...now onto happier subjects...
Peace!
Mark
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
Tuesday, 2 December 2014
Monday, 1 December 2014
Sunday, 30 November 2014
Saturday, 29 November 2014
The Chaos Beneath...
Playing with fractals in Apophysis (it runs well under Linux / WINE btw...)
This is a half-size for the web.
:)
This is a half-size for the web.
:)
Wednesday, 26 November 2014
Future Flight
Another WIP, still getting used to GIMP... man transforms are tricky!
... I think this is the final version worth playing with...
NFS due to no attribution available... :(
from: http://www.linsdomain.com/totems/pages/swan.htm
NFS due to no attribution available... :(
from: http://www.linsdomain.com/totems/pages/swan.htm
The Swan is one of the most powerful
and ancient of totems.
and ancient of totems.
As you begin to realize your own true beauty,
you unfold the ability to bridge new realms and new powers.
Swan can show you how to access the inner beauty
within yourself and in others.
you unfold the ability to bridge new realms and new powers.
Swan can show you how to access the inner beauty
within yourself and in others.
A Swan totem heralds a time of altered states of awareness
and the development of intuitive abilities.
Swan people have the ability to see the future,
and to accept the healing and transformation
that is beginning in their lives.
Accept your ability and go with the flow.
Stop denying you know who is calling when the phone rings.
Pay attention to your hunches and inner knowledge,
and Swan medicine will work through you.
and the development of intuitive abilities.
Swan people have the ability to see the future,
and to accept the healing and transformation
that is beginning in their lives.
Accept your ability and go with the flow.
Stop denying you know who is calling when the phone rings.
Pay attention to your hunches and inner knowledge,
and Swan medicine will work through you.
The Swan's call teaches the mysteries of song and poetry,
for these touch the child and the beauty within.
for these touch the child and the beauty within.
This is an odd evening and in my mind there is confusion... were they swans or angels flying in my dreams...?
Certainly would make for a different meaning in the words whispered in my ear...
Tuesday, 25 November 2014
Monday, 24 November 2014
november 24
snow,
white, deep and cold,
mayonnaise
on the sandwich of autumn,
silent crunches of my dog
searching for a warm place
to lift his leg,
beneath the maple
hanging twigs
where yesterday
crimson and tangerine
flags revelled in the
november sun.
And then it rained.
ml2014
white, deep and cold,
mayonnaise
on the sandwich of autumn,
silent crunches of my dog
searching for a warm place
to lift his leg,
beneath the maple
hanging twigs
where yesterday
crimson and tangerine
flags revelled in the
november sun.
And then it rained.
ml2014
Catching Up...
A couple new pieces in the WIP and otherwise...
Now available at Imagekind (http://www.imagekind.com/Homeward_art?imid=92053a8f-8ae5-4e3a-b9cb-4eee0f8c0ba7) - go buy a copy for yourself, I know you want to... :)
WIP...
Homeward...
Now available at Imagekind (http://www.imagekind.com/Homeward_art?imid=92053a8f-8ae5-4e3a-b9cb-4eee0f8c0ba7) - go buy a copy for yourself, I know you want to... :)
End of The Line...
WIP...
Saturday, 15 November 2014
In The Badlands
It waits
sage blooms
dotted like strokes
from a madman's brush
twisted into the rocks
leaves panting in the dry air
waiting for the first drops of life
crystal energy from SkyFather
a reminder that all below
is seen
I crouch
wiping my hand gritty
across my brow
and shade my eyes
looking through the waves of heat
stretching from rim to rim
dancing beiges and taupe
broken only by an eagle
wheeling high above
and waiting.
I sit
scanning the beige mesa
broken by the veins of umber
like tiny rivers of thought
in the arid sands of nothing
ivory keys wait
like the bones of a buffalo
sheltering a tiny mouse
poised for a *click*
to spring to life
...in the Badlands....
©2002
[writer's block... all this one needs is Jane Cole playing 'A Horse with No Name' on her guitar]
sage blooms
dotted like strokes
from a madman's brush
twisted into the rocks
leaves panting in the dry air
waiting for the first drops of life
crystal energy from SkyFather
a reminder that all below
is seen
I crouch
wiping my hand gritty
across my brow
and shade my eyes
looking through the waves of heat
stretching from rim to rim
dancing beiges and taupe
broken only by an eagle
wheeling high above
and waiting.
I sit
scanning the beige mesa
broken by the veins of umber
like tiny rivers of thought
in the arid sands of nothing
ivory keys wait
like the bones of a buffalo
sheltering a tiny mouse
poised for a *click*
to spring to life
...in the Badlands....
©2002
[writer's block... all this one needs is Jane Cole playing 'A Horse with No Name' on her guitar]
The September Boys
Pine tar rag lies crumpled,
draped limp over the steps,
amid the pools of Redman
slowly congealing in the lime,
cleats ringing hollow in the corridor,
shower steam wisping under the door;
we sit 1000 miles away and watch,
chest tight, breath shallow,
palms sweating - we yearn
to step back into the box,
dust off our cleats,
staring out under the brim of the hardhat,
and send one last spray of tobacco and shells,
whirling like a serpents tail
toward the pitcher;
it is tough to sit here in the early days
of September and wonder... will he? will they?
who will be first? how many? in 154? or less?
it is tougher still to climb the stairs,
and step into the box before 50 million fans,
looking for 62 in every swing,
when you have a million balding 'almost-weres'
in your cleats with you;
Go Mac!! Go Sammy!!
Go John Doe in Anywhereville,
who for a few weeks once more becomes,
one of The September Boys.
©1998
[dated for sure the race between Mark McGuire & Sammy Sosa to break Roger Maris' record 61 homers in a season... At least Maris didn't use 'roids...]
draped limp over the steps,
amid the pools of Redman
slowly congealing in the lime,
cleats ringing hollow in the corridor,
shower steam wisping under the door;
we sit 1000 miles away and watch,
chest tight, breath shallow,
palms sweating - we yearn
to step back into the box,
dust off our cleats,
staring out under the brim of the hardhat,
and send one last spray of tobacco and shells,
whirling like a serpents tail
toward the pitcher;
it is tough to sit here in the early days
of September and wonder... will he? will they?
who will be first? how many? in 154? or less?
it is tougher still to climb the stairs,
and step into the box before 50 million fans,
looking for 62 in every swing,
when you have a million balding 'almost-weres'
in your cleats with you;
Go Mac!! Go Sammy!!
Go John Doe in Anywhereville,
who for a few weeks once more becomes,
one of The September Boys.
©1998
[dated for sure the race between Mark McGuire & Sammy Sosa to break Roger Maris' record 61 homers in a season... At least Maris didn't use 'roids...]
Panning For Gold
Sunlight dancing we dip our pans,
silver flashing - scoop the gravel,
from the icy water,
twirl, squint, peer, repeat,
watch the granules tumble,
like children out of bed,
on Christmas morning.
<swissh>
Gritty thumb and forefinger,
flicking granite chips,
<plop>
a bit of garnet flashs,
quartz pearls nestled
in their sandy shell;
no nuggets yet,
black sand pasted in the crease.
No payday tonight,
no 2-step ladies,
hanging on our tales,
maybe next week,
...or the week after;
stretch my back,
swivel neck to ease the pain,
then back to dip again.
Klondike fever,
running deep,
we scour the gravel,
for one small glint,
To jump and holler,
"Gold!"
or even "Yeeha!", then
hug yer grizzled pardner.
who cares that it is
a plastic litter box,
and two pizza pans,
this afternoon
we ARE Skookum Jim
and Tagish Charlie,
and this IS The Klondike...
...with Fritos.
©1999
[teaching a 7 year old to
pan for gold - in the backyard]
silver flashing - scoop the gravel,
from the icy water,
twirl, squint, peer, repeat,
watch the granules tumble,
like children out of bed,
on Christmas morning.
<swissh>
Gritty thumb and forefinger,
flicking granite chips,
<plop>
a bit of garnet flashs,
quartz pearls nestled
in their sandy shell;
no nuggets yet,
black sand pasted in the crease.
No payday tonight,
no 2-step ladies,
hanging on our tales,
maybe next week,
...or the week after;
stretch my back,
swivel neck to ease the pain,
then back to dip again.
Klondike fever,
running deep,
we scour the gravel,
for one small glint,
To jump and holler,
"Gold!"
or even "Yeeha!", then
hug yer grizzled pardner.
who cares that it is
a plastic litter box,
and two pizza pans,
this afternoon
we ARE Skookum Jim
and Tagish Charlie,
and this IS The Klondike...
...with Fritos.
©1999
[teaching a 7 year old to
pan for gold - in the backyard]
Starlight
Starlight twinkles,
playing between the clouds...
he stands and listens
to the hiss of aurora,
spreading fanlike overhead,
and dreams of joining eternity...
Arms spread palms flat,
night wind strums his hair,
he feels the power,
of his fathers' calling,
tucks his knees and flies,
heaven-ward to the light,
restrained from the cosmos...
...by the rope.
©2000
playing between the clouds...
he stands and listens
to the hiss of aurora,
spreading fanlike overhead,
and dreams of joining eternity...
Arms spread palms flat,
night wind strums his hair,
he feels the power,
of his fathers' calling,
tucks his knees and flies,
heaven-ward to the light,
restrained from the cosmos...
...by the rope.
©2000
Thursday, 30 October 2014
Slowly Fading...
 |
| 'Slowly Fading' © 2014 Mark W. Law |
Ever notice how the Autumn showers seem to wash the colour out of the landscape, eventually fading to shades of grey and white?
Yesterday I was manning the griddle for a soup and sandwich at the JG's school. While waiting for the janitor to reset the breaker (damned electrical circuits!) I was able to grab a couple shots out the classroom window.
:)
Tuesday, 14 October 2014
Winter Sucks!
It can only mean one thing - the warm rain and wind liars - Winter is on the way...
Tuesday, 23 September 2014
Every person is a season
Every person is a season,
Spring people sit all winter
staring wistfully over the drifts
to worry about last Springs apple seedling.
Summer people are the first and last
to don (and shed) flip flops and tee shirts
filled with maxims and brand loyalty.
Winter folk are never happy,
unless waxing skiis or filling lungs
with noxious two-cycle oil fumes.
But Autumn people are the artists,
imagining paint daubs animated
in every falling leaf.
- mwLaw14
(attribution on image unknown - anyone know?)
(attribution on image unknown - anyone know?)
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
16-09-14
There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.
- Led Zeppelin 'Stairway to Heaven'
Monday, 15 September 2014
I believe...
I believe...
we exist beyond each other's eyes,
to transcend life not like an arrow,
but like a puffball in a western breeze,
we are born tiny footsteps on the staircase of life,
we die, alone, amongst a crowd of 7 billion,
and in between hope that after we have gone,
our name will remain on one person's lips,
craving immortality we cry at old movies,
crowfooted smiles
watching the children of strangers play,
if only for a brief moment in time
we can exist beyond each other's eyes...
- mwLaw14
we exist beyond each other's eyes,
to transcend life not like an arrow,
but like a puffball in a western breeze,
we are born tiny footsteps on the staircase of life,
we die, alone, amongst a crowd of 7 billion,
and in between hope that after we have gone,
our name will remain on one person's lips,
craving immortality we cry at old movies,
crowfooted smiles
watching the children of strangers play,
if only for a brief moment in time
we can exist beyond each other's eyes...
- mwLaw14
Sunday, 14 September 2014
Oritur...
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
- Dylan Thomas
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