Eve. Mezzotint Engraving by John Martin for 1825 edition of Milton's Paradise Lost. (from my personal collection).
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Sunday, March 12, 2006
The Best of Visions: This week, the top 28 best photographs from this site
...I think...
(Since, by far, most of the posts at this site have been photographs, the number I've considered "best" is rather high -- twenty-eight).
Next week, back to normal postings of new stuff.
(Since, by far, most of the posts at this site have been photographs, the number I've considered "best" is rather high -- twenty-eight).
Next week, back to normal postings of new stuff.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
The Best of Visions: This week, the "top" (only) six works of poetry from this site
Like many who fancy occasional creative expression, I've tried to pen a few works of poetry -- actually, lot of works of poetry. Such impulse comes sporadically and results in a few good works and many lame or horrid ones. On this site, I haven't taken the time to type the many written works of poetry I've done so all that I have posted are now presented here together -- which comes to the timid number of, six.
Next week I'll post the top (?) works of photography that I've thus far posted on this site. I think I've done better work in that capacity, and most of this site's postings have ultimately been photographs.
Although I've used the past few postings to present what I think to be the best that I've posted thus far in particular art mediums, these are by no means the end of my postings. I still have an infinite number of photos, drawings, and poems, as well as political cartoons, that will be posted in the future -- some which I'm pleased with and others that are mediocre at best.
Enjoy...or laugh at...
-- Cliff
Pool of Passions
Down deep, into the pool of passions plunge your hands, to surface once more images from past euphoria.
To again dwell within the sweet and timeless. Nostalgias to make real again the ecstasies of affection which had once passed between two of like substanace.
Bring your cupped hand to the air and wonder. View with selfish desire your spirit's form as it trickles back into the murky depths to once more reside in darkness.
In fierce craving, once more submerge your palms, in hopes of catching a fleeting glimpse of time, both distant yet pervasive.
View with fear the crimson gloom that stirs within the depths. Passion's pool of water reflects to eyes the warmth of memory yet to fingers only frigid chill.
Hands are not enough!
Plunge your soul deep within memories liquid tomb.
Swirl amongst the crimson gloom, inhale the demon's toxic blood, and drown within its spirit.
Crave all that was beautiful and lie still on the floor of the pool of passions.
*********************
Empathy
...Angels in gardens swaying to the beat of a hummingbird's wings,
one touched my brow and I fancied an image of light turned to lace,
one sighed and a breeze welled up within me,
one cried and I never smiled again...
*********************
November
Still snow beneath gothic walls
An iron latticework guides a few leaves which heave themselves at the noonday sun
The silhouettes of thistles etch stillness on the day around them
An abbey bell walks a narrow path to ears humbled by an allegiance to melancholy
The heavens are sad and invite you to their contemplations.
*********************
Love and Romance in the Age of Aquarius
Gendered marionettes do their minefield dance in noble allegiance to the follies of illusion
taking sides in the great dichotomy
tossing poisoned snares in hopes of a quickened bloodflow
pristine grins for a price, where all things seen sincere are fortified by well cultivated delusion.
Women with the passion of office supplies, men burping a hearty ignorance, a polarity of nonsense where puppets pay homage to their strings and the glories of a biological imperative rule the day from their distant throne
Behind the love marquee a show as dismal and cold as a microscope slide where feelings are perpetually traded for personal scientific discoveries.
*********************
The Blessings Of Worldly Predicament
We are as gods, casting the future before us,
so we may wade through it and experience our own prefabrications...
and wonder about them.
*********************
Time and the Maelstrom
Time is a cruel blade. It carves a life neatly then trails mere residue of what could have been. With a thousand gentle taps it cuts the most profound to crumbs and lays perfection in waste. It replaces active engagement with the ghosts of contemplation, and the weight of existence with the buoyant release of resignation.
Time is a feather that cracks pavement, an angel’s breath that roars, and a storm cloud that summons the advent of whispers.
Down deep, into the pool of passions plunge your hands, to surface once more images from past euphoria.
To again dwell within the sweet and timeless. Nostalgias to make real again the ecstasies of affection which had once passed between two of like substanace.
Bring your cupped hand to the air and wonder. View with selfish desire your spirit's form as it trickles back into the murky depths to once more reside in darkness.
In fierce craving, once more submerge your palms, in hopes of catching a fleeting glimpse of time, both distant yet pervasive.
View with fear the crimson gloom that stirs within the depths. Passion's pool of water reflects to eyes the warmth of memory yet to fingers only frigid chill.
Hands are not enough!
Plunge your soul deep within memories liquid tomb.
Swirl amongst the crimson gloom, inhale the demon's toxic blood, and drown within its spirit.
Crave all that was beautiful and lie still on the floor of the pool of passions.
Empathy
...Angels in gardens swaying to the beat of a hummingbird's wings,
one touched my brow and I fancied an image of light turned to lace,
one sighed and a breeze welled up within me,
one cried and I never smiled again...
November
Still snow beneath gothic walls
An iron latticework guides a few leaves which heave themselves at the noonday sun
The silhouettes of thistles etch stillness on the day around them
An abbey bell walks a narrow path to ears humbled by an allegiance to melancholy
The heavens are sad and invite you to their contemplations.
Love and Romance in the Age of Aquarius
Gendered marionettes do their minefield dance in noble allegiance to the follies of illusion
taking sides in the great dichotomy
tossing poisoned snares in hopes of a quickened bloodflow
pristine grins for a price, where all things seen sincere are fortified by well cultivated delusion.
Women with the passion of office supplies, men burping a hearty ignorance, a polarity of nonsense where puppets pay homage to their strings and the glories of a biological imperative rule the day from their distant throne
Behind the love marquee a show as dismal and cold as a microscope slide where feelings are perpetually traded for personal scientific discoveries.
The Blessings Of Worldly Predicament
We are as gods, casting the future before us,
so we may wade through it and experience our own prefabrications...
and wonder about them.
Time and the Maelstrom
Time is a cruel blade. It carves a life neatly then trails mere residue of what could have been. With a thousand gentle taps it cuts the most profound to crumbs and lays perfection in waste. It replaces active engagement with the ghosts of contemplation, and the weight of existence with the buoyant release of resignation.
Time is a feather that cracks pavement, an angel’s breath that roars, and a storm cloud that summons the advent of whispers.
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