Art and Earth

because earth Without Art is Just "Eh."

3 notes &

THE DEVIL’S STEAM (Poem by Umar)

In metallic vapors
The genteel Monarchs lost
Their way to flower thrones; honey

Bees ghost dance in butterfly shadows
Remembering freedom days
Before slavery, alive, their hives still in trees
Not wooden boxes led by imposed queens

While on diesel truck safari reservations
Coast to coast, vagabond bees
Abandoned butterfly thrones
Disappeared ones

In metallic vapors
That rise over barren orchards
Like the devil’s steam
Smoke gets in your eyes.


Copyright 2013 by Umar Hassan


Filed under umar poem poems poetry age of extinction extinction bees nature insects conservation druid pagan wiccan umar hassan lit sixth extinction insecticides

5 notes &

The New Drop Cafe: Wine Caffeine (Part 32 of Fantasy Cafe Series)


The New Drop Café was something of a revelation. It was The Old Drop Café refurbished, much to the disapproval – hostility even – of the connoisseur coffee establishment. No blue rinse set here! No, sir! It drew a very different clientele. It was the haunt of poets, folk singers, occasional wayward saints and other drop outs. Worse in its mortification, it was said to be a drop-in centre for scarlet ladies of the night.

Read more …

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103 notes &


Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die?


Author: William Blake

Image: Kazuka Akimoto

Filed under poem poems poetry lit literature insects bugs william blake classic literature classic poems classic poetry Summer

6 notes &

The Vanished Drop Cafe: Darkness Falling


For days and nights Saint Nicholas remained locked in his room in the basement. Other than asking Saint Jude to keep things running in the guesthouse, he refused to answer all knocks on the door by the residents. He did slip away on his black motorcycle at dawn on the day of the funeral of Mongrel and his beloved wife, That Bitch. He went for a long ride before joining the 60 or so God’s Hitmen Motorcycle Club riders in the procession behind the hearse. It went to the very cemetery where Priscilla Smyth-Brown was buried. Because of his close friendship with Mongrel and She Who Once Commanded, he was asked to deliver the main eulogy.

Read more …

Filed under magi lit short story series religion humor satire angel angels angel of light despair darkness depression

89 notes &

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,With labored respiration, moves the wheatFrom distant reaches, till the golden seasBreak in crisp whispers at my feet.My book, neglected of an idle mind,Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;Or lightly opened by a critic wind,Affrightedly reviews itself again.Off through the haze that dances in the shineThe warm sun showers in the open glade,The forest lies, a silhouette designDimmed through and through with shade…
Excerpt from Summer Afternoon by James Whitcomb Riley,
Image: Marc Delassio

A languid atmosphere, a lazy breeze,
With labored respiration, moves the wheat
From distant reaches, till the golden seas
Break in crisp whispers at my feet.

My book, neglected of an idle mind,
Hides for a moment from the eyes of men;
Or lightly opened by a critic wind,
Affrightedly reviews itself again.

Off through the haze that dances in the shine
The warm sun showers in the open glade,
The forest lies, a silhouette design
Dimmed through and through with shade…


Excerpt from Summer Afternoon by James Whitcomb Riley,

Image: Marc Delassio

Filed under poem poems poetry lit illustration summer reading summer reading art fine art james whitcomb riley classic literature classic poetry 18th century paintings

6 notes &

Senior Games (Poem by Chris Brockman)

Today, Elaine is the face of home.

The embodiment of the grandma

In Family Circus, she is elegant, mature,

Surely someone else’s grandmother.

Meticulously neat, light white sweater

Across her shoulders, silvery, sparkly

Rings on her left hand, permanent trace

Of a half century of love,

She sits in her traveling chair

In a circle of veteran ladies playing

Kickball, nursing home style.

She peers quizzically through her round glasses

As the soft orange orb lazily pinballs

From one tender foot to another.

Her wide, straight across mouth turns up

Tentatively at the ends as the ball

Comes her way and she taps it aside.

It’s today’s simulation of stimulation

From the social director on this

Gentle, brutal cruise to oblivion.


Copyright 2014 by Chris Brockman

Image: Michael Tsinoglou


Filed under Chris Brockman poem poems poetry lit illustration aging boomers seniors nursing homes grandmothers grandparents

6 notes &

The Slaughter Drop Cafe: Silence Falling (An Expected Visitor)


Christmas Day in the Guesthouse for Saints had been a rip snorting sort of a day. This had been mostly spent in The Saintly Drop Café by most of the blessed residents. Well before breakfast the jolly fat man in red had squeezed down a chimney in his home invasion to leave presents under the tree in the café. Christmas presents had been exchanged by the tree, under the mistletoe and even in bedrooms - though what was presented and ardently received were strictly private matters – not necessarily a matter of privates. For while Eve might have spanned and Adam delved, they did not live in the guesthouse. Besides, what consenting saints did in privacy was their blessed business. After all, they were on R & R – and such should be enjoyed.

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Filed under magi gangs violence death azreal story short story lit series saint nicholas saints humor satire religion atheist

356 notes &

Instructions by Neil Gaiman


Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say “please” before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat


However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter’s


there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the


The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-


Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December’s frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one’s lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.


Ann says: Although he’ll never admit it, Neil Gaiman’s tales almost always follow the template of The Hero’s Journey, a narrative found in every world culture. This is the children’s version, complete with some parental advice.

Copyright 2013 by Neil Gaiman.

Image:  Diado Dobby by Miroslav Yotov

Filed under neil gaiman poem poems poetry lit illustration the hero's journey fairy tales fairytales magic fantasy poetry for kids parents kids classic poetry classic literature classic poems

29 notes &

The Weeping Drop Cafe: Affogato (In Which Our Hero Meets Santa Claus)

To grasp the nettle or not is never the same as whether to smell a rose or shove it in a bottle of flat beer. Neither has anything at all to do with comparing a lemon and an orange so as to judge which the better citrus is. Yet Saint Nicholas thought that there had to be an underlying connection if the mad world was to make any sense. Which it didn’t. Nor did the withered book, Practical Zen Horticulture for Raising the Dead by Swami Karmasutra-Potpurri Zen D.D., with the letters implying Doctor of Divinity (Calcutta, failed) but really standing for Dispirited Daffodil.

Read more …

Filed under magi lit literature short story humor santa claus saint nicholas

4 notes &




This image only shows the outside wall,
Somehow that seems significant to me,
And who might hear the lonely pigeon’s call?



Airports, mountains; my only memory,
No street at dawn reflecting March’s sun,
Just cancelled flights. So what is it you see?



The hush of water and the rocks has won,
Noise of the town has gently died away,
But all the birds declare their time is done.



I thought I heard a bitter young man say:
“Please take me from the castle near the bay.”


Copyright 2014 by Andrew Wells.

Images: 1.  2. Geetaanjaale, Wordpress .   3.    4.  

Filed under andrew wells travel spain cadiz ronda andalusia poetry poem poems illustrated poems alhambra vacations malaga tumblr poets poetry-and-insomnia

12 notes &

This Circus Performance Is Fine Art!

Ann says:  I see this as a visual rendering of a human caught in Indra’s Net: “Imagine a multidimensional spider’s web in the early morning covered with dew drops. And every dew drop contains the reflection of all the other dew drops. And, in each reflected dew drop, the reflections of all the other dew drops in that reflection. And so ad infinitum. That is the Buddhist conception of the universe in an image.” (Alan Watts)

(Performance by Elena Annovi).

Source: Huffington Post

Filed under video circus trapeze art dance light space dancers cosmology vedic film buddhist buddhism fine art performance art indra's net

48 notes &

FAR NORTH: One of My Favorite Singer-Songwriters Goes Solo

I cross the snow and ice again

Leaving day and night behind

No horizon, land or sky

And everywhere you look is white

That’s when you know you are alone

Seven miles of ice below

And no tracks to take you home

I’m holding to the course

My compass points to North

A perfect circle on the sun

Never sets but travels round and round

Here the silence is my friend

Here the daylight never ends

That’s when you know you are alone

Seven miles of ice below

And no tracks to take you home

I’m holding to the course

My compass points to North

And here my compass shows a way

Glowing green amidst the grey

The needle shivers in my hand

Pointing through the frozen land

That’s when you know you are alone

Seven miles of ice below

And no tracks to take you home

I’m holding to the course

My compass points to North


Ann says:  We must go to the extremes of life’s climates before we find our base. It takes a circle to find a center. Ray’s cello expresses the emotion of his song as adeptly as violins in an orchestra, and his lyrics are pure poetry.  (Sound quality is way better in the studio recording!)

My Compass Points to North written and performed by Ray Cooper, formerly of Oysterband.  From his debut album Tales of Love War and Death by Hanging, available on  Check out more Ray and Oysterband music here

Compass image by San Min Park.

Filed under music video oysterband folk folk music british music chopper ray cooper compass arctic circle travel north far north goth pagan druid wicca winter snow ice

43 notes &


(9 minutes. For subtitles, click on ”cc” at the screen bottom while the video is running.  Click on the video image above for full-screen.)

Ink Ocean is about the oil spill that occurred in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010 when nearly 5 million barrels, or 210 million gallons, of crude oil were spilled into the sea due to an explosion of an off-shore drilling rig. It remains the largest marine spill in the history of the petroleum industry.

Over 5 months, hydro-carbon eating bacteria devoured 200,000 tons of oil and natural gas in the Gulf. After that the oil settled into the ocean floor where the bacteria could not reach it. Despite the massive cleaning efforts by the oil industry and governments, and the efforts of the bacteria, as of 2012, 40% of the spill remains in the waters and the ocean floor.

 This prose poem began as writing in an ink drawing. It took 6 - 8 months to finish, and was revised in preparation for this reading.  It is an experimental poem structurally. A poem of utterance, of cross-currents and paradoxes. It is composed of many voices, and perspective shifts.

 There are two parts. The first is on the oil spill, and the second is about love in a world bordering on oblivion, a world that’s half spirit. We are in the 6th Mass Extinction on the earth. This is the backdrop.


Ann says:  Don’t be fooled by the gallery backdrop— the background images will soon change. I particularly love Brenda’s costume:  green, the color of life in her top, which is periodically covered by a black veil.

This video is subtitled.  Click here if you want to read the poem that comprises the subtitles.

Copyright 2014 by Brenda Clews


Filed under poem poems poetry art video performance art brenda clews gulf oil spill conservation big oil oil spills pollution eco nature extinction dance lit