(Author's Note: "Stimmung" from the German which means "the Essential Spirit" of Nature and is inspired by Wassily Kandinsky's "Concerning the Spiritual In Art". Kandinsky (1866-1944) is regarded as the father of Modern Abstact Expressionism.)
Air and Sky
Cloud and Rain
Fire and Earth
Line and Plane
Color with Light
Form with Space
Star with Night
Moon with Face
To Be to Feel
To Feel to See
To See to Dream
To Dream to Be
Truth is Whole
Part by Part
Of the Soul
Elf of Art
Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seasons of Bonaire
( Author's note: Haiku or Haikus, from Japanese "hai", amusement, from Middle Chinese and Japanese "ku", sentence, also from Middle Chinese. A Japanese lyric verse traditionally invoking an aspect of nature or the seasons.)
Albatross in flight
to and fro the Summer shores
directing the show.
Fall colors arrive
when playgoers from huge ships
haunt the cabaret.
Shorter days prevail.
The sun acts disinterested
in Winter sketches.
Hint of humid air
cues thespians of the reefs
for Spring rehersals.
Balmy Summer breeze
serenades the august heart
of the albatross.
The island cacti
discreetly pass their spent blooms
into Autumn's womb.
Where's the iguana
who Winter cloisters in caves
wary of strangers?
With dawn's Spring colors
flamingoes pose on the slough
pretending roses.
Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
Albatross in flight
to and fro the Summer shores
directing the show.
Fall colors arrive
when playgoers from huge ships
haunt the cabaret.
Shorter days prevail.
The sun acts disinterested
in Winter sketches.
Hint of humid air
cues thespians of the reefs
for Spring rehersals.
Balmy Summer breeze
serenades the august heart
of the albatross.
The island cacti
discreetly pass their spent blooms
into Autumn's womb.
Where's the iguana
who Winter cloisters in caves
wary of strangers?
With dawn's Spring colors
flamingoes pose on the slough
pretending roses.
Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
Friday, May 15, 2009
Ode to Innere Notwendigkeit
( Author's Note: The English translation of the title to this poem is:
"The Inner Need". Its inspiration is derived from Wassily Kandinsky's
"Concerning the Spiritual In Art". Kandinsky is considered the father
of Modern Abstract Expressionism.)
At the shadows of twilight
when the cadmium sphere is washed by the sea,
the cerulean band which shone like crystal,
bright as lapis lazuli-
translucent to endless heavens-
I sit and watch its golden layers flee
like frightened vapors scattering in air,
trailing away , ever fainter, ever weaker,
as the azure mirrors laid stretched across the sea.
When arrives the mystic moment of dream-silence
where the solitude of night awakens
colors the ears have not heard,
sounds the eyes not seen.
And with the dim of evening air
descends a world of contracting florescence.
Impinging its sacrilege, the vesperal invader
spares no image
untouched.
From the blurred horizon to the moon's height
plays the waning dirge.
Departed, the iridescent shades of day
scraped from Nature's canvas
as with a scapel, leaving
heaven's blue dome
vaulted,
void,
glazed.
The tones of day no longer seen,
its sounds as quiet as dead.
The monotone of cicada song
soothes my eyes with blue.
My ears ring with murmur
of the violet wind.
Ivory moonbeams cool
the burnt umbered earth, echoing
the sound of rumbling waves
as the night owl cast his vigilence
like the ocher rays of day.
I hear the rainbow play
its colored xylophone,
see the bat's sharp call
in the deep it flies alone.
And the clouds upon their sailing rack
dance the minuet above
the garden bloom of roses
pink,
white
and red.
The sounds of the night,
the colors of the day;
the sounds of day,
the colors of night.
And I revolving
midst this panorama
that I create as with a click!
a camera that needs no light, no day
to frame the image of my illusions,
nor sanctioned as to time or place,
for my eyes may hear
and my ears may see
what the heart desires to feel-
every hue,
every sound,
every dream which exist-
all are of the spirit
which is free,
which is me.
Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
"The Inner Need". Its inspiration is derived from Wassily Kandinsky's
"Concerning the Spiritual In Art". Kandinsky is considered the father
of Modern Abstract Expressionism.)
At the shadows of twilight
when the cadmium sphere is washed by the sea,
the cerulean band which shone like crystal,
bright as lapis lazuli-
translucent to endless heavens-
I sit and watch its golden layers flee
like frightened vapors scattering in air,
trailing away , ever fainter, ever weaker,
as the azure mirrors laid stretched across the sea.
When arrives the mystic moment of dream-silence
where the solitude of night awakens
colors the ears have not heard,
sounds the eyes not seen.
And with the dim of evening air
descends a world of contracting florescence.
Impinging its sacrilege, the vesperal invader
spares no image
untouched.
From the blurred horizon to the moon's height
plays the waning dirge.
Departed, the iridescent shades of day
scraped from Nature's canvas
as with a scapel, leaving
heaven's blue dome
vaulted,
void,
glazed.
The tones of day no longer seen,
its sounds as quiet as dead.
The monotone of cicada song
soothes my eyes with blue.
My ears ring with murmur
of the violet wind.
Ivory moonbeams cool
the burnt umbered earth, echoing
the sound of rumbling waves
as the night owl cast his vigilence
like the ocher rays of day.
I hear the rainbow play
its colored xylophone,
see the bat's sharp call
in the deep it flies alone.
And the clouds upon their sailing rack
dance the minuet above
the garden bloom of roses
pink,
white
and red.
The sounds of the night,
the colors of the day;
the sounds of day,
the colors of night.
And I revolving
midst this panorama
that I create as with a click!
a camera that needs no light, no day
to frame the image of my illusions,
nor sanctioned as to time or place,
for my eyes may hear
and my ears may see
what the heart desires to feel-
every hue,
every sound,
every dream which exist-
all are of the spirit
which is free,
which is me.
Copyright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
Friday, May 1, 2009
The Island
The fog thickened
over the island
like soup.
Was it still evening,
or had morning risen?
Silence can be an artful teacher,
but just now it leaves me lost.
Somewhere from the catalogue
of my dreams I've neatly filed
in moments of time and place
the hope to arrive,
somewhere,
like the crest of the Matterhorn,
or strands once strolled
along wind-swept seas who speak
in tongues of vanished lands.
Now, the dream's renewed,
and I, anxious to repair,
when this time, this chance will prove
to be the long awaited Bodhi,
or Nirvana
or Promised Land.
So many times the hope,
the dream-
And I, confused by this dimension
whereupon the surface lacks
a map, address or name,
yet utters the depths of my being,
echoing in the den of memory,
rippling in deep chasms of the heart.
Copywright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
over the island
like soup.
Was it still evening,
or had morning risen?
Silence can be an artful teacher,
but just now it leaves me lost.
Somewhere from the catalogue
of my dreams I've neatly filed
in moments of time and place
the hope to arrive,
somewhere,
like the crest of the Matterhorn,
or strands once strolled
along wind-swept seas who speak
in tongues of vanished lands.
Now, the dream's renewed,
and I, anxious to repair,
when this time, this chance will prove
to be the long awaited Bodhi,
or Nirvana
or Promised Land.
So many times the hope,
the dream-
And I, confused by this dimension
whereupon the surface lacks
a map, address or name,
yet utters the depths of my being,
echoing in the den of memory,
rippling in deep chasms of the heart.
Copywright 2009 Francis Don Daniels
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