fall if tribes connected,
one for all on Island of the Sun.

What was the goal, they should have asked. For things designed to toss, not last?
To find the games which pleased them best? Would such an end provide them rest?
This voyage would define O'bom.
No easy job for any man. Invisible, they say, the hand which moves the trading of the land
on tiny Island of the Sun.

So much bloodshed traced back to oil with cousin coal their sky did boil.
Their rivers stunk and species failed, as with their values lost, their soil.
For these crimes they blamed O'bom.
Sixteen thousand kids died each day from hunger, instead of laughed or played. (I pray that your child, like mine, may
flourish on Island of the Sun).

Much of the pain, they believed by scriptures read could be relieved
and would comfort them in their grief. Would God guide Commander in Chief
to save a hungry child, O'bom?
"My Lord is best," one side would say. Others claimed theirs would save the day.
For tint of skin and love of faith, they waged a war
under the sun.

On what few things could they agree? What sacred views could both they see?
From pain all children should be free and healthy land on which to be
Petitioned thus to King O'bom:
Books and shoes, enough to eat. Not mines but grass under their feet. Unspoiled air
to breath and meet
on Island of the Sun!

Now
On these two battles we depend. A safe haven for all children and toxic free
systems have always been the guiding rule of nature's blend.
All eyes are focused on O'bom.
Perhaps it's us--our blue and red. Can we these two colors shed? So that all children
can be fed on Island of the Sun?

What's the difference between us two? So many bad habits to lose. If some of mine are lost,
will you? Purple is made by red and blue. Do not mistake the hue
O'bom!
Preservation of life requires that we take lessons from the fire, the care of which we should never tire
is Our Island of the Sun

Our Island of the Sun

Two sides are formed, the red and blue.

Which sword of these, we know not whose

is tempered best. For strength be true

the test is hope for all--not few.

Our eyes are focussed on O'bom.

From far enough above, the ball

seems motionless and could not fall.

Tribes connected, one for all.

on Island of the Sun.

What is the goal, we may should ask.

For things designed to toss, not last?

To find the games which please us best?

Will such an end provide us rest?

The time we're in defines O'bom.

No easy job for any man.

Invisible, they say, the hand

which moves the trading of the land

on tiny Island of the Sun.

So much bloodshed traced back to oil

with cousin coal our sky does boil.

Our rivers stink and species fall,

as with our values lost, our soil.

For which of these can we blame O'bom?

Sixteen thousand kids die each day

from hunger, instead of laugh and play.

I pray that your child, like mine, may

enjoy Island of the Sun.

Much of the pain, we believe,

by scriptures can be relieved

and comfort us in our grief.

Will God guide Commander in Chief

to save a hungry child, O'bom?

"My Lord is best," is what I say

and you plead yours will save the day.

For tint of skin or love of faith,

we'll wage a war under the sun.

On what one thing can we agree?

What sacred view can both us see?

From pain all children should be free.

Armed with this similarity, we

beseech the service of O'bom.

Books and shoes, enough to eat.

Not mines but grass under their feet.

From land to land all brothers meet!

Rejoice our Island of the Sun!

One war deserves a fight to win.

A safe haven for all children

to acquire true happiness when

they serve others instead of them.

All eyes are focussed on O'bom.

Perhaps it's us--our blue and red.

Can we these two colors shed?

So that all children can be fed

on Island of the Sun.

What's the difference between us two?

So many bad habits to loose.

If some of mine are lost, will you?

Purple is made by red and blue.

Do not mistake the hue O'bom!

Preservation of life requires

that we take lessons from the fire.

For care of her. that we not tire--

our Island of the Sun

Reading Between the Lines

climate change, peak oil, water shortages

the cutest little babies you ever saw

HIV, H1N1, wars and famine, deforestation

reunions, Yoga, Tai Chi, Facebook and search engines

confined animal feeding operations

Thanksgiving

Obesity, diabetes, heart disease

Kellogg's, General Mills, Kraft Foods

Dashing through the snow

small children without parents

Eggnog

Depression

On a good day you get egg role

I'm sorry mam, your son was killed by a car bomb

good things come in small packages

that's another can of worms

it is hard to imagine anything so beautiful

gone to hell in a handbasket

Whatever can be imagined can be invented

we face mass destruction and turmoil

the most uplifting version of Ave Maria

the most hideous crime ever committed

the generosity of the human spirit

greed, depravity and hatred

Our

choices

are

a

form

of

mathematics

to

be

determined

by

an

invisible

calculator

Oh Glory Be

You. Me. Art.

If you live and are living--you make art.

Your smile is art. Your hair, in whatever state, is art.

Your bald head is art (and shiny).

Your walk is art. Your love is such precious art.

Your touch is art and so pleasing.

Your view is artistic. All that you see is art (and glorious).

All that you impact is new art.

All that you hold in your heart is too. Art.

You are such a great artist. There is no one who does art like you.

Tomorrow we can find other art to enjoy.

Let's make art today.

Consciousness Recognizes Itself

We sat relaxed as a gathering, engaged in light exchange,

remembering the significance of the night before…

when the white flittering flock of winged warriors slashed the morning rain

with the muffled explosion of their gliding gallop.

Bursting in like trumpets and tambourines born from nowhere,

rustling the tree top canopy with their synchronized swirling swooping dance,

then perching as a squadron, like a hundred shimmering spots of vibrating energy--

speckled reflections of diffused sunlight.

We whooped and whistled from inside the maloca and smiled.

Our selves were absorbed in to the Oneness of the forest universe.

All was well at Soga de Alma.

Lens Cover

A thin sheet forms the skin that holds back tears.

No one knows what the chemical is which bubbles up as majesty.

Colors with power enough to take your breath away,

changing on a canvas which no camera has lens enough to understand,

on a certain dusk, at a certain place, in a thousand lands.

And you lose yourself in the foreground,

wondering which part is observer and which part is observed.

This moment is all there is.