These are paintings and poems created with my dear friend and collaborator, Dan Stone.
You can learn more about Dan here:
http://firstadream.com
Many of you know that Dan Stone and I have joyfully been collaborating for years to create paintings and accompanying poems, many of which have been featured in shows at the J. Pepin art gallery in Portland, OR.
Now we’re excited to announce the publication of our first book collection of original paintings and poems, titled “Present Perfect”—a perfect gift idea for upcoming holiday presents!
Our intention is always to combine words and images in an effort to inspire and evoke awareness and personal power and possibility—and fun. We hope that viewing and reading this work brings as much pleasure and encouragement—and magic—as we experienced creating it!
9746544-present-perfect
If you have any questions about any of the pieces contact Jennifer Pepin at J. Pepin Art Gallery:
http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
You can also message me at:
https://www.facebook.com/CherTheArt or chertheart@gmail.com
SOLD
The Work
What brings you here,
the Artist asks
and so the work begins.
A question’s posed
and just like that
a crowd appears.
It may seem only one--
or two—are here
but any therapist
worth her pen and pad
has ears that hear
past what is said,
what seems real,
to what is true,
knows every group
will have its say.
The elephant in the room
will have its day.
See the flower on the wall?
She wants to dance.
Ask and watch her bloom.
See the little girl with
the dolly in her arms?
She wants to play.
A little boy just wishes
he could be the poem,
the Lily—fragile, yes,
but free. The Artist
sees between the bricks,
the sinew, muscles,
edges, solid lines
and thick cement,
to all the delicate
bends and curves,
flaws and inconsistencies,
the soft and vital nonsense
of the moon outside
the telling window
and the looming wisdom
in the squeaking mouse,
the pup’s attentive eyes.
And always, a critic--
or is that her mother--
sits nearby, overseeing, overthinking, and yes,
in her own way, caring,
wondering: Are we
over sharing?
Does our reach
exceed our grasp?
How does that
make you feel,
the little birdie asks.
If she’s an Artist
who discloses
she might pause,
her brush poised
in mid-air over canvas,
and reply, it’s torturous
and sublime.
It’s scary, messy,
every time—
and the work I have to do.
Or she might shrug
off any need or claim
for diagnosis,
say, it’s just the deal,
the treatment not the cure.
And sign her name.
Poem by Dan Stone
The Work
What brings you here,
the Artist asks
and so the work begins.
A question’s posed
and just like that
a crowd appears.
It may seem only one--
or two—are here
but any therapist
worth her pen and pad
has ears that hear
past what is said,
what seems real,
to what is true,
knows every group
will have its say.
The elephant in the room
will have its day.
See the flower on the wall?
She wants to dance.
Ask and watch her bloom.
See the little girl with
the dolly in her arms?
She wants to play.
A little boy just wishes
he could be the poem,
the Lily—fragile, yes,
but free. The Artist
sees between the bricks,
the sinew, muscles,
edges, solid lines
and thick cement,
to all the delicate
bends and curves,
flaws and inconsistencies,
the soft and vital nonsense
of the moon outside
the telling window
and the looming wisdom
in the squeaking mouse,
the pup’s attentive eyes.
And always, a critic--
or is that her mother--
sits nearby, overseeing, overthinking, and yes,
in her own way, caring,
wondering: Are we
over sharing?
Does our reach
exceed our grasp?
How does that
make you feel,
the little birdie asks.
If she’s an Artist
who discloses
she might pause,
her brush poised
in mid-air over canvas,
and reply, it’s torturous
and sublime.
It’s scary, messy,
every time—
and the work I have to do.
Or she might shrug
off any need or claim
for diagnosis,
say, it’s just the deal,
the treatment not the cure.
And sign her name.
Poem by Dan Stone
Don't Worry Be Happy
Grace
I stepped outside
this morning
asking myself
what gifts
what surprises
waited just beyond
my unbolted door.
I’ve made this stroll
my daily practice
for so long,
my walking meditation
just to wander
past my cozy rooms,
notice where it leads,
how it lifts.
If I take just
a few steps
with these tired
but able legs
these still willing feet
what opens
like a baby’s eyes for me?
What old friends?
What precious prizes?
And oh, just look
at what I found,
what blooms
now in my arms
after I put down
all the trouble
and the brittle bones
of trying I picked up
along the way.
Look at this day
fresh cut from the sun,
dying, yes, but still
alive right now,
ablaze with grace,
faces smiling, shining
with good news,
freshly spun,
with the utter
and unfailing truth,
the one the blackbirds
love to sing,
the final, ringing yes
that this lifetime
looking up at me
is all that’s left to do,
that I’m nothing more
or less than free
to savor this sweet
golden bunch
of everything.
Poem by Dan Stone
Poem and title coming soon
My Hands
I look down at my hands
the scaffolding
of bone the thin
crinkled paper
of my skin
and my palms’ geography
and I wonder
at the smallness
and the intricacy
of this familiar land,
at how I manage
anything at all
how I build or grow.
I wonder at the large
truths slipping through
my fingers and what
purpose they could
ever serve.
My neck starts to ache
from looking down
so I lift my eyes
remember how
to look around
look beyond
but the question
hovers, buzzes,
still wants to know
what hands like these
could ever do.
And suddenly
the answer rings:
“Everything.”
The revelation sings.
I hold it all
as far and wide
as distant, close,
as I can dream
as there can be.
It’s my mystery
to name to solve
my destiny
to choose, embrace,
uncover and create.
My world rests
in my open hands
waits for me
to just reach out,
give the messenger
a place to land.
Poem by Dan Stone
I look down at my hands
the scaffolding
of bone the thin
crinkled paper
of my skin
and my palms’ geography
and I wonder
at the smallness
and the intricacy
of this familiar land,
at how I manage
anything at all
how I build or grow.
I wonder at the large
truths slipping through
my fingers and what
purpose they could
ever serve.
My neck starts to ache
from looking down
so I lift my eyes
remember how
to look around
look beyond
but the question
hovers, buzzes,
still wants to know
what hands like these
could ever do.
And suddenly
the answer rings:
“Everything.”
The revelation sings.
I hold it all
as far and wide
as distant, close,
as I can dream
as there can be.
It’s my mystery
to name to solve
my destiny
to choose, embrace,
uncover and create.
My world rests
in my open hands
waits for me
to just reach out,
give the messenger
a place to land.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Tiny Windows
SOLD
Tiny Town
This Cup
What’s landed here?
What lights, takes a sip
and points the way?
See how bright.
No clouded cheer.
No dreary curtains
dim this scene.
“How dare! You say.”
with all the work
there is to do,
with so much
gone astray,
claim this break,
desert the fray,
enjoy this cup.
There’s hard truth
in those words,
demanding, pleading
to be heard.
Sorrow, pain,
is knocking at the door
it seems, always.
And yet, it is a day.
It fell out of another
giving hand,
listened to another
morning’s call.
The sun grows tall.
Friends stop by,
pay their respects,
drop fresh-picked
lessons in my lap.
This pause breathes.
Air washes in.
Soothes like
honeyed tea,
leaves me feeling
I’ve been served.
It’s just a spell
I sit, wait a while
before I stand again.
It’s the nothing
that is everything.
It’s the less
that’s more,
the rest my
war-torn heart
needs to wake.
It’s my enough.
My stop and start,
my chance
to live to tell.
If that offends,
disturbs,
oh well.
Poem by Dan Stone
What’s landed here?
What lights, takes a sip
and points the way?
See how bright.
No clouded cheer.
No dreary curtains
dim this scene.
“How dare! You say.”
with all the work
there is to do,
with so much
gone astray,
claim this break,
desert the fray,
enjoy this cup.
There’s hard truth
in those words,
demanding, pleading
to be heard.
Sorrow, pain,
is knocking at the door
it seems, always.
And yet, it is a day.
It fell out of another
giving hand,
listened to another
morning’s call.
The sun grows tall.
Friends stop by,
pay their respects,
drop fresh-picked
lessons in my lap.
This pause breathes.
Air washes in.
Soothes like
honeyed tea,
leaves me feeling
I’ve been served.
It’s just a spell
I sit, wait a while
before I stand again.
It’s the nothing
that is everything.
It’s the less
that’s more,
the rest my
war-torn heart
needs to wake.
It’s my enough.
My stop and start,
my chance
to live to tell.
If that offends,
disturbs,
oh well.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Love Birds - SOLD
SOLD
Lean In
How much power
in a prayer?
How much do you think?
To measure you could
add up your beliefs
hold them up to
clarifying sun
count them out loud
or silently.
Notice, how difficult
to do this is
while keeping your head
bowed, your mind
still, when your will
to know unhitches
like a cart
from its horse,
keeps careening on
with no idea
where it stops.
When the numbers
start to spin,
the words you use
to hold on
to make sense
are on the run,
and there you are--
disconnected
and unhinged,
on some craggy brink,
let that lost
sensation lead,
show you
what it brings to light.
Close your eyes
fold your hands
breathe in, out,
like you care
what you’re about,
like you recognize
what prayer means.
Just lean in
to hunches you hear
moving one by one,
attend to messages
in flight, soft wings
landing softly
on your shoulders,
to the observant
and responsive moon
shining on that spot
where you stand,
to the bowls that sing.
Poem by Dan Stone
Lean In
How much power
in a prayer?
How much do you think?
To measure you could
add up your beliefs
hold them up to
clarifying sun
count them out loud
or silently.
Notice, how difficult
to do this is
while keeping your head
bowed, your mind
still, when your will
to know unhitches
like a cart
from its horse,
keeps careening on
with no idea
where it stops.
When the numbers
start to spin,
the words you use
to hold on
to make sense
are on the run,
and there you are--
disconnected
and unhinged,
on some craggy brink,
let that lost
sensation lead,
show you
what it brings to light.
Close your eyes
fold your hands
breathe in, out,
like you care
what you’re about,
like you recognize
what prayer means.
Just lean in
to hunches you hear
moving one by one,
attend to messages
in flight, soft wings
landing softly
on your shoulders,
to the observant
and responsive moon
shining on that spot
where you stand,
to the bowls that sing.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Levitation
Not really sure
what happened.
We were just
standing here,
as serious and proper
as we get,
resting our bitch faces.
Some wise ass
must have spoken.
With this crowd
that’s all it takes
to get us gassed.
Get us snickering
and snorting
and we’re like
balloons that never land.
Next thing you know
we’re reaching
for each other’s hands.
We’ve kicked off
a party, sans what
weighs us down
and our spirits,
they just rise.
It’s a full blown
levitation and it
happens every time
we all forget
to stand apart.
We’re sure as hell
no straight line.
Not a circle.
Those get broken.
More a running gag,
a naked exaltation
that just catches on,
like something
we don’t like to say
out loud we want.
It’s sneaky joy that’s
so contagious,
so outrageous,
hearts just open
like some pearly gates,
freeing all that
friendship and
appreciation.
And not just a little.
This is saints
and sinners giving
a good time,
a big old shot,
then letting
our light heels
like bluebirds fly.
If you’re skeptical
make a few calls.
Assemble one or two
or ten or twelve
who you think might
be willing to
go all out,
at least to try
just letting loose,
see how it feels.
Then, take turns
trading tickles,
making funny faces,
daring yourselves
not to giggle.
Poem by Dan Stone
Levitation
Not really sure
what happened.
We were just
standing here,
as serious and proper
as we get,
resting our bitch faces.
Some wise ass
must have spoken.
With this crowd
that’s all it takes
to get us gassed.
Get us snickering
and snorting
and we’re like
balloons that never land.
Next thing you know
we’re reaching
for each other’s hands.
We’ve kicked off
a party, sans what
weighs us down
and our spirits,
they just rise.
It’s a full blown
levitation and it
happens every time
we all forget
to stand apart.
We’re sure as hell
no straight line.
Not a circle.
Those get broken.
More a running gag,
a naked exaltation
that just catches on,
like something
we don’t like to say
out loud we want.
It’s sneaky joy that’s
so contagious,
so outrageous,
hearts just open
like some pearly gates,
freeing all that
friendship and
appreciation.
And not just a little.
This is saints
and sinners giving
a good time,
a big old shot,
then letting
our light heels
like bluebirds fly.
If you’re skeptical
make a few calls.
Assemble one or two
or ten or twelve
who you think might
be willing to
go all out,
at least to try
just letting loose,
see how it feels.
Then, take turns
trading tickles,
making funny faces,
daring yourselves
not to giggle.
Poem by Dan Stone
Spouting Poetry
SOLD
A Bit of Everything
If you drop by
unannounced
you’ll likely find
my house in disarray.
My sketches loosely
scattered on my desk,
pots of dented color
like an oily prism,
brushes soaking
in their muddled glass.
You might think it a mess.
Or you might say
it’s genius doing
what she does best.
You might look
past all that and see
my soul hanging on the walls,
the worlds I make,
all the places where
I’ve travel in my mind’s
ever wandering eye
as far and wide as I can see
or near and dear
as a kitty’s paw fishing
in the bowl,
that here and now,
that purposefully.
I haven’t dusted
in a while or been
caught vacuuming
but my imagination
is a falcon’s wing
and I’ve learned to sing
and not care how I’m heard,
just by opening my door,
my beating heart, to you,
to this and that,
to what’s ahead
and all that came before,
to how my art stays true,
bleeds through,
teaches me
a bit of everything.
Poem by Dan Stone
A Bit of Everything
If you drop by
unannounced
you’ll likely find
my house in disarray.
My sketches loosely
scattered on my desk,
pots of dented color
like an oily prism,
brushes soaking
in their muddled glass.
You might think it a mess.
Or you might say
it’s genius doing
what she does best.
You might look
past all that and see
my soul hanging on the walls,
the worlds I make,
all the places where
I’ve travel in my mind’s
ever wandering eye
as far and wide as I can see
or near and dear
as a kitty’s paw fishing
in the bowl,
that here and now,
that purposefully.
I haven’t dusted
in a while or been
caught vacuuming
but my imagination
is a falcon’s wing
and I’ve learned to sing
and not care how I’m heard,
just by opening my door,
my beating heart, to you,
to this and that,
to what’s ahead
and all that came before,
to how my art stays true,
bleeds through,
teaches me
a bit of everything.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Vulnerable
I made a list
of all the words
I love, the ones
that sing and ping
like crystal bells,
like angels choiring.
I taped it to the wall.
‘Bold’ and ‘Fearless’
‘Sure’ and ‘Strong’
‘Shining’ ‘Powerful’
‘Fulfilled, ‘Inspiring,’
were at or near the top.
I stared at them a while.
I tried reading them out loud.
My voice, my countenance
fell flat as the paper
they were written on.
Words meant to fly
were just small, barely heard,
looking back at me
like so many bugs.
I took them down.
The walls were naked, bare,
exposed, alone, like me.
I’d thought a crowd
would gather
like my lofty thoughts--
perhaps, applaud.
I’d thought confidence
might course through
my veins like the lava
of a drug
only to withdraw,
come back, go in,
get very still.
I heard a voice whisper,
will you listen now?
I breathed in,
breathed out,
I said “Okay. I will.”
“The word you need
isn’t there,” it said,
“It’s right here,
written on your skin,
stretched thin across
your bones, falling
like the hair across
your lowered eyes,
your vulnerable curve
of spine, the wound
and medicine
that you call your heart
and everything
it wants you to learn.”
I knew right then
those words were arrows
aimed and true.
Was it providence?
A higher self or inner guide?
The voice of God?
I’m not sure.
I just felt the wisdom
breeze in on wide, black
feathered wings,
descend and land
on tiny feet,
pecking at the ground,
messengers,
giving me the nod.
Poem by Dan Stone
Vulnerable
I made a list
of all the words
I love, the ones
that sing and ping
like crystal bells,
like angels choiring.
I taped it to the wall.
‘Bold’ and ‘Fearless’
‘Sure’ and ‘Strong’
‘Shining’ ‘Powerful’
‘Fulfilled, ‘Inspiring,’
were at or near the top.
I stared at them a while.
I tried reading them out loud.
My voice, my countenance
fell flat as the paper
they were written on.
Words meant to fly
were just small, barely heard,
looking back at me
like so many bugs.
I took them down.
The walls were naked, bare,
exposed, alone, like me.
I’d thought a crowd
would gather
like my lofty thoughts--
perhaps, applaud.
I’d thought confidence
might course through
my veins like the lava
of a drug
only to withdraw,
come back, go in,
get very still.
I heard a voice whisper,
will you listen now?
I breathed in,
breathed out,
I said “Okay. I will.”
“The word you need
isn’t there,” it said,
“It’s right here,
written on your skin,
stretched thin across
your bones, falling
like the hair across
your lowered eyes,
your vulnerable curve
of spine, the wound
and medicine
that you call your heart
and everything
it wants you to learn.”
I knew right then
those words were arrows
aimed and true.
Was it providence?
A higher self or inner guide?
The voice of God?
I’m not sure.
I just felt the wisdom
breeze in on wide, black
feathered wings,
descend and land
on tiny feet,
pecking at the ground,
messengers,
giving me the nod.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Offerings
We all feel its draw,
its pull, the moon’s
magnetic, meditative call,
whether looming,
lighting the night sky
or a lantern
tugging at our tides
right here in this room.
It’s the same guide
offering herself
high above and deep below
every land
every language
every hemisphere,
outside every window
inside every space,
every silence we allow.
When we’re still
she moves.
When we look in,
look through,
she appears.
When we’re here now,
when we stop
she begins.
When we ask she sends
her messengers
bearing gifts,
her offerings,
her shimmering--
her luminous responses--
soothing and restoring,
giving and receiving,
asking only
that we bring,
our believing.
Serenely present
for our prayers, our pleas,
our rooted, blooming
exaltations and our
sea-tossed sorrowing.
Always there
through every phase,
knowing what we need,
teaching us her ways,
accepting all our offerings.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Our Hands
What can we say
about what matters here?
What’s brought us
to this--
fatigued, spent,
our back
and shoulders
bent, weighed down.
What statement
shall we make
about this state
we’re in?
Should we look around?
Within?
How can we begin
another brave ascent?
So easy
at this stage
to fold or fade,
to focus
on the cost,
what we stand
to lose,
what we’ve lost,
and most of all,
forget . . .
what we’ve seen,
where we’ve been,
what it takes.
Sometimes
it’s not clear.
Other times
the answer
is in our hands
or hanging
on our walls.
Hope, fresh cut,
blooming in a vase,
Faith in each other,
unity, punching
through our fears,
a fist clenched
with purpose,
reaching for the sky
revealing every
single face we are,
reminding us
to rise, to sing,
inspired as an angel choir,
urging us
to breathe again,
believe, stand up,
stand tall, require
us to recover
what we miss.
Revive our chase
for all that we hold dear.
Resist.
Poem by Dan Stone
Our Hands
What can we say
about what matters here?
What’s brought us
to this--
fatigued, spent,
our back
and shoulders
bent, weighed down.
What statement
shall we make
about this state
we’re in?
Should we look around?
Within?
How can we begin
another brave ascent?
So easy
at this stage
to fold or fade,
to focus
on the cost,
what we stand
to lose,
what we’ve lost,
and most of all,
forget . . .
what we’ve seen,
where we’ve been,
what it takes.
Sometimes
it’s not clear.
Other times
the answer
is in our hands
or hanging
on our walls.
Hope, fresh cut,
blooming in a vase,
Faith in each other,
unity, punching
through our fears,
a fist clenched
with purpose,
reaching for the sky
revealing every
single face we are,
reminding us
to rise, to sing,
inspired as an angel choir,
urging us
to breathe again,
believe, stand up,
stand tall, require
us to recover
what we miss.
Revive our chase
for all that we hold dear.
Resist.
Poem by Dan Stone
Title and poem coming soon
Do Not Disturb
If I seem startled
it’s because
I didn’t see you
standing there.
Unexpected guests,
visitors stopping by
to check on me
or pay respects,
not unlike judgements,
may seem benign,
benevolent, perhaps.
It may appear
they’re being kind,
pointing friendly fingers
toward a truth.
The fact that
it’s not mine
is often moot.
I watch their eyes
discreetly roam,
pause, return,
noting what’s amiss.
Could be the pup
that they pretend to like,
growling softly at my side,
could be unfashionable
furniture, could be the dress.
It’s always something
I’m not quite getting right.
The questions tell me
all I need to know,
remind me of the energy
and time it takes
to be polite, to make
the ‘effort’ . . .
that word says it all . . .
I remember why I hide.
I wait, less and less,
for the chance to say
I need to work,
that inspiration won’t--
wait, that is.
We artists have a way
of getting off the hook,
because, you know,
“The Muse” . . .
Thank god
for eccentricity,
the privilege to plead
“Do not disturb”,
explain,how busy I will be,
to need no lame excuse,
to make no weak
apology for the mess.
What a perk,
when well meaning
vistors depart,
dispensing with
the usual protocol,
and from the heart,
to earnestly suggest,
“Don’t call, let me”.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sweet Reward
Did you see the sign
hanging on the door?
Were you surprised?
Sometimes we all need
to not be disturbed.
To settle down
and settle in,
to lose the last
damn we had to give
and just remember
how it feels to live
a little more,
to soak like pearls,
to chill like Chardonnay,
indulging nothing
and nobody else.
Not today.
Seems a rather
selfish blurb, yes?
Then I’ve said it well.
I’ve earned this rest,
learned my lessons,
honed my craft,
labored to release
obsessions, passed
several tricky tests.
It’s my sweet reward
to sink into this bliss
I’ve drawn, to read what someone else
has paid their price to tell,
to dodge my woes
assemble every friend
who’ll heed my call
to leave me be
but still stay close
and love me,
even like this.
Poem by Dan Stone
Did you see the sign
hanging on the door?
Were you surprised?
Sometimes we all need
to not be disturbed.
To settle down
and settle in,
to lose the last
damn we had to give
and just remember
how it feels to live
a little more,
to soak like pearls,
to chill like Chardonnay,
indulging nothing
and nobody else.
Not today.
Seems a rather
selfish blurb, yes?
Then I’ve said it well.
I’ve earned this rest,
learned my lessons,
honed my craft,
labored to release
obsessions, passed
several tricky tests.
It’s my sweet reward
to sink into this bliss
I’ve drawn, to read what someone else
has paid their price to tell,
to dodge my woes
assemble every friend
who’ll heed my call
to leave me be
but still stay close
and love me,
even like this.
Poem by Dan Stone
Attitude
I wear this look
to feel my attitude.
I like to take it out
and dress it up
A peekaboo,
a few strategic
strings of pearls,
Clearly not a prude,
I’ve been known
to play it anyway
but by the book,
to strut my stuff
all by myself
just because
it gets me high
to clean up good
and still be
just a little bad.
just for the hell
of knowing why.
I paint my best style
in this natural light
near the window,
where I strike
a studied pose.
It may be staged
but it’s no lie.
I’m being me,
just, more or less.
Ready for what’s next,
or what I don’t expect.
One never knows
who might stop by.
Poem by Dan Stone
I wear this look
to feel my attitude.
I like to take it out
and dress it up
A peekaboo,
a few strategic
strings of pearls,
Clearly not a prude,
I’ve been known
to play it anyway
but by the book,
to strut my stuff
all by myself
just because
it gets me high
to clean up good
and still be
just a little bad.
just for the hell
of knowing why.
I paint my best style
in this natural light
near the window,
where I strike
a studied pose.
It may be staged
but it’s no lie.
I’m being me,
just, more or less.
Ready for what’s next,
or what I don’t expect.
One never knows
who might stop by.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Matriculation
“You’re so tall.”
I’ve been hearing
this like news
since I turned
the corner
from eleven to twelve.
Since hormones
started rocketing
toward the moon.
It never made me
cool in school
except in basketball.
Or when no other
arm could reach
the shelf.
Thank the stars
not only in my eyes,
but strewn across
the hood
of sky I wear,
there came a time
I didn’t care.
A sweet graduation.
I’d learned all I could
from afar, from others’
shorter observations.
I’d done all I would
to earn
matriculation.
Now the ball
is in my long
and open court.
I lead a team
of willing birds
with only songs
to teach,
and only dreams
to take long strides
toward, my only
obligation—free
all my expectations,
Sing, stand up straight
and tall.
Poem by Dan Stone
Matriculation
“You’re so tall.”
I’ve been hearing
this like news
since I turned
the corner
from eleven to twelve.
Since hormones
started rocketing
toward the moon.
It never made me
cool in school
except in basketball.
Or when no other
arm could reach
the shelf.
Thank the stars
not only in my eyes,
but strewn across
the hood
of sky I wear,
there came a time
I didn’t care.
A sweet graduation.
I’d learned all I could
from afar, from others’
shorter observations.
I’d done all I would
to earn
matriculation.
Now the ball
is in my long
and open court.
I lead a team
of willing birds
with only songs
to teach,
and only dreams
to take long strides
toward, my only
obligation—free
all my expectations,
Sing, stand up straight
and tall.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
On the Move
Guess who’s on
the move again.
If you said, a Fool,
a Dreamer, Wanderer,
who’s stirred by whims,
whose hunches
are her entourage,
her angel band
and faithful crew,
then you’re not wrong.
Even if your lips
curled in a sneer,
your eyes frowned.
I’m past the point
where skeptics
make sounds I can hear,
where laughs at my expense
and puffed up rules apply.
I learned long ago
as long as I pay
no attention,
I can rise,
prevail, shine.
My only mandate
is to listen,
trust the ears
tuned precisely
to the one and only
heartbeat—mine,
breathe and then
believe my eyes
to see this dream
that bubbles now
like a crystal spring
so deep inside,
take the absolutely
necessary step--
move my feet--
and let this blessed
ever present
never failing light,
lead.
Poem by Dan Stone
On the Move
Guess who’s on
the move again.
If you said, a Fool,
a Dreamer, Wanderer,
who’s stirred by whims,
whose hunches
are her entourage,
her angel band
and faithful crew,
then you’re not wrong.
Even if your lips
curled in a sneer,
your eyes frowned.
I’m past the point
where skeptics
make sounds I can hear,
where laughs at my expense
and puffed up rules apply.
I learned long ago
as long as I pay
no attention,
I can rise,
prevail, shine.
My only mandate
is to listen,
trust the ears
tuned precisely
to the one and only
heartbeat—mine,
breathe and then
believe my eyes
to see this dream
that bubbles now
like a crystal spring
so deep inside,
take the absolutely
necessary step--
move my feet--
and let this blessed
ever present
never failing light,
lead.
Poem by Dan Stone
Seers
Which way now?
What’s next?
I’m sure I’ve heard.
I’m sure I know.
Just not out loud yet.
This light behind
me isn’t real.
No one else’s vision
painted on a wall
can lead, prevail.
No one else’s song
can sing exactly how I feel.
I’ve learned although
it may be quiet in a crowd,
my truth won’t
hush for long.
Guidance pulsing
in my chest, flashing
in my searching eyes
won’t fail.
My trusted friends
will guard my path
knowing what I need.
They hear my heart
beat in my hand
They’re seers who get
that even though
I just stand here
where I am,
even though I’m still,
like a willing post, a tree,
my intuition calls,
whispers to my will
like the omniscient wind.
My wisdom, power,
like my blood, my breath,
my storming fears,
all move at
the appointed hour,
all flow right here,
all go where
what will be, will be
what I will make.
Like everything
that waits for me.
Poem by Dan Stone
Which way now?
What’s next?
I’m sure I’ve heard.
I’m sure I know.
Just not out loud yet.
This light behind
me isn’t real.
No one else’s vision
painted on a wall
can lead, prevail.
No one else’s song
can sing exactly how I feel.
I’ve learned although
it may be quiet in a crowd,
my truth won’t
hush for long.
Guidance pulsing
in my chest, flashing
in my searching eyes
won’t fail.
My trusted friends
will guard my path
knowing what I need.
They hear my heart
beat in my hand
They’re seers who get
that even though
I just stand here
where I am,
even though I’m still,
like a willing post, a tree,
my intuition calls,
whispers to my will
like the omniscient wind.
My wisdom, power,
like my blood, my breath,
my storming fears,
all move at
the appointed hour,
all flow right here,
all go where
what will be, will be
what I will make.
Like everything
that waits for me.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
SOLD
Waiting
I may have dropped
the ball
but I know when
I’ve seen the sun
and when
I’m being schooled.
I know even something
cool or shining can deceive.
I know sometimes
what I think I see
is not to be believed.
I trust my heightened
senses, listen
to the sounds
that only I can hear.
I won’t be caught
off guard. I choose
when to lower
my defenses.
I know how
to fetch the truth,
to stay, waiting
for what leads.
I say who I follow
I say why,
and rest assured,
true light never lies.
Wise hearts
won’t be fooled.
Poem by Dan Stone
Waiting
I may have dropped
the ball
but I know when
I’ve seen the sun
and when
I’m being schooled.
I know even something
cool or shining can deceive.
I know sometimes
what I think I see
is not to be believed.
I trust my heightened
senses, listen
to the sounds
that only I can hear.
I won’t be caught
off guard. I choose
when to lower
my defenses.
I know how
to fetch the truth,
to stay, waiting
for what leads.
I say who I follow
I say why,
and rest assured,
true light never lies.
Wise hearts
won’t be fooled.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Undefended
I’m not undone.
Not barren, lost.
Just wandering
in this scenic stillness
where I sit,
unencumbered.
Freed, from
everything I tried
to cover, hide,
all that I pretended
was important,
worth the cost,
every nothing, numbered,
that I used to need. Do I seem weak?
Nonchalant?
Don’t be deceived.
I’m strong because
I’m unprotected,
Invincible because
I know the me I want.
Powerful because
I’m undefended.
Believe your biases
if you will,
I won’t turn away,
offended, blaming
you for what
you think you see,
condemningyour projections.
I’ve shed my outrage, too.
Laid my false securities
aside so I can nakedly
embrace the truth—
my realization.
If you came here
hoping for a name
that fits your misperceptions,
my condolences.
A willing world awaits.
If you came here looking
for a revelation,
this is it.
You’re not a minute late.
Poem by Dan Stone
Undefended
I’m not undone.
Not barren, lost.
Just wandering
in this scenic stillness
where I sit,
unencumbered.
Freed, from
everything I tried
to cover, hide,
all that I pretended
was important,
worth the cost,
every nothing, numbered,
that I used to need. Do I seem weak?
Nonchalant?
Don’t be deceived.
I’m strong because
I’m unprotected,
Invincible because
I know the me I want.
Powerful because
I’m undefended.
Believe your biases
if you will,
I won’t turn away,
offended, blaming
you for what
you think you see,
condemningyour projections.
I’ve shed my outrage, too.
Laid my false securities
aside so I can nakedly
embrace the truth—
my realization.
If you came here
hoping for a name
that fits your misperceptions,
my condolences.
A willing world awaits.
If you came here looking
for a revelation,
this is it.
You’re not a minute late.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Saving Graces
It’s sad but true,
the violent turn
the world has taken.
Too few kind places.
Too much talk on fire,
rhetoric raging,
burning bitter, vile,
too many fists and voices
raised, protesting
in too many crowds
spilling out in spaces
emptied of good choices,
stripped of ways to hoist
our dreams or lift
our fallen faces.
So much so, that hearts
and minds of men
and gods are stirred
and shaken.
The temptation
would be fight or freeze,
hide or hit or leave,
commence retaliation,
no reprieve
unless, until, some
light slips through
the narrow cracks,
until a guileless ray
of faith returns,
a clasp of hands resumes,
a single and collective
prayer replaces
terror and despair.
Innocence and charity
remembered
and reborn
displaces warring
would-be kings,
lunatics and
herded minions
like a goss
born of heaven, Earth,
rising, singing, ringing
justice like a bell,
mercy and compassion
like a bunch
of flowers held,
like three faces
of a longing
promised unity,
like a holy trinity
of shining,
saving graces.
Poem by Dan Stone
Saving Graces
It’s sad but true,
the violent turn
the world has taken.
Too few kind places.
Too much talk on fire,
rhetoric raging,
burning bitter, vile,
too many fists and voices
raised, protesting
in too many crowds
spilling out in spaces
emptied of good choices,
stripped of ways to hoist
our dreams or lift
our fallen faces.
So much so, that hearts
and minds of men
and gods are stirred
and shaken.
The temptation
would be fight or freeze,
hide or hit or leave,
commence retaliation,
no reprieve
unless, until, some
light slips through
the narrow cracks,
until a guileless ray
of faith returns,
a clasp of hands resumes,
a single and collective
prayer replaces
terror and despair.
Innocence and charity
remembered
and reborn
displaces warring
would-be kings,
lunatics and
herded minions
like a goss
born of heaven, Earth,
rising, singing, ringing
justice like a bell,
mercy and compassion
like a bunch
of flowers held,
like three faces
of a longing
promised unity,
like a holy trinity
of shining,
saving graces.
Poem by Dan Stone
Stories
I see stories here.
One that’s old,
a bit threadbare perhaps,
but happy, warm.
An innocence
I thought was lost
taking on new form.
Another story
still untold
but growing fast,
glowing like a new day,
filling up an empty space.
Funny this convergence,
memory and beginning.
Curious how it feels--
the tender joy
the anxious prayers
the hope of winning,
chances I thought lost
all dawning in a sweet
and trusting,
much anticipated face.
There’s more to tell.
More looking back,
more coming my way.
Reasons I will find,
seasons I will need
to navigate.
Achievements
not all mine
but ones I’ll celebrate,
and oh the laughter
and the tears,
the characters
and plot twists,
disappointments,
happy endings,
and the private,
precious games
that I can’t wait
to play.
Poem by Dan Stone
I see stories here.
One that’s old,
a bit threadbare perhaps,
but happy, warm.
An innocence
I thought was lost
taking on new form.
Another story
still untold
but growing fast,
glowing like a new day,
filling up an empty space.
Funny this convergence,
memory and beginning.
Curious how it feels--
the tender joy
the anxious prayers
the hope of winning,
chances I thought lost
all dawning in a sweet
and trusting,
much anticipated face.
There’s more to tell.
More looking back,
more coming my way.
Reasons I will find,
seasons I will need
to navigate.
Achievements
not all mine
but ones I’ll celebrate,
and oh the laughter
and the tears,
the characters
and plot twists,
disappointments,
happy endings,
and the private,
precious games
that I can’t wait
to play.
Poem by Dan Stone
Fetch
We play this game
when it’s not clear
what’s next to do.
Sometimes, too,
when I’m down.
When I need dreams
to come when called,
to know their names.
It’s a wait and see
that never fails
to fix my frown,
pick me up.
I just toss the ball
to fetch what’s
feeling lost,
cure what ails.
It doesn’t cost
a thing to turn around
from stuck to free,
from then to now.
A chore, it’s not.
I just whistle,
let it go,
and all I need
to know,
what I forgot,
like friends
so true,
faithfully
comes back to me.
Poem by Dan Stone
We play this game
when it’s not clear
what’s next to do.
Sometimes, too,
when I’m down.
When I need dreams
to come when called,
to know their names.
It’s a wait and see
that never fails
to fix my frown,
pick me up.
I just toss the ball
to fetch what’s
feeling lost,
cure what ails.
It doesn’t cost
a thing to turn around
from stuck to free,
from then to now.
A chore, it’s not.
I just whistle,
let it go,
and all I need
to know,
what I forgot,
like friends
so true,
faithfully
comes back to me.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Expat
I gave it lots of thought,
this relocation.
Sometimes immigration
seems the best--
or only choice.
The least onerous
option, just to flee.
I’ve caught lots
of flack.
Some cry treason
regardless of my
motives, my weighty
stabbing reasons.
Leaving home
was never my desire.
Pas ma préférence.
I liked where I came from.
I liked how proud
I used to be.
I liked when ignorance
was not so large or loud.
I liked when I
could hear the facts.
I just grew tired.
Je me suis fatigue.
It was never my intent
living life as an expat.
Not part of any plan
trading nationalities.
I liked what
seemed a trend
toward everybody
feeling free.
Until it seemed to end.
Until we weren’t.
Sometimes change
looks like necessity.
So I made
the poignant call
to move away,
run for my life.
It just made sense.
It saved my day.
It brought me here
to what my spirit
needs to breathe,
to what I still hold true-
ma liberté,
égalité,
Those truths,
once self evident,
I hold so dear.
For those peerless gifts
from an old old friend,
for this hospitality,
all I can say
is I feel welcome here
and for that,
merci beaucoup.
Poem by Dan Stone
Expat
I gave it lots of thought,
this relocation.
Sometimes immigration
seems the best--
or only choice.
The least onerous
option, just to flee.
I’ve caught lots
of flack.
Some cry treason
regardless of my
motives, my weighty
stabbing reasons.
Leaving home
was never my desire.
Pas ma préférence.
I liked where I came from.
I liked how proud
I used to be.
I liked when ignorance
was not so large or loud.
I liked when I
could hear the facts.
I just grew tired.
Je me suis fatigue.
It was never my intent
living life as an expat.
Not part of any plan
trading nationalities.
I liked what
seemed a trend
toward everybody
feeling free.
Until it seemed to end.
Until we weren’t.
Sometimes change
looks like necessity.
So I made
the poignant call
to move away,
run for my life.
It just made sense.
It saved my day.
It brought me here
to what my spirit
needs to breathe,
to what I still hold true-
ma liberté,
égalité,
Those truths,
once self evident,
I hold so dear.
For those peerless gifts
from an old old friend,
for this hospitality,
all I can say
is I feel welcome here
and for that,
merci beaucoup.
Poem by Dan Stone
Ease
I call this, ease.
A happy place
with only what
I truly need
to feel my joy,
my bowl filled
to the brim
with only
what is sweet,
with golden truth
and friends who
gladly please,
with simple pleasures,
beauty I can see
and share,
with light
that never dims
no matter who
or what is
or is not there.
I trust these times
to fill my cup
to wake me up
from heavy sleep
from weighing wrongs
to recognizing
all that’s right
and real and strong,
to shiny treasures
all still true,
still bright,
still mine.
Dan Stone
I call this, ease.
A happy place
with only what
I truly need
to feel my joy,
my bowl filled
to the brim
with only
what is sweet,
with golden truth
and friends who
gladly please,
with simple pleasures,
beauty I can see
and share,
with light
that never dims
no matter who
or what is
or is not there.
I trust these times
to fill my cup
to wake me up
from heavy sleep
from weighing wrongs
to recognizing
all that’s right
and real and strong,
to shiny treasures
all still true,
still bright,
still mine.
Dan Stone
SOLD
Choose
There’s no special season
or occasion needed
for this dressing up.
No holiday, no ballroom dance
provoking my decision
for this sudden elegance,
impromptu glamour.
I just felt I was enough.
I was sufficient reason
for a lovely pause
from all that clamors
for attention.
All the hammers
seeking nails,
all the pesky why’s
all so irrelevant.
I’m the celebration
waiting here.
I’m the only chance
I have to take
to look this fine,
to make myself feel good
just because
I’ve learned I could.
It’s such a worthy day
with so much beauty
drifting by.
It felt like time
to make the statement
that this makes so clear.
It may sound vain
or self indulgent--
that’s okay.
I didn’t have to look
especially ravishing today.
I just looked in my closet
and said “Choose”.
It wasn’t going
by the book,
but I had everything
to gain and not
a single thing
to lose and no one
else but me to say
I really think I should.
Poem by Dan Stone
Choose
There’s no special season
or occasion needed
for this dressing up.
No holiday, no ballroom dance
provoking my decision
for this sudden elegance,
impromptu glamour.
I just felt I was enough.
I was sufficient reason
for a lovely pause
from all that clamors
for attention.
All the hammers
seeking nails,
all the pesky why’s
all so irrelevant.
I’m the celebration
waiting here.
I’m the only chance
I have to take
to look this fine,
to make myself feel good
just because
I’ve learned I could.
It’s such a worthy day
with so much beauty
drifting by.
It felt like time
to make the statement
that this makes so clear.
It may sound vain
or self indulgent--
that’s okay.
I didn’t have to look
especially ravishing today.
I just looked in my closet
and said “Choose”.
It wasn’t going
by the book,
but I had everything
to gain and not
a single thing
to lose and no one
else but me to say
I really think I should.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Bounty
Don’t be alarmed
There’s plenty more
from whence this came.
It’s no fool’s gold
that spills and falls
This vessel overflows
with blessings
bounty, beauty
that’s been charmed
by faith and will,
and letting go.
Where it lands
is not my call.
Abundance bears
a host of names.
It’s friends not fame.
It’s wins and gain
and feeling free
to dream, create
what’s truly me.
It’s being still
so worlds can move
and lights can shine.
It’s giving back
because I know
what matters most
is answered
when it’s asked,
when I appreciate
that gold’s discovered
when it’s mined.
Poem by Dan Stone
Bounty
Don’t be alarmed
There’s plenty more
from whence this came.
It’s no fool’s gold
that spills and falls
This vessel overflows
with blessings
bounty, beauty
that’s been charmed
by faith and will,
and letting go.
Where it lands
is not my call.
Abundance bears
a host of names.
It’s friends not fame.
It’s wins and gain
and feeling free
to dream, create
what’s truly me.
It’s being still
so worlds can move
and lights can shine.
It’s giving back
because I know
what matters most
is answered
when it’s asked,
when I appreciate
that gold’s discovered
when it’s mined.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Allegory
This pose is not
accidental.
Not a fluke
or happenstance.
This slinky elegance
is my design,
intentional
as these pearls.
A statement, yes,
but not a declaration
or rebuke.
I’ve no need
or energy for that.
No tolerance or time
for peevish swirls
of tiresome aggravations
swarming like
a cloud of gnats
inside this frame.
Simplicity rules here.
Just the sheer,
chic truth
defying labels,
categories,
fools who clamor
for a name or angle
they can criticize.
I’ve disentangled
from that game
I’m able to assert
this independence,
appreciate
and recognize
this look, this fashion
as an allegory
and this style
as just my story,
my fabulous spin,
my take, on glamor.
Poem by Dan Stone
Allegory
This pose is not
accidental.
Not a fluke
or happenstance.
This slinky elegance
is my design,
intentional
as these pearls.
A statement, yes,
but not a declaration
or rebuke.
I’ve no need
or energy for that.
No tolerance or time
for peevish swirls
of tiresome aggravations
swarming like
a cloud of gnats
inside this frame.
Simplicity rules here.
Just the sheer,
chic truth
defying labels,
categories,
fools who clamor
for a name or angle
they can criticize.
I’ve disentangled
from that game
I’m able to assert
this independence,
appreciate
and recognize
this look, this fashion
as an allegory
and this style
as just my story,
my fabulous spin,
my take, on glamor.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Akin
This is where
my comfort stands,
with spacious hearts
and searching souls
akin to mine.
Our tribe, our clan,
sharing schemes,
hopes and fears
and shining plans
to shed all
predetermined plans,
to grow our best,
our most deserving
truest selves,
to harvest dreams
or just to join
our willing hands
to work together,
give, invest
our single and
united gifts,
ignoring obstacles,
inclement weather,
being who we
came to be,
knowing that we’re more
than most can see
and that this
knowing lifts
us high enough
to hug the sky,
to let us smile,
to laugh and sing
and know it matters,
and feel stronger,
surer, brighter, better,
if only for a while.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Whole
Whole - I wonder, sometimes,
how I made it through.
How I learned
to stand here,
wondering
how I moved
from that to this,
how I knew,
no matter what
was said or done
I’d live to tell,
to paint my truth
in colors clear and bold.
I knew, as I know now
that when my time
was right, I’d know
just what to do,
I’d know I’m not alone
that friends would
have my back,
my fictions
would be facts,
that I’d come home,
losing nothing
I would miss,
lacking nothing
that I need,
sound body,
mind and soul,
strong and free
and whole.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Possibilities
I’ve been here before.
These sights and sounds,
this perch beside
this buzzing town
have been a comfort
in the past and more
when I’ve been down,
when nothing new
or fun or free
was found under the sun,
when nothing much
was moving me.
So here I am.
Letting myself be.
Giving me a break
until my dreams
come back around,
however long it takes.
I’ve learned it’s not
a cause that’s lost
or that my work is done.
Just like I know
that gold will shine,
that fish will swim
and rabbits jump and run.
It’s just a pause
before I play,
waiting, watching,
weighing possibilities
until I know which one.
Poem by Dan Stone
Possibilities
I’ve been here before.
These sights and sounds,
this perch beside
this buzzing town
have been a comfort
in the past and more
when I’ve been down,
when nothing new
or fun or free
was found under the sun,
when nothing much
was moving me.
So here I am.
Letting myself be.
Giving me a break
until my dreams
come back around,
however long it takes.
I’ve learned it’s not
a cause that’s lost
or that my work is done.
Just like I know
that gold will shine,
that fish will swim
and rabbits jump and run.
It’s just a pause
before I play,
waiting, watching,
weighing possibilities
until I know which one.
Poem by Dan Stone
Fish Gotta Fly
You might think this
rather strange.
It might seem
I’ve sunk so low
I’m sitting at the bottom
of the pool.
Rest assured
it’s just a whim,
reality that I’ve
rearranged
into a wonky dream.
I did go for a swim
I felt the need
to make a splash,
to float and cool
my oh so weary bones,
my too thinned skin
the rest is just
a little magic
that we’re making here,
a bit of messing
with your mind.
You know the song, right?
Birds gotta swim,
fish, they gotta fly?
It might be playing
loose and fast
but it’s no lie.
Don’t try so hard
to make it clear.
Just relax.
Lighten up
about those
bulging, judging eyes.
That’s all I’m saying.
Poem by Dan Stone
You might think this
rather strange.
It might seem
I’ve sunk so low
I’m sitting at the bottom
of the pool.
Rest assured
it’s just a whim,
reality that I’ve
rearranged
into a wonky dream.
I did go for a swim
I felt the need
to make a splash,
to float and cool
my oh so weary bones,
my too thinned skin
the rest is just
a little magic
that we’re making here,
a bit of messing
with your mind.
You know the song, right?
Birds gotta swim,
fish, they gotta fly?
It might be playing
loose and fast
but it’s no lie.
Don’t try so hard
to make it clear.
Just relax.
Lighten up
about those
bulging, judging eyes.
That’s all I’m saying.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
How I Roll
I️ like my neighborhood.
These sights and sounds,
these goings on,
they take me out
and bring me round
to knowing better,
feeling good.
It’s where I go
when I’ve been down
it’s what I seem
to need to see
when I can’t see
that I’m not lost,
that all my dreams
can still be found
right where they were
and that they’re whole
and bright and real
as solid ground
that I can feel,
as friends who know
and hang with me
because they see,
they understand
that I prefer
this being free.
It’s just me always
coming back to me,
again, again,
no matter where
I’ve been
or what I’ve seen.
It’s flying
in the face of facts,
past the rules
that aren’t applying.
Just me, turning back
to being cool
with what I love,
with who I am,
and how I roll.
Poem by Dan Stone
How I Roll
I️ like my neighborhood.
These sights and sounds,
these goings on,
they take me out
and bring me round
to knowing better,
feeling good.
It’s where I go
when I’ve been down
it’s what I seem
to need to see
when I can’t see
that I’m not lost,
that all my dreams
can still be found
right where they were
and that they’re whole
and bright and real
as solid ground
that I can feel,
as friends who know
and hang with me
because they see,
they understand
that I prefer
this being free.
It’s just me always
coming back to me,
again, again,
no matter where
I’ve been
or what I’ve seen.
It’s flying
in the face of facts,
past the rules
that aren’t applying.
Just me, turning back
to being cool
with what I love,
with who I am,
and how I roll.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Ho Hum
I know it looks
like I’m a little blue.
It’s true, sometimes
the view from here
appears a little glum.
The different drum
I beat can take a toll,
leave me pale and spent
and, I don’t know . . .
ho hum.
So much to still
work through,
my purple highs can sink
to jaded lows,
a faded rose,
a mottled plum.
Nonetheless, the blues
are not the way I roll.
My eyes still tell the truth.
My heart still pumps
red blood and there
is way too much to do.
So I just sit a spell.
Remember who I am,
how far I’ve come.
To make this out
to be some epic fail,
or let this fleeting frown
stick here like glue,
well that’s just dumb.
Poem by Dan Stone.
Ho Hum
I know it looks
like I’m a little blue.
It’s true, sometimes
the view from here
appears a little glum.
The different drum
I beat can take a toll,
leave me pale and spent
and, I don’t know . . .
ho hum.
So much to still
work through,
my purple highs can sink
to jaded lows,
a faded rose,
a mottled plum.
Nonetheless, the blues
are not the way I roll.
My eyes still tell the truth.
My heart still pumps
red blood and there
is way too much to do.
So I just sit a spell.
Remember who I am,
how far I’ve come.
To make this out
to be some epic fail,
or let this fleeting frown
stick here like glue,
well that’s just dumb.
Poem by Dan Stone.
SOLD
Golden
This time and space,
this silence, oh so
full and rich
and glowing,
even if sometimes
it feels like closing
shop or shutting down.
It’s still the place
the work keeps going.
Truth and beauty
hammered into
shining sheets
and fired and molded
into image, verse,
sight and sound,
a work of art
that’s tender, tough,
a meditation full of grace
and heart, Inspired,
emboldened,
in these quiet hours,
rest that’s giving rise
to power, purpose,
peace that glimmers,
gleams because it
knows its name,
its unrepentant dream,
its aim, is golden.
Poem by Dan Stone
Golden
This time and space,
this silence, oh so
full and rich
and glowing,
even if sometimes
it feels like closing
shop or shutting down.
It’s still the place
the work keeps going.
Truth and beauty
hammered into
shining sheets
and fired and molded
into image, verse,
sight and sound,
a work of art
that’s tender, tough,
a meditation full of grace
and heart, Inspired,
emboldened,
in these quiet hours,
rest that’s giving rise
to power, purpose,
peace that glimmers,
gleams because it
knows its name,
its unrepentant dream,
its aim, is golden.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Statement
What you see
is just the truth
laid bare,
all pretense,
dressed up hopes
and dreams,
expectations
to the nines
now stripped away.
It’s not that I don’t care.
It’s more about
what’s moot,
what makes no sense
to cover or conceal.
It’s simply this.
What’s naked, real.
What’s still mine today.
This aching, tender
trust that what’s revealed
will be enough.
I have no aim
to please, impress.
This statement
may be one
that you reject,
return to sender.
Not my call
or my concern.
It’s just my all
I’m being here.
Not a lesson
to be learned
or a clever phrase
you need to turn.
Not a cry for help.
A plea? No, not that.
Just my self, this fact.
Just my unprotected back,
my unclothed promise
and perhaps,
a prayer.
Poem by Dan Stone
Statement
What you see
is just the truth
laid bare,
all pretense,
dressed up hopes
and dreams,
expectations
to the nines
now stripped away.
It’s not that I don’t care.
It’s more about
what’s moot,
what makes no sense
to cover or conceal.
It’s simply this.
What’s naked, real.
What’s still mine today.
This aching, tender
trust that what’s revealed
will be enough.
I have no aim
to please, impress.
This statement
may be one
that you reject,
return to sender.
Not my call
or my concern.
It’s just my all
I’m being here.
Not a lesson
to be learned
or a clever phrase
you need to turn.
Not a cry for help.
A plea? No, not that.
Just my self, this fact.
Just my unprotected back,
my unclothed promise
and perhaps,
a prayer.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Paused
I heard this shore
once teemed with
huddled masses,
boats spilling hungry eyes
and eager dreams,
that life and death
fought for the chance
to flee clenched,
pounding fists
to clasp willing
working hands
and turn their ears
toward freedom’s ring.
I’ve heard songs
that tell that tale.
I’ve paused where I am
to see if I still hear
what once rang out
so loud and clear,
to do my best to see
if that same light
still shines; compels,
invites all colors, classes,
who would find their way
to breathe this celebrated
air, to sing that song,
to bring their own
unanswered prayers,
to be what we say
anyone can be.
I’ve paused to give
myself a moment
to reflect, believe.
I’m not sure yet.
I’m wondering
if there’s more
to do than grieve.
I’m counting
on the lessons
that we’ve learned.
I’m hoping
that we won’t forget.
Poem by Dan Stone
Paused
I heard this shore
once teemed with
huddled masses,
boats spilling hungry eyes
and eager dreams,
that life and death
fought for the chance
to flee clenched,
pounding fists
to clasp willing
working hands
and turn their ears
toward freedom’s ring.
I’ve heard songs
that tell that tale.
I’ve paused where I am
to see if I still hear
what once rang out
so loud and clear,
to do my best to see
if that same light
still shines; compels,
invites all colors, classes,
who would find their way
to breathe this celebrated
air, to sing that song,
to bring their own
unanswered prayers,
to be what we say
anyone can be.
I’ve paused to give
myself a moment
to reflect, believe.
I’m not sure yet.
I’m wondering
if there’s more
to do than grieve.
I’m counting
on the lessons
that we’ve learned.
I’m hoping
that we won’t forget.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
High Alert
There’s no hiding
from the truth
in these wide open
heavy laden days.
No time for burying
in the sand our dreams,
or unapologetic fears.
This age’s plaintive
sighs and cries
will be expressed.
No hands tied
behind our backs
no blinders, masks.
We look clearly now
at where we stand.
I’m wide awake
and my intention
is to stay on high alert,
to pay attention
to the signs,
the changes
in the weather
for the worse or better
even if the news hurts.
Don’t bother sneaking
up on me—I’m wise
to the party spin,
the pretty lies,
I’ve watched the masses
be mislead.
And no I don’t
need straightening out
or stronger meds.
I’ll keep my wits about.
I’ll trust my able,
mind and steeled resolve
and yes, the eyes
behind my head.
Poem by Dan Stone
High Alert
There’s no hiding
from the truth
in these wide open
heavy laden days.
No time for burying
in the sand our dreams,
or unapologetic fears.
This age’s plaintive
sighs and cries
will be expressed.
No hands tied
behind our backs
no blinders, masks.
We look clearly now
at where we stand.
I’m wide awake
and my intention
is to stay on high alert,
to pay attention
to the signs,
the changes
in the weather
for the worse or better
even if the news hurts.
Don’t bother sneaking
up on me—I’m wise
to the party spin,
the pretty lies,
I’ve watched the masses
be mislead.
And no I don’t
need straightening out
or stronger meds.
I’ll keep my wits about.
I’ll trust my able,
mind and steeled resolve
and yes, the eyes
behind my head.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Until
Is this a memory
or some new word?
A hope I'm carrying,
a round rebirth
saving me from loss,
a reverie, a message
I've been waiting for
but haven't heard?
I love the life
you planted here
before you left
to sail another sea,
before I knew
the meaning of bereft,
or felt the cost
of letting go.
What did you leave
unspoken that
I need to know?
Are we still
as we were,
but I can't see?
Did you come back
to tell me so,
to quietly convey
there's fruit I haven't
tasted yet but will?
Is this your whisper,
how to fill this time,
to mother what's
still real, still true,
still mine, until I find
my way again to you--
to ours--or you find
yours to me?
Poem by Dan Stone
Until
Is this a memory
or some new word?
A hope I'm carrying,
a round rebirth
saving me from loss,
a reverie, a message
I've been waiting for
but haven't heard?
I love the life
you planted here
before you left
to sail another sea,
before I knew
the meaning of bereft,
or felt the cost
of letting go.
What did you leave
unspoken that
I need to know?
Are we still
as we were,
but I can't see?
Did you come back
to tell me so,
to quietly convey
there's fruit I haven't
tasted yet but will?
Is this your whisper,
how to fill this time,
to mother what's
still real, still true,
still mine, until I find
my way again to you--
to ours--or you find
yours to me?
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
A Matter of Taste
It is wholly
a matter of taste.
What we choose
to cover, reveal,
what we keep
to ourselves,
if we opt to abstain
or partake.
How we really feel,
what repulses
or pleases,
proves what
we're all about.
Textured or smooth,
frosted or seared,
honeyed or tart,
it's our own whim--
or not--
to throw it all in,
or, just a part.
We decide
if it's sheet cake
or tiered,
if we have just
a teaspoon
or fill the bowl
to the ridiculous brim.
What goes or
what stays,
what we digest--
or discard--
is our say.
Our rules to play by
or blatantly flout.
The juiciest melons
have seeds.
The most luscious
cherries have pits.
It's our call what
our appetite needs,
what we pour
in our glass
or put on our plate,
what we swallow,
and what we spit out.
Poem by Dan Stone
A Matter of Taste
It is wholly
a matter of taste.
What we choose
to cover, reveal,
what we keep
to ourselves,
if we opt to abstain
or partake.
How we really feel,
what repulses
or pleases,
proves what
we're all about.
Textured or smooth,
frosted or seared,
honeyed or tart,
it's our own whim--
or not--
to throw it all in,
or, just a part.
We decide
if it's sheet cake
or tiered,
if we have just
a teaspoon
or fill the bowl
to the ridiculous brim.
What goes or
what stays,
what we digest--
or discard--
is our say.
Our rules to play by
or blatantly flout.
The juiciest melons
have seeds.
The most luscious
cherries have pits.
It's our call what
our appetite needs,
what we pour
in our glass
or put on our plate,
what we swallow,
and what we spit out.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Destinations
So many places to be.
Rest assured
I am going.
There's plenty of me
left to go round.
One way or another
every sight, every sound
still undiscovered
has my name
stamped on an ID
I'll be showing
at all ports where
my mind can
still wander.
No possibilities
have shrunk,
no ship has sailed
without me on it,
not now, not ever.
No fonder dreams
that I'll fail
to track down.
Opportunities?
They still abound.
As many as my
heart can grow,
as many pearls
as shells washed
in from the sea,
as many cherries
as my bowl can hold.
All it takes is the
wide wing of this
intrepid imagination
and the focused,
unflinching,
far reaching eye
of a gal on a trunk
with as many ways,
as many means,
as there are
destinations.
Poem by Dan Stone
Destinations
So many places to be.
Rest assured
I am going.
There's plenty of me
left to go round.
One way or another
every sight, every sound
still undiscovered
has my name
stamped on an ID
I'll be showing
at all ports where
my mind can
still wander.
No possibilities
have shrunk,
no ship has sailed
without me on it,
not now, not ever.
No fonder dreams
that I'll fail
to track down.
Opportunities?
They still abound.
As many as my
heart can grow,
as many pearls
as shells washed
in from the sea,
as many cherries
as my bowl can hold.
All it takes is the
wide wing of this
intrepid imagination
and the focused,
unflinching,
far reaching eye
of a gal on a trunk
with as many ways,
as many means,
as there are
destinations.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Swing Out Sisters
Ladies, take to the stage,
We've got a show to do.
Put on your favorite
comfy dress,
kick off those
high heeled shoes.
Come one, come all,
bring any look
at any age.
Throw out the book
and flaunt your moves
Show them what
you've got--no misters
needed--nothing
in this world to lose.
Just take a chance.
No holding back,
no way to fall
or no can do.
Swing out sisters,
heed the call,
wave bye bye
to the blahs and blues.
Pick a groove
that rocks and rolls
and tells the truth.
Then point your fingers
and your toes
toward any happy dance.
Poem by Dan Stone
Swing Out Sisters
Ladies, take to the stage,
We've got a show to do.
Put on your favorite
comfy dress,
kick off those
high heeled shoes.
Come one, come all,
bring any look
at any age.
Throw out the book
and flaunt your moves
Show them what
you've got--no misters
needed--nothing
in this world to lose.
Just take a chance.
No holding back,
no way to fall
or no can do.
Swing out sisters,
heed the call,
wave bye bye
to the blahs and blues.
Pick a groove
that rocks and rolls
and tells the truth.
Then point your fingers
and your toes
toward any happy dance.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Tadaa -
Stand back, friends,
we've got the floor.
It's our show to steal,
our big tadaa.
Where this came from,
there's plenty more.
We've had the aha.
We know what for
and why not.
We swing wide,
sing it out loud.
We take our bow
without hesitation,
with purpose and pride.
We've no reservations
about kicking our heels
or standing our ground.
We've been around
long enough
to know that we've got
what it takes.
Breezy but tough--
we don't phone it in--
and make no mistake,
if we play
it's to win.
You could call it
a gift, our own style,
and grace to express
and extend,
for a laugh or a lift.
We hold hands--
and your place--
as we send out
invitations, then,
in our best dress,
wait for the smiles,
accept the ovations. -
Poem by Dan Stone
Tadaa -
Stand back, friends,
we've got the floor.
It's our show to steal,
our big tadaa.
Where this came from,
there's plenty more.
We've had the aha.
We know what for
and why not.
We swing wide,
sing it out loud.
We take our bow
without hesitation,
with purpose and pride.
We've no reservations
about kicking our heels
or standing our ground.
We've been around
long enough
to know that we've got
what it takes.
Breezy but tough--
we don't phone it in--
and make no mistake,
if we play
it's to win.
You could call it
a gift, our own style,
and grace to express
and extend,
for a laugh or a lift.
We hold hands--
and your place--
as we send out
invitations, then,
in our best dress,
wait for the smiles,
accept the ovations. -
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Joie de Vivre -
It's our Spring fling.
Our time of year
to sashay and sing.
No coquettes here.
We blossom and swing
in this so fragrant breeze
like cherry trees
on the grand promenade.
Do we pirouette?
Oh, mais oui,
and pas de regrets
for our swagger and glee.
We stayed still
through winter's drear,
it's drag and it's plod,
to dance for this day,
to raise a glass, filled.
If you think our
public display odd,
well, c'est la vie.
If instead, you're thrilled
with our joie de vivre
then bonjour, mes amis.
Enchanté!
Poem by Dan Stone
Joie de Vivre -
It's our Spring fling.
Our time of year
to sashay and sing.
No coquettes here.
We blossom and swing
in this so fragrant breeze
like cherry trees
on the grand promenade.
Do we pirouette?
Oh, mais oui,
and pas de regrets
for our swagger and glee.
We stayed still
through winter's drear,
it's drag and it's plod,
to dance for this day,
to raise a glass, filled.
If you think our
public display odd,
well, c'est la vie.
If instead, you're thrilled
with our joie de vivre
then bonjour, mes amis.
Enchanté!
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
The Friend
This little me
has found the friend
she always needs,
the guiding truth
so big, her arms
can barely reach
around.
He needs me, too,
to know his name,
to play our game
of sitting still,
of letting faith
come through,
grow huge.
We have a deal.
I listen with
my inner ear.
He never lets me down.
I pretend I'm not alone,
that day or night
I have no fear.
He proves I'm right.
He lets me know
my dream is real.
Poem by Dan Stone
The Friend
This little me
has found the friend
she always needs,
the guiding truth
so big, her arms
can barely reach
around.
He needs me, too,
to know his name,
to play our game
of sitting still,
of letting faith
come through,
grow huge.
We have a deal.
I listen with
my inner ear.
He never lets me down.
I pretend I'm not alone,
that day or night
I have no fear.
He proves I'm right.
He lets me know
my dream is real.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Enough
I have this gift,
a friend who
let's me know
I'm not alone,
who shows me
what I've yet to learn,
what I can do.
He tells the truth
that lifts me up,
that feels like home.
When I'm off track,
I feel from him
the steps to take,
which way to turn.
I just lean in
and close my eyes
to see there's no
mistake or sin
in what or who
or where I am,
that I'm enough.
It all comes through
that all is well.
He breaks whatever
spell's been cast.
He has my back.
Poem by Dan Stone
Enough
I have this gift,
a friend who
let's me know
I'm not alone,
who shows me
what I've yet to learn,
what I can do.
He tells the truth
that lifts me up,
that feels like home.
When I'm off track,
I feel from him
the steps to take,
which way to turn.
I just lean in
and close my eyes
to see there's no
mistake or sin
in what or who
or where I am,
that I'm enough.
It all comes through
that all is well.
He breaks whatever
spell's been cast.
He has my back.
Poem by Dan Stone
Company
No, there's nothing
else to see.
No shelf or frame
or mirror
to distract from me.
I didn't choose
the color of this wall.
As a rule I don't go
for basic black.
But I chose to let it be.
My friends taught
me that it's all
I really need,
that the background
isn't where the eyes
should focus.
Maybe less is more,
and just sitting here,
noticing, is cool.
Sometimes the fewer
facts, the easier
to know, remember
what we knew before
we filled the space,
perhaps, lost our place.
Sometimes a ball,
a simple song,
a game of fetch
will grow the roses
on our face, turn
on the lights.
Patience, company,
can right what we
assumed was wrong.
Sometimes all
we have to learn
is that's what
friends are for.
Poem by Dan Stone
No, there's nothing
else to see.
No shelf or frame
or mirror
to distract from me.
I didn't choose
the color of this wall.
As a rule I don't go
for basic black.
But I chose to let it be.
My friends taught
me that it's all
I really need,
that the background
isn't where the eyes
should focus.
Maybe less is more,
and just sitting here,
noticing, is cool.
Sometimes the fewer
facts, the easier
to know, remember
what we knew before
we filled the space,
perhaps, lost our place.
Sometimes a ball,
a simple song,
a game of fetch
will grow the roses
on our face, turn
on the lights.
Patience, company,
can right what we
assumed was wrong.
Sometimes all
we have to learn
is that's what
friends are for.
Poem by Dan Stone
Up or Down
It's under way,
but what, you say?
Good question
and the answer matters.
Is it coming up
or down?
Walls would seem
to have no place
when we base them
on our faces
or the places
we come from,
when they restrict
our shining dream.
Houses, monuments,
grace us, hold us,
honor who we are.
Barriers replace
our hearts,
our open arms,
with shattered
possibility, fragments
some would claim,
disgrace us.
No one's freed
or flattered
by a sign that reads
"Keep out".
Is that what
we're about?
Depends on who
you ask, the king's men
or the crowd who sees
the emperor
has no clothes,
who knows that's not
the way the wind
is blowing,
not the wake up call
the cock is crowing,
not the way
this tale should end.
Poem by Dan Stone
It's under way,
but what, you say?
Good question
and the answer matters.
Is it coming up
or down?
Walls would seem
to have no place
when we base them
on our faces
or the places
we come from,
when they restrict
our shining dream.
Houses, monuments,
grace us, hold us,
honor who we are.
Barriers replace
our hearts,
our open arms,
with shattered
possibility, fragments
some would claim,
disgrace us.
No one's freed
or flattered
by a sign that reads
"Keep out".
Is that what
we're about?
Depends on who
you ask, the king's men
or the crowd who sees
the emperor
has no clothes,
who knows that's not
the way the wind
is blowing,
not the wake up call
the cock is crowing,
not the way
this tale should end.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Resist
Our colors tell our tale.
They show us who we are,
where we're from.
Red and yellow,
black and white,
look how far we've come
and now hear this:
there's no turning back.
Our liberties?
They're not for sale
or up for grabs.
There's still room
across this land
for everyone
and everything
but doomed obedience
to powers that would
tell us no, insist
that we can't stand
united, sure,
because we think,
strong because
we feel and see
we all look good
in pink, and even
when we're down,
confused, our good
faith adrift, abused,
our hands are joined
and raised.
We don't surrender
or attack but we stay
brave and free
where we belong
and every way we can
we pray, we join
in freedom's song,
we watch we wait we plan
and we resist.
Poem by Dan Stone
Resist
Our colors tell our tale.
They show us who we are,
where we're from.
Red and yellow,
black and white,
look how far we've come
and now hear this:
there's no turning back.
Our liberties?
They're not for sale
or up for grabs.
There's still room
across this land
for everyone
and everything
but doomed obedience
to powers that would
tell us no, insist
that we can't stand
united, sure,
because we think,
strong because
we feel and see
we all look good
in pink, and even
when we're down,
confused, our good
faith adrift, abused,
our hands are joined
and raised.
We don't surrender
or attack but we stay
brave and free
where we belong
and every way we can
we pray, we join
in freedom's song,
we watch we wait we plan
and we resist.
Poem by Dan Stone
Still Our Land
We may not recognize
it now, but that's our house.
This land is still our land.
Despite an unexpected tide,
hopes that crashed
and burned, and pride
now at half mast,
these and countless other
eyes have turned,
heads donning hats
that help us learn
that we're not lost.
In fact we've found
the cost of getting
so knocked down
is seeing just
how strong we are
when we hold hands.
Let it be a lesson
never left behind,
let it be our right,
still true, however
crumpled on the ground.
Let our freedom sing.
Let us stand for all
we know will
help us through
and not forget:
That's our house.
This land is still our land.
Poem by Dan Stone
We may not recognize
it now, but that's our house.
This land is still our land.
Despite an unexpected tide,
hopes that crashed
and burned, and pride
now at half mast,
these and countless other
eyes have turned,
heads donning hats
that help us learn
that we're not lost.
In fact we've found
the cost of getting
so knocked down
is seeing just
how strong we are
when we hold hands.
Let it be a lesson
never left behind,
let it be our right,
still true, however
crumpled on the ground.
Let our freedom sing.
Let us stand for all
we know will
help us through
and not forget:
That's our house.
This land is still our land.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Tick Tock
What time is it?
Depends on who you ask.
Some say it's somewhere
still out there, calling
us from where we stand
and falling way too fast.
Some say it's long ago,
the best was in the past.
But we know this is true--
it may come as a shock--
the time is in our hands
to count as we see fit,
perhaps forgetting
what we knew
to follow up somehow
with getting this:
the time is now--
that never ends.
So set your clocks
and set your sights
and for god's sake
call your friends.
Let's get it right.
Tick tock . . .
tick tock.
Poem by Dan Stone
Tick Tock
What time is it?
Depends on who you ask.
Some say it's somewhere
still out there, calling
us from where we stand
and falling way too fast.
Some say it's long ago,
the best was in the past.
But we know this is true--
it may come as a shock--
the time is in our hands
to count as we see fit,
perhaps forgetting
what we knew
to follow up somehow
with getting this:
the time is now--
that never ends.
So set your clocks
and set your sights
and for god's sake
call your friends.
Let's get it right.
Tick tock . . .
tick tock.
Poem by Dan Stone
Holding Back
Yes I know that
I'm just standing here,
staring into space,
holding back.
I feel the numbing
wind that blows
my thoughts around.
Nothing else seems
to move much
in this same old place.
My friends are near.
They wait
but don't make a sound.
No praise that sings,
no clever quacks.
I've read the facts
but I can't act--
no feet or wings
that walk or fly.
Not yet. Not now.
Just some dreams
somewhere out there.
Maybe in the hills
or open sky.
They'll pull me through,
give me a why.
I'll get to them--
some day . . .
somehow.
Poem by Dan Stone
Yes I know that
I'm just standing here,
staring into space,
holding back.
I feel the numbing
wind that blows
my thoughts around.
Nothing else seems
to move much
in this same old place.
My friends are near.
They wait
but don't make a sound.
No praise that sings,
no clever quacks.
I've read the facts
but I can't act--
no feet or wings
that walk or fly.
Not yet. Not now.
Just some dreams
somewhere out there.
Maybe in the hills
or open sky.
They'll pull me through,
give me a why.
I'll get to them--
some day . . .
somehow.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Circle Of Joy
What's under way?
Despair you might say,
or counting the costs?
No, not today.
Today it's the dance,
a circle of joy,
a joining of hands,
a blessing of beasts
who know our best ploy
for beating the blues
is taking a chance
on laughter and fun,
finding what's lost.
We're not down or out.
It's not over yet.
We've only begun
to summon the sun,
the spirit of play
that helps us get through
to the unassailable
light that this rainbow
called life is still
all about, to the faith
we all bring.
There is plenty of room
on our open dance floor
for your hearts to sing.
It's merrier with more
so what do you say?
Poem by Dan Stone
Circle Of Joy
What's under way?
Despair you might say,
or counting the costs?
No, not today.
Today it's the dance,
a circle of joy,
a joining of hands,
a blessing of beasts
who know our best ploy
for beating the blues
is taking a chance
on laughter and fun,
finding what's lost.
We're not down or out.
It's not over yet.
We've only begun
to summon the sun,
the spirit of play
that helps us get through
to the unassailable
light that this rainbow
called life is still
all about, to the faith
we all bring.
There is plenty of room
on our open dance floor
for your hearts to sing.
It's merrier with more
so what do you say?
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Win Win
Ah yes, just settle in.
Let the weather outside storm if it will.
These bubbles,
this warm water knows
just what I need
to feel to let these
troubles come and go.
What I can't control
will end, begin,
I've only got this flow,
my faithful friends.
Whatever looms
or waits, I'll go
with something warm
and smooth,
with thoughts
that cleanse and soothe,
with books
I want to read,
with messages
I choose to heed.
It's my win win.
Poem by Dan Stone
Win Win
Ah yes, just settle in.
Let the weather outside storm if it will.
These bubbles,
this warm water knows
just what I need
to feel to let these
troubles come and go.
What I can't control
will end, begin,
I've only got this flow,
my faithful friends.
Whatever looms
or waits, I'll go
with something warm
and smooth,
with thoughts
that cleanse and soothe,
with books
I want to read,
with messages
I choose to heed.
It's my win win.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Awake
Yes, I'm alert, awake.
My head's no longer
in the sand.
I'm sitting up straight,
facing what I must
because I can.
I have a point of view
if not a plan.
You have one too.
It's all we really need--
the will to see,
to take a stand.
Open wide the heart,
the mind, the trusting eyes.
Refuse to compromise
the truth you're holding
in your hands.
Take a chance.
Exaggerate that
knowing glance.
You'll be surprised
what you create.
Poem by Dan Stone
Awake
Yes, I'm alert, awake.
My head's no longer
in the sand.
I'm sitting up straight,
facing what I must
because I can.
I have a point of view
if not a plan.
You have one too.
It's all we really need--
the will to see,
to take a stand.
Open wide the heart,
the mind, the trusting eyes.
Refuse to compromise
the truth you're holding
in your hands.
Take a chance.
Exaggerate that
knowing glance.
You'll be surprised
what you create.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
My Next Trick
Don't look at me
like that.
Who are you to judge?
There's no time
being wasted here.
I have to chill a bit.
Sit still a spell
before my next
inspired feat,
before I pull myself
out of my hat.
Don't begrudge
me a cup of
calming tea, dear,
a short, sweet nap.
Give those tapping
feet a rest.
My wand still works.
I assure you
my next trick
will blow your mind
and rock this town.
You ain't seen
nothing yet.
You can set your watch
and lose the frown.
Get ready
for another hit.
Poem by Dan Stone
My Next Trick
Don't look at me
like that.
Who are you to judge?
There's no time
being wasted here.
I have to chill a bit.
Sit still a spell
before my next
inspired feat,
before I pull myself
out of my hat.
Don't begrudge
me a cup of
calming tea, dear,
a short, sweet nap.
Give those tapping
feet a rest.
My wand still works.
I assure you
my next trick
will blow your mind
and rock this town.
You ain't seen
nothing yet.
You can set your watch
and lose the frown.
Get ready
for another hit.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Our Balloons
Do our balloons
ever land, you wonder?
No way my friend.
From where we stand
there's too much
pointless lightning,
empty thunder,
too much dreary
carrying on.
We turn them loose
and let them fly
up up and away.
We're all about
the mindful cheer,
the giggles, grins,
the big blue skies
that make our day.
Why sink when
we can swim?
Why give up,
go under,
work so hard
at working hard--
seriously--when
it's much more
fun to hum a tune,
makes much
more sense
to snap our fingers,
play with our balloons.
Poem by Dan Stone
Our Balloons
Do our balloons
ever land, you wonder?
No way my friend.
From where we stand
there's too much
pointless lightning,
empty thunder,
too much dreary
carrying on.
We turn them loose
and let them fly
up up and away.
We're all about
the mindful cheer,
the giggles, grins,
the big blue skies
that make our day.
Why sink when
we can swim?
Why give up,
go under,
work so hard
at working hard--
seriously--when
it's much more
fun to hum a tune,
makes much
more sense
to snap our fingers,
play with our balloons.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Nothing But the Truth
Welcome to my studio.
Like my subjects? No?
That's too bad.
I find them just so . . .
willing, so prepared
to give their all.
Others tend to fuss,
way too involved
in how it goes,
care too much
about their clothes,
their makeup, hair . . .
God forbid you muss
it up or make them mad
or worse--paint
what you see.
This ain't a fashion shoot.
I prefer a rowdy look,
less glamour, bling.
That's why some models
get the boot.
I dig that these
beasts and birds
are always down
to bring the party here.
They don't pose
or pout or mess around.
They show up wearing
nothing but the truth.
They know where
the freedom's found.
They tell it like it is.
I just spread the word.
Poem by Dan Stone
Nothing But the Truth
Welcome to my studio.
Like my subjects? No?
That's too bad.
I find them just so . . .
willing, so prepared
to give their all.
Others tend to fuss,
way too involved
in how it goes,
care too much
about their clothes,
their makeup, hair . . .
God forbid you muss
it up or make them mad
or worse--paint
what you see.
This ain't a fashion shoot.
I prefer a rowdy look,
less glamour, bling.
That's why some models
get the boot.
I dig that these
beasts and birds
are always down
to bring the party here.
They don't pose
or pout or mess around.
They show up wearing
nothing but the truth.
They know where
the freedom's found.
They tell it like it is.
I just spread the word.
Poem by Dan Stone
Far From Lost
Don't let this doll's face
fool you into thinking
she's some poor sheep
following the herd.
She may look meek
as a lamb but she's
far from lost
and she's most
certainly not sinking
into the blues.
Weak is not one
of her favorite words.
Listen up and she
will school you.
She's got funny ways,
bold intentions,
powerful tools,
sunny hope
behind her back
and a wise child's
point of view.
All she needs is
someone who's awake
to more than just
obvious facts
and who's really
paying attention.
Poem by Dan Stone
Don't let this doll's face
fool you into thinking
she's some poor sheep
following the herd.
She may look meek
as a lamb but she's
far from lost
and she's most
certainly not sinking
into the blues.
Weak is not one
of her favorite words.
Listen up and she
will school you.
She's got funny ways,
bold intentions,
powerful tools,
sunny hope
behind her back
and a wise child's
point of view.
All she needs is
someone who's awake
to more than just
obvious facts
and who's really
paying attention.
Poem by Dan Stone
Excuse Me
Excuse me?
I've got this game
down to an art.
I don't need cheers
or silly grinning.
Cocks can crow
all they want.
I know the part
I'm here to play.
It's called a Queen,
not someone's pawn.
I learned the rules
so I can break them.
Opponents get me stirred
not shaken.
Call me green
but that's a word
I've heard from fools
and politicians.
I place my trust
in deft magicians'
grace and grit.
I make my moves
as I see fit.
I call it winning.
Poem by Dan Stone
Excuse me?
I've got this game
down to an art.
I don't need cheers
or silly grinning.
Cocks can crow
all they want.
I know the part
I'm here to play.
It's called a Queen,
not someone's pawn.
I learned the rules
so I can break them.
Opponents get me stirred
not shaken.
Call me green
but that's a word
I've heard from fools
and politicians.
I place my trust
in deft magicians'
grace and grit.
I make my moves
as I see fit.
I call it winning.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Lucky Duck
I admit it.
I'm as wacky as I seem.
No point in denying
that I put my money
where my mouth is--
in my dreams
and scrying messages
that I receive
from most unlikely
sources--cracks
in windows,
fluttering wings,
numbers lining up,
quacks as symbols,
tea leaves in my cup
that prophesy and sing.
Don't ask me to quit it.
This gig pays too well.
I trust the friends
I've found to get it when
I have a truth to tell,
a bigger picture
coming up
and not to be surprised
to hear me say--
as crazy as it sounds--
that I'm a lucky duck.
Poem by Dan Stone
Lucky Duck
I admit it.
I'm as wacky as I seem.
No point in denying
that I put my money
where my mouth is--
in my dreams
and scrying messages
that I receive
from most unlikely
sources--cracks
in windows,
fluttering wings,
numbers lining up,
quacks as symbols,
tea leaves in my cup
that prophesy and sing.
Don't ask me to quit it.
This gig pays too well.
I trust the friends
I've found to get it when
I have a truth to tell,
a bigger picture
coming up
and not to be surprised
to hear me say--
as crazy as it sounds--
that I'm a lucky duck.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Dressing As We Please
Don't wait around
for me to play your game.
I like my easy chair,
my posied frock.
I mixed the color
for this purple hair myself.
I know my name.
I like its sound.
You know what else?
No Dalmatian ever
sought to change his spots.
I know exactly
what I've got.
I wrote the book
I'm holding in my hand.
You think that I should
look the same?
That claim to fame's
not worth a box of rocks.
Give us a break.
I only care that I believe
what makes this gal
and her cool pal
so real, so grand,
so in demand,
is dressing as we please.
Poem by Dan Stone
Dressing As We Please
Don't wait around
for me to play your game.
I like my easy chair,
my posied frock.
I mixed the color
for this purple hair myself.
I know my name.
I like its sound.
You know what else?
No Dalmatian ever
sought to change his spots.
I know exactly
what I've got.
I wrote the book
I'm holding in my hand.
You think that I should
look the same?
That claim to fame's
not worth a box of rocks.
Give us a break.
I only care that I believe
what makes this gal
and her cool pal
so real, so grand,
so in demand,
is dressing as we please.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Contentment
Oh, hello. . .
I see you've caught me
in a moment with myself.
I call it contentment.
It's my favorite place.
My best friend is here.
My cares have been
replaced with blossoms
pink and pretty
on the shelf.
I'm soaking up
this time alone.
I call it home.
I'm sinking into
something soft and warm.
You're right if you've
surmised that I need
little else to be at peace,
to wash me calm.
I know you might not see.
You might call it
too much hiding
from what's real,
self-indulgent luxury,
or running away.
But that's what's
in your eyes.
I know how it feels.
There's nothing
more to say--
I call it free.
Poem by Dan Stone
Contentment
Oh, hello. . .
I see you've caught me
in a moment with myself.
I call it contentment.
It's my favorite place.
My best friend is here.
My cares have been
replaced with blossoms
pink and pretty
on the shelf.
I'm soaking up
this time alone.
I call it home.
I'm sinking into
something soft and warm.
You're right if you've
surmised that I need
little else to be at peace,
to wash me calm.
I know you might not see.
You might call it
too much hiding
from what's real,
self-indulgent luxury,
or running away.
But that's what's
in your eyes.
I know how it feels.
There's nothing
more to say--
I call it free.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Bliss
Sometimes everything's
so very right,
this ocean view,
this wind blown hair,
this frolicking by the sea.
It's all true blue
as cuddling with a friend
who clearly cares,
as basking in this
splendid light
and salty kiss
and seeing there's
nowhere else
I need to go,
nothing left to prove.
Sometimes I don't need
to fight to win,
there's nothing
I can lose by
by lying here,
by kicking up my heels.
Instead, I've everything
to gain and every cause
to stretch and grin,
to get this bliss
by showing how I feel,
by being real,
by just being me.
Poem by Dan Stone
Bliss
Sometimes everything's
so very right,
this ocean view,
this wind blown hair,
this frolicking by the sea.
It's all true blue
as cuddling with a friend
who clearly cares,
as basking in this
splendid light
and salty kiss
and seeing there's
nowhere else
I need to go,
nothing left to prove.
Sometimes I don't need
to fight to win,
there's nothing
I can lose by
by lying here,
by kicking up my heels.
Instead, I've everything
to gain and every cause
to stretch and grin,
to get this bliss
by showing how I feel,
by being real,
by just being me.
Poem by Dan Stone
Loyalty
I've already seen
the light behind me.
It's what brought me here.
Loyalty to who I am
is my companion now.
We look to the left and right
for visions, dreams
that will be clear,
for colors, schemes
my heart holds dear.
My faithful strength,
my own sure way
is always near
if just offstage.
The light within me
tells me how
to fill this page,
Illustrates, illuminates
the gifts I bring,
the next reveal
that always waits,
shows me where
I go from here.
Poem by Dan Stone
I've already seen
the light behind me.
It's what brought me here.
Loyalty to who I am
is my companion now.
We look to the left and right
for visions, dreams
that will be clear,
for colors, schemes
my heart holds dear.
My faithful strength,
my own sure way
is always near
if just offstage.
The light within me
tells me how
to fill this page,
Illustrates, illuminates
the gifts I bring,
the next reveal
that always waits,
shows me where
I go from here.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Something Else Has Caught My Eye
I know the view
behind me is superb.
It's a lovely scene
with potent charm.
I'm not blind
to where I've been,
but something else
has caught my eye.
It's what moves
the artist's arm
and hand to reach
for more,
to spot another dream,
to speak another truth,
to find the action verb
that lets me be
the me you don't expect.
That vision never fails
and proves my point.
This bird sees it too:
another bold adventure's
just about to fly.
Another magic ship
is always setting sail!
Poem by Dan Stone
Something Else Has Caught My Eye
I know the view
behind me is superb.
It's a lovely scene
with potent charm.
I'm not blind
to where I've been,
but something else
has caught my eye.
It's what moves
the artist's arm
and hand to reach
for more,
to spot another dream,
to speak another truth,
to find the action verb
that lets me be
the me you don't expect.
That vision never fails
and proves my point.
This bird sees it too:
another bold adventure's
just about to fly.
Another magic ship
is always setting sail!
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
This Harbor
I'm not alone.
Don't be so sure
you've seen it like it is.
My friends have my back.
I chose these curves,
these ocean hues,
this harbor, as my home.
I don't need facts
or figures from your book.
I haven't come this far
to lose my nerve,
to live or look the way
your research shows.
I've loved, I've lost
and gained, and learned
to disregard the maps
but not to let my
bridges burn.
I'm too smart for that.
I'm not blind to costs,
to eyebrows raised,
the whispers haven't
gone unheard.
I've just decided
that I like my world,
the contours of my days,
my time and place
off the beaten path.
I like that if I start to hurt
I've found a way
to just sit here,
making waves,
and laugh.
Poem by Dan Stone
This Harbor
I'm not alone.
Don't be so sure
you've seen it like it is.
My friends have my back.
I chose these curves,
these ocean hues,
this harbor, as my home.
I don't need facts
or figures from your book.
I haven't come this far
to lose my nerve,
to live or look the way
your research shows.
I've loved, I've lost
and gained, and learned
to disregard the maps
but not to let my
bridges burn.
I'm too smart for that.
I'm not blind to costs,
to eyebrows raised,
the whispers haven't
gone unheard.
I've just decided
that I like my world,
the contours of my days,
my time and place
off the beaten path.
I like that if I start to hurt
I've found a way
to just sit here,
making waves,
and laugh.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Every Color That's Me
From this spot,
standing here,
everything I want
to see is so clear.
Every dream
has set sail,
every color that's me
has come through.
In this sweet space,
this cool light,
these words of truth
are so brightly alive,
so completely alright
I don't have to move.
I can rule.
I can just be
perfectly still,
let these shades
that I wear
and these fabrics
I feel, prove
I have all that I need
to be so very sure.
I can just let it be,
paint pictures
so bold,
give voice to worlds
so profound
and so pure,
I can do anything,
everything,
I want to do.
Poem by Dan Stone
Every Color That's Me
From this spot,
standing here,
everything I want
to see is so clear.
Every dream
has set sail,
every color that's me
has come through.
In this sweet space,
this cool light,
these words of truth
are so brightly alive,
so completely alright
I don't have to move.
I can rule.
I can just be
perfectly still,
let these shades
that I wear
and these fabrics
I feel, prove
I have all that I need
to be so very sure.
I can just let it be,
paint pictures
so bold,
give voice to worlds
so profound
and so pure,
I can do anything,
everything,
I want to do.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
"Colors That Suit Me"
This still, small space,
off to the side
is not retreat.
I call it home.
I haven't left the stage.
I have no need to hide.
This may appear
a lonely page
but you should hear
the hopes and dreams,
the songs and schemes
that boldly meet
behind this face.
You should see
how this heart roams
to seas and skies
beyond these walls,
how far these eyes
can wander free.
I haven't paused
to justify, to sleep,
to wait for death.
I set my course,
chose what to wear--
the colors that suit me--
decided what to lose
and what to keep.
If that's an issue
I don't care.
I only stopped
to catch my breath.
Poem by Dan Stone
"Colors That Suit Me"
This still, small space,
off to the side
is not retreat.
I call it home.
I haven't left the stage.
I have no need to hide.
This may appear
a lonely page
but you should hear
the hopes and dreams,
the songs and schemes
that boldly meet
behind this face.
You should see
how this heart roams
to seas and skies
beyond these walls,
how far these eyes
can wander free.
I haven't paused
to justify, to sleep,
to wait for death.
I set my course,
chose what to wear--
the colors that suit me--
decided what to lose
and what to keep.
If that's an issue
I don't care.
I only stopped
to catch my breath.
Poem by Dan Stone
Live To Tell
It doesn't matter
what is said.
Any book
you recommend,
I've likely read.
Any treatment,
cure or remedy
has done what
it can do.
My prayers
are prayed.
I've learned
from every hair
fallen from my head
that best laid plans
are best left, laid.
I've faced my fears,
conquered one or two.
I've gone through
what you could
call hell to find
my sanity,
this quiet space,
to lose what's left
of vanity,
to love this
unapologetic face,
to live to tell.
Poem by Dan Stone
It doesn't matter
what is said.
Any book
you recommend,
I've likely read.
Any treatment,
cure or remedy
has done what
it can do.
My prayers
are prayed.
I've learned
from every hair
fallen from my head
that best laid plans
are best left, laid.
I've faced my fears,
conquered one or two.
I've gone through
what you could
call hell to find
my sanity,
this quiet space,
to lose what's left
of vanity,
to love this
unapologetic face,
to live to tell.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Just the Real Jazz
I've got this groove.
Pull up an ear.
It slings like pearls.
It swings like
a cool chandelier.
Bring your best moves
but no rules here.
This town
and these tunes
are for dreamers
and fools,
for hip boys
and girls who
get down,
who ring true.
I've got the keys,
you make the sax
sing, you spit shine
your shoes
and let your toes tap
with some feel good
pizzazz,
some hot blues.
No woulds or coulds.
no don'ts or do's
or I guess,
just the head to toe yes,
just the real jazz.
Poem by Dan Stone
Just the Real Jazz
I've got this groove.
Pull up an ear.
It slings like pearls.
It swings like
a cool chandelier.
Bring your best moves
but no rules here.
This town
and these tunes
are for dreamers
and fools,
for hip boys
and girls who
get down,
who ring true.
I've got the keys,
you make the sax
sing, you spit shine
your shoes
and let your toes tap
with some feel good
pizzazz,
some hot blues.
No woulds or coulds.
no don'ts or do's
or I guess,
just the head to toe yes,
just the real jazz.
Poem by Dan Stone
(
SOLD
Like Gay Paris
Balanced, swinging
in this interlude
is every sight
we pay to see,
delicate and tres chic,
a fashion and a style,
a joie de vivre
that sizzles
like hot sax,
that tickles ivories
with fine class
and such cool clarity.
C'est musique
so true, complete
it won't retire,
won't let its bell
refrain from ringing.
Just a heart
that tells its tale,
une belle amour,
like Libra's scales,
like gay Paris,
it goes on singing.
Poem by Dan Stone
Like Gay Paris
Balanced, swinging
in this interlude
is every sight
we pay to see,
delicate and tres chic,
a fashion and a style,
a joie de vivre
that sizzles
like hot sax,
that tickles ivories
with fine class
and such cool clarity.
C'est musique
so true, complete
it won't retire,
won't let its bell
refrain from ringing.
Just a heart
that tells its tale,
une belle amour,
like Libra's scales,
like gay Paris,
it goes on singing.
Poem by Dan Stone
A Lady and Her Lily
Just sitting here,
a cool repose, it's true,
but this quiet sings.
Theres so much
going on.
A crescent moon
of blue silk hair,
slender fingers
playing with sleek pearl.
fine textures, colors,
beauty smooth
as porcelain,
still, and rare.
Everything just as it is,
no cluttered right
or wrong.
no tattered cares.
Just this ageless
belladonna pose,
a lady and her lily
and a song.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com)
Just sitting here,
a cool repose, it's true,
but this quiet sings.
Theres so much
going on.
A crescent moon
of blue silk hair,
slender fingers
playing with sleek pearl.
fine textures, colors,
beauty smooth
as porcelain,
still, and rare.
Everything just as it is,
no cluttered right
or wrong.
no tattered cares.
Just this ageless
belladonna pose,
a lady and her lily
and a song.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com)
Sold
The Beauty That These Eyes Have Known
It's not skin deep,
it's from the flesh
and to the bone,
the beauty
that these eyes
have known.
The days of grace,
of labored love
above, beyond,
surpass the spires,
the slim canals.
This bella vita
time has shown
can light and line
this sacred face,
rekindle fires,
can still say "Ciao!"
to what's gone wrong,
can hold these gifts
like answered prayers,
can still say
"Grazie!"
like a song.
Poem by Dan Stone
The Beauty That These Eyes Have Known
It's not skin deep,
it's from the flesh
and to the bone,
the beauty
that these eyes
have known.
The days of grace,
of labored love
above, beyond,
surpass the spires,
the slim canals.
This bella vita
time has shown
can light and line
this sacred face,
rekindle fires,
can still say "Ciao!"
to what's gone wrong,
can hold these gifts
like answered prayers,
can still say
"Grazie!"
like a song.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Just This Song
It's a sitting spell.
You could call it
prayer or meditation
but that won't tell
the fullest truth
about the magic
that these notes
can do,
this incantation
as it flees
this flute to launch
the ships and fill
their sails.
It's a cool breeze
at my back.
I may not see
the city on the hill
but I believe
enough to chill,
to breathe, relax,
to sit for tea,
to hold this pose
and just be real,
to let this day
be not so long
and so much work
but just this song
I dreamed or heard
and chose to sit
and simply play.
Poem by Dan Stone
Just This Song
It's a sitting spell.
You could call it
prayer or meditation
but that won't tell
the fullest truth
about the magic
that these notes
can do,
this incantation
as it flees
this flute to launch
the ships and fill
their sails.
It's a cool breeze
at my back.
I may not see
the city on the hill
but I believe
enough to chill,
to breathe, relax,
to sit for tea,
to hold this pose
and just be real,
to let this day
be not so long
and so much work
but just this song
I dreamed or heard
and chose to sit
and simply play.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
When I Get It Right
I caught this ride.
I climbed on board,
let this gondola
slide into the stream,
glide smooth and sweet
as these strings
that I pluck and strum,
cool and complete
as a whiskey shot,
wild and free
as these notes
when they fly
far from me
as any care
that I've got
on any slow day.
It's honey that flows
from my fingertips
from my oh so
warm thighs
and closed eyes,
when I get it right
then just let go,
when I could care less
that I know
what to say,
when oh yes,
I just sit tight,
let the harp speak,
play it my way.
Poem by Dan Stone
When I Get It Right
I caught this ride.
I climbed on board,
let this gondola
slide into the stream,
glide smooth and sweet
as these strings
that I pluck and strum,
cool and complete
as a whiskey shot,
wild and free
as these notes
when they fly
far from me
as any care
that I've got
on any slow day.
It's honey that flows
from my fingertips
from my oh so
warm thighs
and closed eyes,
when I get it right
then just let go,
when I could care less
that I know
what to say,
when oh yes,
I just sit tight,
let the harp speak,
play it my way.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
This Gift
I hold this
luscious note
because it's all
there is.
This bow across
these strings,
this low and lovely
chord is all I need
to bring me home,
to sing the melody
that is not will
but sweet freedom
from all angst
or grief, a moment--
resonant and still--
not wealth I earn
but just this gift,
this rich relief,
this nothing more
or less than
what I've asked,
than every prayer
for peace
prayed everywhere,
than everything.
Poem by Dan Stone
This Gift
I hold this
luscious note
because it's all
there is.
This bow across
these strings,
this low and lovely
chord is all I need
to bring me home,
to sing the melody
that is not will
but sweet freedom
from all angst
or grief, a moment--
resonant and still--
not wealth I earn
but just this gift,
this rich relief,
this nothing more
or less than
what I've asked,
than every prayer
for peace
prayed everywhere,
than everything.
Poem by Dan Stone
Genius In Disguise
Who leads the way?
Not who you think.
Neither age
nor beauty rules
this game.
Winners know
that what's ahead
is not what's cool
but rather, what
we love to play,
the giggles, grins,
the notes that fly.
It isn't fools
who lose their heads,
its genius in disguise--
the luck of beast
or bird or child.
Listen!
It's the truth
you've heard,
undaunted as the
quacking duck,
doubtless as
the piper's pied.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
Who leads the way?
Not who you think.
Neither age
nor beauty rules
this game.
Winners know
that what's ahead
is not what's cool
but rather, what
we love to play,
the giggles, grins,
the notes that fly.
It isn't fools
who lose their heads,
its genius in disguise--
the luck of beast
or bird or child.
Listen!
It's the truth
you've heard,
undaunted as the
quacking duck,
doubtless as
the piper's pied.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
Sold
Like Breath, Like Dreams
I give you this
for free,
each and every
rainbow's hue,
every possibility
that flows
to you from me,
like breath,
like dreams.
Your life came through,
your gift--
so pure it aches--
is that I see
that nothing else
I'll ever do
or have or be
will ever make
me feel so
beautiful
or seem so real
or true.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
Like Breath, Like Dreams
I give you this
for free,
each and every
rainbow's hue,
every possibility
that flows
to you from me,
like breath,
like dreams.
Your life came through,
your gift--
so pure it aches--
is that I see
that nothing else
I'll ever do
or have or be
will ever make
me feel so
beautiful
or seem so real
or true.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
SOLD
"Wisdom Without Words" -
Love seems
too bland
a name for this look
of knowing how
heart manifests,
this wisdom
without words,
not from books
but blood,
from womb
to breast,
a dream made
flesh and bone,
a cry, a coo,
a river in two eyes
flowing
what is true,
showing
how the world
sighs in two hands,
every former
doubt or fear
disappearing
in the nook
of arms and chest,
in the sacred
spaces shared
in a lullaby.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
"Wisdom Without Words" -
Love seems
too bland
a name for this look
of knowing how
heart manifests,
this wisdom
without words,
not from books
but blood,
from womb
to breast,
a dream made
flesh and bone,
a cry, a coo,
a river in two eyes
flowing
what is true,
showing
how the world
sighs in two hands,
every former
doubt or fear
disappearing
in the nook
of arms and chest,
in the sacred
spaces shared
in a lullaby.
Poem by Dan Stone
Available at J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
Sold
Any Goddess Knows
Perfection's boring,
like a rose
when thorns
are clipped,
like a cat who's been declawed,
or a 'truth'
that can't be flipped.
It's the flaw
that makes
the beauty speak,
the dirt from which
the pomegranate grows.
It's the sass,
the open blouse
and long cool pearls,
the fruit that's tart and sweet.
If there's doubt,
sit at her feet
and ask what
any goddess knows.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD from J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
Any Goddess Knows
Perfection's boring,
like a rose
when thorns
are clipped,
like a cat who's been declawed,
or a 'truth'
that can't be flipped.
It's the flaw
that makes
the beauty speak,
the dirt from which
the pomegranate grows.
It's the sass,
the open blouse
and long cool pearls,
the fruit that's tart and sweet.
If there's doubt,
sit at her feet
and ask what
any goddess knows.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD from J. Pepin Art Gallery http://www.jpepinartgallery.com
SOLD
"This Song is for You,This song's for me'
I wrote it fast
to not forget.
I play it for the ones
who hear,
who want to sing.
I wrote it on the
crinkled paper
of the past,
gold with age,
with memories.
I play it
dancing barefoot
in the grass.
I play it for the truth
that's here
in front of me.
I play it for the joy
it frees.
Thats more than
I could ask.
Poem by Dan Stone
"This Song is for You,This song's for me'
I wrote it fast
to not forget.
I play it for the ones
who hear,
who want to sing.
I wrote it on the
crinkled paper
of the past,
gold with age,
with memories.
I play it
dancing barefoot
in the grass.
I play it for the truth
that's here
in front of me.
I play it for the joy
it frees.
Thats more than
I could ask.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Stillness Looms
This Now knows
that stillness looms,
the truth that dedication
to the Present brings, blooms, perfect as the Moon
blue and heavy in the sky,
the lullaby it sings
a sitting meditation
balancing the highs
and lows, tomorrows,
yesterdays, thens, soons.
No matter who
or where we've been,
whatever sighs or rifts,
how's or why's,
breath moving freely
in and out right here:
ah, that's the blessed gift.
Poem by Dan Stone
Stillness Looms
This Now knows
that stillness looms,
the truth that dedication
to the Present brings, blooms, perfect as the Moon
blue and heavy in the sky,
the lullaby it sings
a sitting meditation
balancing the highs
and lows, tomorrows,
yesterdays, thens, soons.
No matter who
or where we've been,
whatever sighs or rifts,
how's or why's,
breath moving freely
in and out right here:
ah, that's the blessed gift.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
"Photo Bomb"
Lighten up.
It's no big deal.
Two heads
no longer in the sand.
Something tart
and solid in my hand--
shall I throw it?
Its just a moment,
just a way I feel.
No cause to
stop and stare.
Was it something
that I did or said?
Do too many care?
Don't I know it.
Poem by Dan Stone
"Photo Bomb"
Lighten up.
It's no big deal.
Two heads
no longer in the sand.
Something tart
and solid in my hand--
shall I throw it?
Its just a moment,
just a way I feel.
No cause to
stop and stare.
Was it something
that I did or said?
Do too many care?
Don't I know it.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
"Be Still"
You ask, are we finished?
Have I turned away
to say it's ending?
Come close, be still.
See what I'm seeing--
dreams taking flight,
setting sail, journeys
soaring, bending--
life that never fails
and ever calls.
Believe it if you will.
Nothing hurts us here.
Nobody falls.
The truth's there
in the sea and sky,
in the full moonlight,
in the love we're freeing.
Poem by Dan Stone
"Be Still"
You ask, are we finished?
Have I turned away
to say it's ending?
Come close, be still.
See what I'm seeing--
dreams taking flight,
setting sail, journeys
soaring, bending--
life that never fails
and ever calls.
Believe it if you will.
Nothing hurts us here.
Nobody falls.
The truth's there
in the sea and sky,
in the full moonlight,
in the love we're freeing.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Harvest Moon
That's me
turning back,
wondering what if,
forgetting who I am.
Truth be told--
wasting my time--
getting old.
But then a shift--
me looking right at
Me, not caring much
what I knew when.
And that's me
seeing me, too,
the one carrying a tune,
the one who knows
how to play,
how to let it be,
and she's saying,
"Come hear this! Now!
"Would you look
at that moon!"
Poem by Dan Stone
Harvest Moon
That's me
turning back,
wondering what if,
forgetting who I am.
Truth be told--
wasting my time--
getting old.
But then a shift--
me looking right at
Me, not caring much
what I knew when.
And that's me
seeing me, too,
the one carrying a tune,
the one who knows
how to play,
how to let it be,
and she's saying,
"Come hear this! Now!
"Would you look
at that moon!"
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
"Present Perfect"
What's my story?
Take a look.
Some would say
I'm missing out,
that curling up with me
is not the way to go.
They haven't read the book.
The present's perfect
just the way it is - -
my friends know what I'm about.
They get the waste
that is spilt milk
and spoiled cheese.
They get that
it's the now
and not the how.
There's no cup
from the past
I need to fill
and better still?
Nobody else
I need to please.
Poem by Dan Stone
"Present Perfect"
What's my story?
Take a look.
Some would say
I'm missing out,
that curling up with me
is not the way to go.
They haven't read the book.
The present's perfect
just the way it is - -
my friends know what I'm about.
They get the waste
that is spilt milk
and spoiled cheese.
They get that
it's the now
and not the how.
There's no cup
from the past
I need to fill
and better still?
Nobody else
I need to please.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
I'm not looking back
even though
I know it's there.
I won't bring the past
in front of me
even if this
here and now
strips me bare
rubs me raw.
I refuse that ledge,
the sharp regrets.
There's no law
that says I have to lose,
no point I've missed.
I get to choose,
assess the risk,
place my own bet.
-Poem by Dan Stone
NOTE: Please read my blog post for the story about this painting.
Gouache on paper. 11X21"
I'm not looking back
even though
I know it's there.
I won't bring the past
in front of me
even if this
here and now
strips me bare
rubs me raw.
I refuse that ledge,
the sharp regrets.
There's no law
that says I have to lose,
no point I've missed.
I get to choose,
assess the risk,
place my own bet.
-Poem by Dan Stone
NOTE: Please read my blog post for the story about this painting.
Gouache on paper. 11X21"
SOLD
That we're alone--
perhaps the lie
that harms us most,
that hurts the worst.
What we won't see,
what we can't hear
is who came first.
Call them angels,
call them guides,
call them answers
to each prayer
we've prayed,
whatever's helped us
feel inspired.
Call it trite or a cliché
that they don't care
what names we use.
They just stand by,
offering the wisdom
that spins worlds,
ready when we choose.
Poem by Dan Stone
That we're alone--
perhaps the lie
that harms us most,
that hurts the worst.
What we won't see,
what we can't hear
is who came first.
Call them angels,
call them guides,
call them answers
to each prayer
we've prayed,
whatever's helped us
feel inspired.
Call it trite or a cliché
that they don't care
what names we use.
They just stand by,
offering the wisdom
that spins worlds,
ready when we choose.
Poem by Dan Stone
(SOLD)
(SOLD)
A Long Time Ago When Pigs Could Fly
A long time ago
when pigs could fly
cities were dreams
with cats standing by
and peasants were princes
who walked on thin air
and took dragons for rides
because magic ruled there.
Some--mostly kids--
initially recall
how fun and how free
and it means a lot
to let those dreams be
as real now as some truth
that we think we've caught.
So carry balloons
and read fairy tales,
hear the birds' tunes
and let stories set sail
as a way to remember
to let ourselves see
we're as magical now
as the dreams we forgot.
Poem by Dan Stone
A Long Time Ago When Pigs Could Fly
A long time ago
when pigs could fly
cities were dreams
with cats standing by
and peasants were princes
who walked on thin air
and took dragons for rides
because magic ruled there.
Some--mostly kids--
initially recall
how fun and how free
and it means a lot
to let those dreams be
as real now as some truth
that we think we've caught.
So carry balloons
and read fairy tales,
hear the birds' tunes
and let stories set sail
as a way to remember
to let ourselves see
we're as magical now
as the dreams we forgot.
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
All About Connecting
This whimsy's so much
easier than we think,
Easy at it looks
when beauty and the beast
just lean in and put
their heads together
and the party
just breaks loose!
That's really all it took
to let the trumpet
and the mandolin play.
It's all about connecting,
no matter what
the preachers say,
or what's written
in a book.
Just look around
to find the gold
The cherry's right on top.
Nothing here
that needs correcting.
All you have to do
is watch the rabbit
jump the moon,
believe the song
the birds are singing,
pray the magic
never stops.
Poem by Dan Stone
All About Connecting
This whimsy's so much
easier than we think,
Easy at it looks
when beauty and the beast
just lean in and put
their heads together
and the party
just breaks loose!
That's really all it took
to let the trumpet
and the mandolin play.
It's all about connecting,
no matter what
the preachers say,
or what's written
in a book.
Just look around
to find the gold
The cherry's right on top.
Nothing here
that needs correcting.
All you have to do
is watch the rabbit
jump the moon,
believe the song
the birds are singing,
pray the magic
never stops.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
Jubilation
There's a party going on!
Did you get your invitation?
Pull up a lawn,
bring your own gold
and join the celebration!
There'll be trumpets
and a saxophone
and jugglers
skating cross the ledges--
its a jubilee right here
at home--just bring
the jubilation!
You can tell
that in this town
your joy and wonder
can't be parted.
Hitch your dragon
to your wagon
then just sing
your favorite song
to get the party started!
Poem by Dan Stone
Jubilation
There's a party going on!
Did you get your invitation?
Pull up a lawn,
bring your own gold
and join the celebration!
There'll be trumpets
and a saxophone
and jugglers
skating cross the ledges--
its a jubilee right here
at home--just bring
the jubilation!
You can tell
that in this town
your joy and wonder
can't be parted.
Hitch your dragon
to your wagon
then just sing
your favorite song
to get the party started!
Poem by Dan Stone
Sold
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time . . .
I dreamed
of sapphire roofs
and turquoise streams
of white sheet sails
and pearly skies
and gold pigtails
and rosy truths.
Once upon a time
I drew a world
where anyone
who wants, can fly,
where teddy bears
all know too well,
that once upon a time
I, too, was tucked
inside a fairy tale.
Poem by Dan Stone
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time . . .
I dreamed
of sapphire roofs
and turquoise streams
of white sheet sails
and pearly skies
and gold pigtails
and rosy truths.
Once upon a time
I drew a world
where anyone
who wants, can fly,
where teddy bears
all know too well,
that once upon a time
I, too, was tucked
inside a fairy tale.
Poem by Dan Stone
SOLD
These Seeds
There it is again,
that music
in the breeze.
I'm listening.
I'm looking even
if not seeing,
who he is.
I'm feeling,
even if too far
to touch.
These seeds I hold
will have to be enough.
I'll let them find
their way to grow
Even if my heart
still lags behind
this dream,
even if I have
to let him go.
Poem by Dan Stone
These Seeds
There it is again,
that music
in the breeze.
I'm listening.
I'm looking even
if not seeing,
who he is.
I'm feeling,
even if too far
to touch.
These seeds I hold
will have to be enough.
I'll let them find
their way to grow
Even if my heart
still lags behind
this dream,
even if I have
to let him go.
Poem by Dan Stone
You May Not See
You may not see
what we're seeing,
what we're giving
our attention.
You'll have to change
your point of view,
try being with us
in our focus,
if you want
to understand
how this invention
Isn't strange,
just a choosing
how we're living,
just us loving
what we do.
Poem by Dan Stone
You may not see
what we're seeing,
what we're giving
our attention.
You'll have to change
your point of view,
try being with us
in our focus,
if you want
to understand
how this invention
Isn't strange,
just a choosing
how we're living,
just us loving
what we do.
Poem by Dan Stone
