Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Op. 17 Gallery
A picture is worth a thousand words,
more or less
PORTRAIT OF LADY THE CHOSEN CARPE DIEM TWELFTH NIGHT DAY OF THE TIGER TWELFTH MOON SELF PORTRAIT MORTALITY, ONLY AT LAST CELEBRIDOM AGAPE SAVANT DIEGO
For Ruth
Well centered to the rhythm of her walk, and making sweet wakes of scented air, every hair is prepared and carefully arranged. And bearing the aire of a sovereign crown, she glides..freely flowing, carefully composed, releasing sweet oils for any occasion, any adventure, tears or laughter. Lips are brightened with colors of heart. From toe nails to fingertips, what has been given divinely, she receives gladly, and exercising prerogatives freely, she improves upon it a bit. Lashes darkened, brows shaped and sized. Eyes shaded..skin, toned and exercised. The hands are creamed and smoothed. Finger nails..long, sharp, and tooled. The ear lobes and neck are touched with fragrant oil. The body is trim. The heels, high above soil. With careful countenance, poised and balanced, she always requires a male gendered hand. Meek with the appearance of being weak, the polished side is forward, where rotunda and contour vie for lead. Calculating, waiting, sweet and radiating...a lady she is, flawless, helpless...and fearless! What nature has given, is her. What she has given to herself is her. Together, they are complete..a bit of nature, and a touch of her for that particular man, who, in becoming a willing fool for her display, is the one of course, within whom her destiny will lay
They called themselves “The Chosen,” and they were claiming their Promised land. The dwellers there...if they did not understand, spill their blood in God’s name. And live kosher, by the law. Repent unrighteous ways! or perish. To be of them, one can only be so born. No others were welcome, no others were the Chosen
After driven from their Promised Land, they lived on. They must live by their tradition or perish, and always bring prosperity to their children’s children. No one except born of them, could be of them
Burning their books, persecuting their children, "What else to do? but dwell in a strange land. No one in. Only commerce they gain. Live by the tradition..or perish
Of a Teuton land, they had been for so long amid slow wit, and slower commerce. They have survived, covenant intact. They are the diaspora. The godless expelled, the goyim banished. No one in! Live the tradition, or perish
But this foreign land against them was rude.“Why so cruel and harsh?!” the Chosen cried. Herded like cattle, whole families crippled or died. A holocaust in their midst. The Promised Land, they were driven to regain. And once again they said, “The people there..if they spill our blood in God’s name, in God’s name to them, we shall do the same”
Then one day very bright, they sang into the night and following day, “This land is ours, so small it is. This land is ours, so great it is! This land is the Promised Land, and it is ours”
But for the Chosen, for their tradition to live, they must always remember, they must learn to forgive, lest all who died..the Chosen, the goyim, the foreign..died for naught and vainglorious mourning
Zion will not awaken until the Promised Land be seen..no king, no queen, where its tradition will embellish, not impoverish, and the Zion dwellers there, will make tradition new..that love of life, l'chaim!..is not just for the Chosen few, but for all to this, righteous and true
Very early, the house was dark and quiet. I was leaving for work through the back door, and my son was awake. He was standing, looking up at me with his thumb in his mouth. Perfectly quiet was he, and I saw the four fingers that were free. They were waving at me...good'bye
Born she yesterday! So fresh is she that every waking moment is filled with something new. Her limbs are sturdy, her eyes steady and strong, I have waited long for her to be. I thought she was born yesterday, it seem, until that moment when beautiful radiance filled her face. From her face, a smile did beam
Son..the sandwich I bought for you is very large, and because you do not have a table, the sandwich cannot be cut into quarters. "Daddy..that's OK. My mouth is very large"
We had to stop for him to know. I stopped to pause, and I saw, "The water is cold, but I like warm water..so, all I can do is dip my toes in the water. But I still like the lake. And even though the water is cold, I dip my feet and I splash the water, and the water is still cold. But I still like the lake! So, I stoop down and touch the water until my knees are wet..and the water rose to my waist. But the lake is still cold, but I still like the lake..so, I will remain still"
He was wandering by himself throughout the community center house. He wandered'up to a policeman, and the policeman asked, "What's your name?" He unbuttoned the straps of his over'alls and revealed the superman decal on his t'shirt
Sweet fresh spirit charged with so resolute assurance! Such wondrous Will spreads throughout, and I suddenly feel in touch throughout the heavens. This wonder pervading, disarmed soldier..great metropolis! This greater cosmos!..all but a slight muse for this small wanderling's query
"Dad, where we going?"
We are going to search the bookstore for a book. I lost my little black dictionary. I cannot find it anywhere in my study.
"Dad! Did you look in the garbage can?"
The garbage can? Why should I look there?
"Dad, I didn't put it in there!"
Oh? Why do you think it might be in a garbage can?
"Because I think someone might have put it in there."
In which garbage can do you think someone might have put it in there?
"The one by the computer"I was cooking my son's dinner. He was three and standing on a stool watching me. He reached into the cupboard for some candy. He took a piece for himself, and another extending it to me. I said, "No thank you." He said, "Go ahead! It's good for you"
"Dad. Dad! Would you start a fire for me?..for my marshmallow."
No, just eat it the way it is.
"Please, Dad! I want to roast it."
No.
"Daaad! Please! I want to!"
I am not going to build a fire for your marshmallow.
"Dad! Can I roast it in the oven? Can I do that?"
No!
"Dad! How about your pipe lighter?"I was watching the evening news broadcast. I was pleasantly relaxed in the rocking chair, sipping a cup of hot coffee, enjoying my pipe, when suddenly a black blurry mass swiftly passed through my field of vision with a great "Hai..yuk!," and landed to my right on the divan. I looked over, and sitting quietly was he in some disguise. Dark sweat shirt with hood over his head, scarf wrapped around up to his eyes, his eyes steadily looking at me, I at him. Ninja
The night is covered by a warm blanket, and my daughter, she was three, joined me for a comfortable sit. We looked high into a star'ridden sky..her eyes, dark and wide, she sighed, "Dad, why are there so many, why are they there?" We looked in silence and enjoyed the peace. Then, to her I said, "Most stars are not what they seem. Some of them fall." Her eyes brightened, "Daddy! Stars fall down here!?" Into the deep silence we fell, the warm everywhere we felt. Then I saw her with hands together making a cup. I asked, "What are you doing?" She said, "Daddy, I am going to catch one"
I was taught how to love, I was caught by a smile, and into the day, I too, wanted to play, but from down close to the ground..unavoidable delays, necessary diversions. I was pleasantly surprised, and once observed in awe, how gifted youth can identify and resolve impending ill'fates with so swift a confidence, so'sure independence. I was spread'out far and thin over a still'enchanted lake. It was cold, but he had to know. Over a mist'covered lake, distant bird in flight echoing, he wanted to know, and I, privileged to see, with all the world stopped, waiting, hearing him learn, felt the still, still lake sleep. I love this day, this special play, yet tremble troubled when I want to forever hold, contain it, possess it, take it deep, and forever keep. If only it would linger longer, this pristine feeling, this sweet magic. If only it would happen more often! This supple brilliance..wondrous adventures, enchanting offerings..sweet spoils
My wakes suddenly gone, I feel deep tenders welling up. Love light wrapped in darkness ends. Dreams begin. I tuck sweet child in. She tucks baby doll in
And he, in his last gasp for life, for he does not understand that sleep will end, "Daddy, I'm afraid. A ghost will get me in my sleep." I assured him, "But ghosts cannot get you unless you are awake." He said, "Then! they will wake me up." And I said, "If they do, just let me know, and I will come and catch it, and stuff it into my pipe, and I will sit and smoke it." He smiles..then frowns, "You promise?!" ...."Yes..I do"
-for Noah's twelfth
The twelfth night is made from a timeless substance that warms everyone when the world is cold. You are formed from all the old that is good, and all the new that would venture into the future. You bear a good weight in your heart, which makes you mature beyond your time. Such a course is ordained by the eternal. Your path may seem crooked and sometimes blind, but it is your heart that matters. And in you, it is straight and true. You are created from a light that brightened my soul. This light and you, I honor..on your twelfth night
-for Jonah's twelfth
For the day of the tiger, I wish I had a great tree to give especially to you. Born free, you are tied only to the wind moving freely through its leaves. You are at ease daring the heights. It's the rite of your soul, the might of your heart, your luminous sight..your love to brave the world. You know, even on your darkest night, from where the light comes that brightens just enough for you to see your way. You, yourself, are bright as day! The night in you with great cunning preys upon those hateful doldrums of time, upon which you pounce, for it is by your Will, you know it shall inevitably come...the adventure, the mystery. And because mystery be the essential of religion, life is your temple. With its silent soul deep in you, at first sign, you are crouched and ready to seize the opportunity, to make the moment race. I want to give you a tree from which you could see as far as suits you. And if I had one to give, I would perhaps do, but it would only be a gesture, because already in you is a tree! A bright wondrous tree of life. It is there for you, and you are free because life is freely given to you. All you have to do is learn to climb. And of that, I've already seen your agile ability. Its spirit inspires mine
-for Rachel's twelfth
For the twelfth moon..once, a star from the heavens fell to live on Earth. Soon after, her eyes opened, dark and wide, through which a smile moved a deep sea tide. Upon that day, the moon enlarged and a great tide under full moonlight reflected hearts and stars into a starry night. Soonafter did she walk, did we hear no more cries, did intense color...red, blue, violet catch her eyes. Silent, bright..quick to perceive, hugs and kisses she loves to receive with hearts and stars in her eyes. Without instruction she immediately improved what nature had given her with her own means. She also believes 'pretty behavior'..whether formal dress or cut'off jeans. Her demure is sullen and violet, yet for boredom, no problem, having unloaded this upon a broad shoulder. Pressing, her every manner inspires order. Pressing further..she may demand, glare, or pace, but only from a clean, organized state of grace. In her deepest night, the sky is blue. This because her eyes are true. And when the sun is dark upon the face of the moon, we see it bright!..because she readily gives her starry light
He has been dedicated to his craft for a long time. The initial thrill of unrestricted creativity has transformed to a fine madness, a'tending to his system of words, refining them over the years as his sensitivity to them increases with his natural maturity. If one 'writes to live,' a simple pause, or even paucity of words will assault one's life. Rather, live first and last! If no words were to evermore spring from living, no life will be lost. Yes! This artist must live first before he feels any worth as an artist, as he ever strives to breathe life into the body of his words, however much he is doomed to failure at this. Nevertheless, it is more important that they live than for him to be known. This is the way he feels about his creations...each, for him, still feeling its magic and ever'ready to create a'new. What does not maintain its worth over time, becomes prop and trashed. He knows there is always refinement that can be made over the whole. Time and maturity evolves heart and skill. What evolves through a lifetime..earthly soul. Refinement is always possible
It's nice, he often thinks, how his soliloquy has no more responsibility than to itself. An essential freedom. No flags or banners to wave or display, no table to purchase, or meat to put on it. No requirements other than its own whim and fin
He is a student of philosophy with emphasis on metaphysics and epistemology. Ethics is derivative. Through the events of his life, the path of a literary artist chose him. A bulldozer track in reverse jerked a chain through its rear hitch along with the tip of his right index finger..just enough to trim it back to a size that permits him to hold a pen for extended time without cramping
He may score extrovert on a psych query, but he is more private than such a query might reveal..especially about being an artist. This he doesn't speak'of much because he doesn't have much of a relationship with himself. Instead, only an occasional look into a mirror..long enough to sense a mystery, but short enough to avoid the dread
In his youth, he loved painting, sculpture, piano. He loved to dance. He took his tango as seriously as he loved his classical and his jazz. Unable to decide, through the course of the events of his life, one eventually chose him...the orchestration of words
He has become very good at cloaking his avocation. It's essential. He has a number of attires. The good ol'boy sportsman, the professor, utility man!..sleaze, or technical professional. Only very rarely does he ever wear his true threads...a Fedora made of straw, cotton peasant shirt, black cotton pants, scandals, and a loose fitting tweed sport coat. Mainly, he wants to observe, blend in, join..and avoid being observed or a spectacle in anyway. He learns the dress codes. They serve his purpose. And he is often seen with a hat. These days, it's a red'billed one, and on its crown reads 'Caterpillar Bulldozers.' His daughter remarked, "Dad! You look just like a utility man." The soliloquyor just smiled
-in memory of J.D.
Beauty from ashes! Oils of joy for mourning. Surely some garment of praise for heaviness! How can this dark valley? where ashes and oil soil my garment, have a way out
If only my sadness could be weighed in gold! for it's heavier than the sand of a thousand sea shores. That is why I thought so rashly, so hastily, having been struck dumb with some uncertain timeline
A bolt of lightning leaves a scorched path and enough afterlight to see the revelation. Mortality, but only at last..I am not ready! but acknowledge you, I must..that it is natural and life'giving, I trust. From before perhaps, is the need to sleep into oblivion, but only by living, and from the life, traveling back, only a leap of faith can face mortality's end
It has been kindly said,"We can rejoice in problems, solved by time or not, for we know that they are good for us. They help us learn to be patient and resolving. And patience develops strength of character, and helps us trust in the natural process of things..the more we transcend the pain. For, is it not true?.. the eternal spirit within, does not burden one more than what one can bear?" I wish..I could appreciate this kindness, or be sure of this burden
If it is true that life breeds more wisdom than happiness, what then?..if one takes no pleasure in learning wisdom. What then, if bits of wisdom are not golden nuggets to be sought after and collected? Like gold, am not I?..purified by fire
Is not the eternal in all and everything? Is not all the suffering I do, the same that 'all and everything' simultaneously undergoes? Is not all who pass away from me of the eternal..and all who mourn?..also eternal
Is there anything felt that is not of the eternal collective? Nevertheless, what is suffered by a self'seeing eye is suffered alone. I want it, I own it, it is mine!..no matter if it has been suffered before, or shall be suffered again, or is suffered now by everyone. Even the heavy air in this dark valley is mine. A sweet eulogy to beauteous incarnations. Mortality!..a toast to immortality
I have walked to the edge of a great cliff, but even though I was born with wings, I need not step over its edge to know what would happen. Fame! Given the right time and circumstances, it could happen to anyone. But most often, it comes to those who have the fire for it. They ascend and peer over their edge after gazing into the heavens, and some know that some day they must prepare for their launch
High in the sky, a medley of lights, sequins, and galas for those with want to fan the flame..what will this mini gala bring? Everyone is given a chance to upstage. Even the valets. When someone else has your keys..smile, be gracious..tip well
A star is born when from a montane peak, an aspirant looks higher with a desire to be known on a scale greater than themselves. Yet, most of the stars in the heavens are not what they seem. A star could be a cluster of them, or a galaxy of them, or the light of an ancient past of a starry body long since passed. Who knows?..the star one gazes upon, is real or not
Celebridom stretches out as a slow rising mountain range, upon which starry light is easily seen. Each peak rises from its own cauldron of molten fire. Great subterranean tectonic plates move, the peaks rise, but imperceptibly..each according to each, each singular and relative only to itself. A whole range of jutting basalt, igneous mineral, and mongrel granite..all rise high under a heaven full of glittering lights. And the vast many, undisclosed, wish upon them. A few..dare to touch
Where the air is thin, life's nurturing waters turn to glitzy ice. As the molten fire oozes, the mountain range lengthens, and the highest ones, the most remote can be seen from far away. Everyone learns to yodel
Each peak competes for the lime light. Why it is green alludes to some obscure celebration of a life dream. And sometimes, when there is no yodeling, and the storm winds are still, the glitzy'eyed sees for a fleeting moment..a shark infested ocean, nearby, far below
A storm is coming. Fly..or freeze into oblivion. And each stargazer will launch from their peak and fly reaching for what is higher than the sky. But weighted heavily with pyrite, inevitably into that ocean they unwittingly plunge, and into a night darker than the one from which they begun. They will, however, emerge in their own light..if they don't bleed. Others, whose star is real, are never seen again, except for the light they emit..in celebridom
Portrait of Yeshua, the Agape Savant
Who are they that need a supernatural father incarnate? What calamity lays them down, what hopelessness keeps them prone, what despair makes them eat the dust there and compels the shepherd to be what they want him to be
A solitary man wants to celebrate life, but those who believe him to be the son, need to believe it. The shepherd's compassion extends to the despaired, and compels him in solitary confinement to bear the full weight of his cross. Accepting the symbolic robe, he is roped to his cross. With their articles of faith, he is nailed to it. His faith is pure, and makes wooden beams from the strongest Dogwood..rope from the finest hemp, and forges nails from molten metal. But his faith so pure also sees a vision..that the world, all and everything, will become a provider for all, and when human'being sensitivity is cultivated throughout the generations, the shepherd will rejoice, no longer seeing despairing life. The deconstruction will be a slight thing, and the shepherd, once celibate and betrothed to his immortal compassion will someday celebrate new life with his mortal wife
He was six. He said that his friend, Oliver, will be seven next week, and that he will not be seven until May of next year. I said, "That's right." He asked, "How old are your sons?" I told him. He asked, "How old is your daughter?" I told him that, too. He asked, "How old are you?" I said, "Sixty." He was silent, and I looked over to him and saw him starring off into space...the wheels obviously a'try'n to turn. He turned to me and said, "Are you serious?"