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Art, Photography, Poetry

Light and Shadow 

Your light casts shadows
of dark figures

Your joy in negative
grief and suffering

Your light discovered
peeking out from hidden places
behind closed doors
or just
prisons
second class citizens

Your light discovered
cast long dark forms
looming and huge
frightening and angry

but the light of Your sun
like the upturned corners of your smile
rising

it takes determination
to shrink shadows
into nothing

it takes humility
to fade into twilight
and courage to face
the night of our unknown
until Your  sun rises again


Geo is an artist and writer living in Northern California.  You can reach him at geoart108@gmail.com.

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Art, Collage, Poetry, Women

Whoa Men!

Whoa men!
consider the cost
of your holocausts
your sandbox relationships
illusions of power

Whoa men!
because Womyn
has awoken
and is speaking the oath
taking to the streets

Whoa men!
your ignorance
opened Pandora’s Box
exploding into millions of pink hats
and telling the truth with laughter


Geo is an artist and writer living in Northern California.  You can reach him at geoart108@gmail.com.

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Art, Birth, Poetry

Birth

seed in my soul
whirling
disappearing
resurfacing
different
growing
until it is knocking
screaming
kicking

inconvenient!

today!

now!

birth isn’t convenient

the soul doesn’t mark it down
on the planner

we fall in love like seeds
and we raise a child like a flower

when it comes
keeping it in
pushing it away
kills it

a friend says
it’s all a risk

we fall
we rise


Geo is an artist and writer living in Northern California.  You can reach him at geoart108@gmail.com.

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Art, Photography, Poetry

Together

whispers of crestfallen waves over a rocky bottom
carrying any thoughts down stream

she points out the bridge there

we hold each other
and sway like the scotch broom
caressed by the current
rooted deep in the creek bottom

kaleidoscope sky
rainbows, sunshine, and heavy clouds

dancing around puddles
we don’t always walk the same path
but come together anyway

we come upon great beings
you’ve named
Grandmother and Grandfather

oaks scorched by fire
thick and thriving
roots deep
reaching for the sky

together


Geo is an artist and writer living in Northern California.  You can reach him at geoart108@gmail.com.

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Art, Poetry

Rain

the pitter patter of rain
slows everything

down

the spinning
that is living
spins less

I could watch these trees
sway in the breath
of something greater
for an eternity

a woman
runs by
dodging drops

how do you avoid
the sky opening up

someone exclaims that it is cold

i don’t have on a jacket

we just cropped a different photo
and i can’t get the borders
wide enough
to take in that mountain
floating in the clouds

loud enough
to be quiet
i lean against the wall
and

breathe


Geo is an artist and writer living in Northern California.  You can reach him at geoart108@gmail.com.

 

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Art, Cancer, Death and Dying, Poetry

Fully

Looking out at the redwoods
my hands gently teasing the tension
out of her neck.

drip
drip
drip

This is the stuff
that makes them sick
to heal them.

They don’t talk about it much
about wondering
if this round of treatment
will be the end
or the end.

Awakening
to the reality that we die
rarely happens completely.
It comes in pieces
of raw experience,
between the ordinary worries of life.

I still worry about mundane stuff
no matter how many people have died.

And one day our bodies will pass.
All that worries us today will not exist
in the way we experience it now.

What many of the sick
the hurt
the dying
share
is that it is so hard to slow down
to be here now
to let go of the past
to find joy in the present.

They grieve the distractions
of living a life blind to death,
The control we thought we had.

All my fears
are about dying
about aging
about not having lived

On the surface
they may look like they are about approval
or about the loss
or gain of a job
or a place
or a relationship.

but they are all about death,
and whether we truly
lived.

Swami Venkatesha was asked,
“How many times must I repeat my mantra
to achieve enlightenment?”

He responded,
“Just once, if done from the right place.”

We just need
to love once, fully
to be present, fully
to hurt, fully
to listen, fully
to show up, fully
by our own measure.

We will forget
that we die.

When we around those close to death
we are reminded,
we learn
to feel more
to contemplate our lives.

My teacher used to say,
“It takes outer courage to die,
but it takes inner courage to live.”

Maybe we don’t have to do something
extraordinary to have lived.

Maybe we don’t have to be so hard
on ourselves about that which
we only pretend to understand.


Geo can be reached at Geoart108@gmail.com

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Photography, Poetry

The Art of Trees

A tree that is hollowed out by ants
is cut down to make
a digiridoo.

Trees moan when we kiss them.

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An observant Chinese poet
tells a story about the tree that grew crooked
and was useless to the carpenter.

Learning to love our crookedness
keeps us alive.

I’ve seen the devastation
of ants and termites
fighting over a downed, rotting fir.

Madrones grow twisted.

Tan Oaks rot out at the heart.

Live Oaks are as hard as stone.

Pine burns hot.

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Photo by friend, David Agasi

Cutting down a snag
I found two baby bats
bleeding from my saw.

They were dying
and I crushed them with my boot
and said a prayer.

Some cultures place a sapling
on the top of the highest rafter
when a building is framed.

Appease the wood spirits.
Wear a wreath on your head.
Thorns remind of us suffering
and flowers of beauty.
Vines grow.

If a tree has less than a third
of it’s foliage
after a wildfire
it might be dead.

We can burn
and still live.

The heartwood of a tree
is dead,
the bones
rot when exposed to air.

Some things are meant only
for the inner life
they keep us standing.

It is impossible to distinguish
the number of growth rings
in the the okoume,
a tropical tree

Sometimes our story is fluid
changes imperceptible.

And some have rings
that are slim and thick
fire,
drought and rain.

Forget how old you are.
Cut me,
and discover my story.

When a tree grows deformed
it is a burl.

I know a lot of burls
that become
containers of beauty.

From the old French, “bourle”
tuft of wool.

Warm and disorganized,
like an artist’s studio,
a psychic’s temple,
the chaos of galaxies
and star clusters.

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Listening to trees
is an art.
Hear their whispers.
Watch them dance.
Touch their skin.
Remember,
there is beauty in quiet things,
in movement and texture.

And when they are black and dead,
cover yourself with charcoal and ash.
Listen to what death doesn’t say.
When you cut them down
read their stories…
and remember how fragile we are.


2015-05-17 00.23.30Geoffrey teaches yoga and practices hands on healing through massage, bodywork, and energy work in Northern California.  He loves to write, dance salsa, look up obituary’s , and hang out with his best friend and wife, Sama.

You can find his art at his page on Facebook, GeoArt.
You can contact him at geoart 108@gmail.com.

 

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