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 Stories We TellSometimes we forget,The Stories We Tell by bupaje
as we travel through our lives,
that everything we see
is itself a complete story
and not just a prop,
or a sentence
in our personal narrative.
What type of people would we be
if we read more
than the covers of the books
we pass on the street?
Who would we become
if we could more fully see
of the people and things
we share the world with?
We are surrounded by a universe
far richer than we imagine.
is itself a world
worthy of consideration,
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
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.
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.
Where Goes the Mismatched Man?Where goes the mismatched man,Where Goes the Mismatched Man? by bupaje
I passed along my way?
His seven fingered hands were coal
his yard long toes were clay.
His knotted wooden head was oak,
thrust up - a great whale breaching.
His shoulders seemed a parapet,
far beyond my reaching.
I trembled as he thundered by,
so daunting was his strangeness,
he seemed to be made of spare parts,
malevolent and brainless.
With torso wide as sandy beach
and legs like redwood lumber.
I thought for sure, he'd eat me whole,
then lay down for a slumber.
Just before he disappeared
he turned - our eyes connected,
his story flashed within my mind,
it was totally unexpected.
He goes where others cannot see
for fear of drawing laughter.
while tears like tiny waterfalls,
trail down his chin thereafter.
They flood his beard of mossy green,
filled with salamanders,
while riotous robes of lichen hide
what on his chest meanders.
He spies us from the wildern