Posts tagged ‘Haiku’

Feb 28

“They teach you there’s a boundary line to music. But, man, there’s no boundary line to art.” —Charlie Parker

Hear the cosmic gas sighing
Dark chords bleeding together
Primal rhythms replying
Deep-down blues grieve forever

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.

―Lao-Tzu

Feb 24

“If names are not correct, language will not be in accordance with the truth of things.” —Confucius

In 1920s Charleston, South Carolina,
a scion of its fading aristocracy,
DuBose Heyward, sparks the
Southern Renaissance of novelists,
with the first realistic portrait of
flesh-and-blood Americans of color.
The love’s story’s title is the name
of the principal character, Porgy.

People’s fates are simplified by their names.

―Elias Canetti

Feb 20

“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” —Carl Sagan

We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed
Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan
Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune
Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon

Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.

―Joe Hill

Feb 8

“The future ain’t what it used to be.” —Yogi Berra

Seer’s eyes prognosticate
Reading signs of prophesy
Previewing what comes to be
As yesterday’s ills recede

There’s no present. There’s only the immediate future and the recent past.

―George Carlin

Feb 2

“Art is beauty, the perpetual invention of detail, the choice of words, the exquisite care of execution.” —Théophile Gautier

If it’s true beauty is more than skin-deep
Is it in fat’s, muscle’s, nerve’s, or bone’s keep
Does beauty through the human form seep
Pooling deep as dreams in duvets of sleep

The human soul needs actual beauty more than bread

―D. H. Lawrence

Jan 19

2 Comments

“Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lend not your ears to lies
Look out for tells and tics
The ears hear artifice
Eyes can read lies on lips

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.

―Jean Cocteau

Jan 18

“It is now life and not art that requires the willing suspension of disbelief.” ―Lionel Trilling

Would ‘Sunflowers’ shun the light
‘Starry Night’ be canvas white
Blood be spilled by palette knife
Were life without art still life

Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.

―Oscar Wilde

Jan 8

“When did we let news become entertainment? ―Saahil Prem”

Demagogues flouting the law
Horseless carriage runs on straw
Holy man worships a whore
It’s late, but wait, there is more

Armageddon will start with the news media.

―Richie Norton

Dec 21

2 Comments

“Take those flying reindeer, Santa’s red and white color scheme, and his jolly disposition, for example. They are all probably linked to the use of hallucinogenic toad stool in ancient rituals.” —Roger Highfield

‘Twas the night before Christmas of a hazardous year
Santa was safe at home with the clan of Claus
Elves were loading gifts in Santa’s new sleigh
Reindeer were dreaming in their stalls

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

―Clement Clarke Moore

Dec 13

“Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all.” —W. Somerset Maugham

Posts tagged ‘Haiku’

Hear the cosmic gas sighing Dark chords bleeding together Primal rhythms replying Deep-down blues grieve forever

Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.

―Lao-Tzu

In 1920s Charleston, South Carolina, a scion of its fading aristocracy, DuBose Heyward, sparks the Southern Renaissance of novelists, with the first realistic portrait of flesh-and-blood Americans of color. The love’s story’s title is the name of the principal character, Porgy.

People’s fates are simplified by their names.

―Elias Canetti

We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon

Work and pray, live on hay, you’ll get pie in the sky when you die.

―Joe Hill

Seer’s eyes prognosticate Reading signs of prophesy Previewing what comes to be As yesterday’s ills recede

There’s no present. There’s only the immediate future and the recent past.

―George Carlin

If it’s true beauty is more than skin-deep Is it in fat’s, muscle’s, nerve’s, or bone’s keep Does beauty through the human form seep Pooling deep as dreams in duvets of sleep

The human soul needs actual beauty more than bread

―D. H. Lawrence

Lend not your ears to lies Look out for tells and tics The ears hear artifice Eyes can read lies on lips

The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.

―Jean Cocteau

Would ‘Sunflowers’ shun the light‘Starry Night’ be canvas whiteBlood be spilled by palette knifeWere life without art still life

Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.

―Oscar Wilde

Demagogues flouting the law Horseless carriage runs on straw Holy man worships a whore It’s late, but wait, there is more

Armageddon will start with the news media.

―Richie Norton

‘Twas the night before Christmas of a hazardous year Santa was safe at home with the clan of Claus Elves were loading gifts in Santa’s new sleigh Reindeer were dreaming in their stalls

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

―Clement Clarke Moore

Does the blossom sniff the bee In their pollinating ecstasy

If we breathe the scent of goodly grass, the fragrance of spices, the aroma of good fruits, we pronounce a blessing over the pleasure.

―Shmuel Yosef Agnon

Hear the cosmic gas sighing
Dark chords bleeding together
Primal rhythms replying
Deep-down blues grieve forever

In 1920s Charleston, South Carolina,
a scion of its fading aristocracy,
DuBose Heyward, sparks the
Southern Renaissance of novelists,
with the first realistic portrait of
flesh-and-blood Americans of color.
The love’s story’s title is the name
of the principal character, Porgy.

We played and stomped the ground on the range we once roamed
Squeezing music in and out made a wheezy moan
Breezes teasing reedy grasses, weaving a tune
Down-to-earth as cow pies on a June afternoon

Seer’s eyes prognosticate
Reading signs of prophesy
Previewing what comes to be
As yesterday’s ills recede

If it’s true beauty is more than skin-deep
Is it in fat’s, muscle’s, nerve’s, or bone’s keep
Does beauty through the human form seep
Pooling deep as dreams in duvets of sleep

Lend not your ears to lies
Look out for tells and tics
The ears hear artifice
Eyes can read lies on lips

Would ‘Sunflowers’ shun the light
‘Starry Night’ be canvas white
Blood be spilled by palette knife
Were life without art still life

Demagogues flouting the law
Horseless carriage runs on straw
Holy man worships a whore
It’s late, but wait, there is more

‘Twas the night before Christmas of a hazardous year
Santa was safe at home with the clan of Claus
Elves were loading gifts in Santa’s new sleigh
Reindeer were dreaming in their stalls

Does the blossom sniff the bee
In their pollinating ecstasy