November

Glistening white, unique and alone.

Drifting from high above to here below.

Settling one on another, building up

A landscape of white.

The empty, quiet world awaits

For that soft touch of frozen fingers,

Caressing the tree, the brush, the soil.

White drifting, wafting, floating.

Silence blanketed in muffled chills

Alone, unique, silent, wandering.

Come hushed stillness.

By David Corbet

Linden

Linden, Oil on Canvas.

Struggle

A constant struggle,

A tug, a shake, a quake.

A pull this way & then that way.

Up, down, in, out.

A constant struggle

Light & dark blending in

Strobe effects of smoky haze.

Reality is obscured & contrasted.

A constant struggle,

Tear stained smiles & false

Bravado to make it through

The day, fearing the night.

A constant struggle,

To awake each morning

Plod on, trod on, fallen on

Some meaningless soul.

A constant struggle,

To survive the day with

Music & lines on pages as

            The only solace.

David Corbet

Copyright protected

Blue Construct

click here for more of my art work

If you are not familiar with smashwords.com it is a pretty awesome site. They offer ebooks in most ebook formats. They do a good job in centralizing all the various ebook providers into one location. Not a bad idea. I have two books uploaded there. They also offer coupons which is another great idea. Watch for upcoming coupons for my books: One Year in the Mountains and Memoirs of a Super Criminal.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/86130

Hearing the song of Grey

            She sings sweetly in my ear and I wonder if the words spring from her soul. I wonder if I could be her muse. I wonder if she is as delicate and as kind as her voice. What would life be like at her side? It is a lost dream, one destined to never be fulfilled. Life always brings the unexpected and the unexplained. We must not wait for the evil to consume us but must be vigilant in our defense with good and righteousness. Lost dreams can bring evil, or they can be used to fertilize the truth of reality, of passion sought and won. Don’t let her sweet voice be the symbol of a failed existence, but as the rallying cry of great things, the standard bearer leading the charge into the darkness of swirling futures with out certainty. The prize is only won after the race is complete. Run to win, but not for the prize for it is fleeting and will not bring the strength to continue winning. Race to win; race to build the strength to race again, and again and again…

            Life is grey. Life is a blend of the rich darkness of utter blackness bringing decay and chaos and the pure white of truth and perfection. But the grey is not evil; it is necessary. Grey is the dawning of the new day when the world is filled with solemn silence preparing for the release of potential. Grey is the cloud that brings the nurturing rains from which all life springs. Grey is the blur of movement across the screen of life. Grey is life lived without regret, but with pain and joy in abundance. Grey is the willingness to risk pain to gain joy and love and all things good. With out grey there would be no depths of shadows, no horizon to run towards. Without grey the world would be simple and simplistic and naive and utterly boring. But very safe. Very safe, indeed.

            So how do we wade through the complexities of greyness which pervades life at every turn? We walk gently and securely with one hand on the white staff of truth. We keep our heart pure filled with passion ready to act with compassion towards neighbor and enemy alike. Those with the eyes to see can pierce the foggy greyness with clarity of sight. Those with the eyes to see are not held by the cryptic nature of the ever present grey. Right action, right direction becomes crystal clear and impossible to escape. But those without the sight are lost and confused, dismayed at the actions of others. They are held captive by their own fear, their own guilt. They fail and fall deeper into the dark blackness which hides below the grey waiting to pounce on the unaware. They cannot move towards the light, towards the white. But one cannot reach the white until they have gained the sight to move safely through the grey. So seek the sight which brings life, brings insight, brings clarity of thought and action. Take it and use it. Gain the white.

Almonds in the Wind.

            When giants tread on the miniature villages of the little people who live far, far below, they never hear the screams. Not even if they listened intently could they hear the screams of the little people. For to them, the little people never exist. They can’t exist. It is impossible, incomprehensible for there to be anyone else but themselves. Giant are giants and there are only giants. Little people are not, cannot be.

So are you a giant or a little person? Do you walk with a might stride killing fields and acres with each compression of the foot on earth? Does the earth shake with your coming and exhale liquid death once you have passed? Or are you the forgotten lot, those who cannot be, yet are? Does it matter? Can it matter? Giants will never know, never see the little people and therefore never pay them any heed. No matter what the little people do, no edifice, no construct will ever be seen by the giants. No matter how grandiose the project may appear to the little people it pales in comparison to the might and length of the giants. And so, what to do?

“Ha,” you cry, “that is a false analogy, an untrue metaphor. You speak lies in order to deceive. I have never seen a giant.”

“Ha,” you cry, “that is a false analogy, an untrue metaphor. You speak lies in order to deceive. I have never seen a little person.”

So speaker, are you a giant so you can see none larger than yourself, or are you giant that cannot see the little people? Or are you a little person repressing the largesse about you? Or maybe you are right. Maybe I am crazy, confused, turned inside out and hung to dry on the willow tree that smells like almonds, planted in the vineyard of the gods in order to trap the sheep in a state of perpetual confusion. Are you confused; are you a lost sheep drawn to the scent of almonds?

Ha, Ha. Now I have you. 

Here is a story that I wrote some years ago. 

Copyright 2011 David Corbet