EVEN HERE . . .
There are more flowers . . down the internet path -- on my illustration page
Flowers inspire me. They allow me to drift into their fragrance and beauty and dissolve into a dreamy escape. I paint them, sinking deep into the petals, imagining that if I lose myself they may whisper their secrets. A time for listening to quiet things. Nature and my inner nature. My inner voice.
*I just learned that it's Allen Ginsberg's Birthday today -- as I was creating this post.
Here's a poem I came across by Mr. Ginsberg. I thought it was a fitting accompaniment to my post.
THE GARDEN OF LOVE
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And saw what I never had seen;
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And ‘Thou shalt not’ writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.
