My Picasa albums contain samples of work, school or 'just for fun' projects. It ain't sexy -which is why I haven't put it all on DA- but if you're still reading you must be bored - so might as well take a look.
The PorchYou sit in the twilight of a lifeThe Porch by bupaje
that is yet in the late afternoon.
The darkness you fear
are but shadows
cast by late summer clouds.
The wheeling ravens
you imagine ...
Only brittle leaves
blowing in a steady breeze.
Do not depart
the pleasant porch
sooner than you must.
The falling sun
will paint the sky
unseen at midday.
little birdlittle birdlittle bird by bupaje
who once upon my branches stood
where have you gone?
your nest sits empty
beneath the boughs of shady green
that i provided
that echoed in the forest glade
black silken wings
conspiracy of a dark marauder
caught your eye
you flew away
trading sweet nectar for carrion
and melodies for raucous cries
but wait ...
in the dusk fraught distance
frail blue amidst the inky plumes
is that you?
your form bedraggled ... soiled ...
can it be?
a shadow at your back pulls quills unnoticed
then casts them spiraling downwards,
flee little bird!
soon the birthright you share with angels
will be stripped from hollowed bones
and you too will fall
fly while wings you have
deep into the reaching limbs of Ash and Oak
your healing promised
return to those whose gifts are truly borne
free offerings, no malice hiding
and live little bird.
Old OakDoes the old OakOld Oak by bupaje
in darkling glade
as broad as roots
that like them grow
deep and twining?
Or as young Aspen
does it dwell
on flippant leaves
and feathered dancers
toes-tapping joy, on
Perhaps its musings
like the squirrels
from bouncing boughs
lithe questions borne
twixt earth and sky?
I am uncertain.
Yet in the dappled light
of sovereign crown
as acorns fall
a special heart
One TreeTodayOne Tree by bupaje
I saw one tree
of strong wood
of old cardboard
a family dwelt
sees one world
a shameful wall
Carnivorrr"Carnivorrrr..."Carnivorrr by bupaje
William jumped, and looked around nervously. What the heck? I'm hearing things now.
Probably the gosh awful stink from all these cow pancakes. He continued using the branch to scrape the malodorous turd from his expensive shoes.
That damn horse had crossed in front of him and forced him to veer into the ditch. Now here he was slogging across some dirt merchants field. Yeesh.
He spun around. "Hello?" He heard some scuttling behind one of the dilapidated wooden buildings. Must be one of the farmer's manure covered kids. He snickered at the thought.
The barn door was open so he stuck his head in and called out again "Hello?" No sense getting shot by some overall wearing sheep poker with an IQ of 2. He saw some vague shapes in the dark. "Is anyone there? My car veered off the road and into the ditch out front, I'm hoping you can help pull me out."
He was ticked now, running late and smelling like No
We See the CrownAge is the oceanWe See the Crown by bupaje
that hides the bulk
of the iceberg
that is a man's life.
We see the crown
of snowy white
but not the blue
of buried roots.
Only the Narwhal
who dives beneath
sees echoed waves
of mountain grandeur.
Here Be DragonsThere are places not often seen by men today, forgotten as we rush about our tasks or battle with acrimonious and hate filled words. In older times these might be marked on a map with the words 'here be dragons'.Here Be Dragons by bupaje
Where are these places to be found at a time when our geography has never been more clear? Haven't we mapped the earth, the stars and the ocean? Haven't we charted molecules and the tangled threads of DNA? Haven't we explored the surface of the moon and the craters of Mars?
These forgotten lands, hidden behind an overgrowth of ignorance and neglect, are the lands of our own hearts. By focusing on that which has little value we weigh the worth of the world, and its people, with short weights and false scales. We pay our dues to others with shaved coins, cheating them of the full value of the love, respect, dignity, opportunity or material support which they are due.
It is time for us to leave the comfortable chairs and ideologies of our walled cities to become explorers again.
Winter's TrailWhen last you walk on winter's trail,Winter's Trail by bupaje
and reach the highest snowy pass,
to stare beyond the veil of ice
at hidden valley's wonder
You'll have some time to turn your head
and read a tale of slips and falls
rime brightened and inked
on frosty Gaia's landscape.
A life thus spied, from airy height
is given form by distance,
joys and regrets, once estranged
now bound like storied pages.
No single footprint writes the verse
that tells the traveler's legend,
each choice, each deed
a word inscribed, to infamy or glory.
I hope that when you reach that place,
you'll smile at what was written,
turn your heel, pick up the pace
and to far mountain hasten.