Sunday, June 26, 2011

Text "Of Colors True and In-between" (Illustrations follow)

Magic, make-believe, or is it real?
What is it that we really see?
Is it day or is it night?
Of colors true and in-between.

Perhaps the day is the way,
Or behind the black of dark we find,
A way to start anew,
For me and you,
Of colors true and in-between.

Moon and stars so far away,
Or are they close but just look that way?
It might just be how you choose to see,
What's here,
What's there,
Is not everywhere.
Of colors true and in-between.

Nor can everyone see who has eyes,
Unless you know how to gaze beyond the clouds,
And through the sky,
Where dreaming and reality blend in harmony,
Of colors true and in-between.

Beyond the life, and death, and in-between,
Is the dance of magic and make-believe.
Nothing surprises,
Nothing depresses,
We're here,
Then there,
Only is love,
Of the colors true and in-between.

As the colors slip and slide, and define everything,
We sit and wait for things to turn green,
Or pink, or blue, or some color hue,
That happens to be exactly right for you.
Of colors true and in-between.

Where is day?
And where is night?
There's flying, and sitting, and simple fright.
Which is real?
And which is make-believe?
Don't try to tell me,
You don't see what I see.

Time is not time. Is it now, or later, or yesterday?
What's a calendar?
What's a clock?
Universal power says all about days,
And the tick-ticking-tick-tock of clocks.
Every time is time to play,
And smile, and laugh, and dream awhile,
Of colors true and in-between.

Somewhere in the middle of magic and make-believe,
Way beyond our dreams,
Where all the worlds we experience meet,
Are no definitions, or labels, or situational rules,
Like boundaries,
Or loss,
Or weeping,
Of colors true and in-between.

No language,
Not really,
That's all kind of silly.
It's all about being here, or there,
Or maybe farther over there,
With blue skies,
Cloud formations.
And earth below our feet.

Where the colors of our dreams bleed into the dark,
And back again when the sky isn't dark.

People slipping away,
On most ordinary days.
On feet?
In boxes?
What for?
How Far?
Just beyond the windows,
Or atop the wings of birds or butterfies?

In and out of our dreams they reappear,
The clocks and calendars reminding us of our fears,
Of colors true and in-between.

Home is sweet,
And sweet is home,
What you think is what you see,
What you see is what you think.
So dream upon those blue-sky days,
And right on in the black of dark.
Magic, make-believe, or is it real?
What is it that we really see?
Is it day or is it night?
Of colors true and in-between.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Of Colors True and Inbetween By Darlene Campbell

Magic, make-believe, or is it real?
What is it that we really see?



Is it day or is it night?

Of colors true and in-between.




Perhaps the day is the way,

Or behind the black of dark we find,

A way to start anew,



For me and you,

Of colors true and in-between.






Moon and stars so far away,

Or are they close but just look that way?

It might just be how you choose to see,

What's here,




What's there,

Is not everywhere.

Of colors true and in-between.



Nor can everyone see who has eyes,

Unless you know ow to gaze beyond the clouds,

And through the sky,



Where dreaming and reality blend in harmony,

Of colors true and in-between.



Beyond the life, and death, and in-between,

Is the dance of magic and make-believe.

Nothing surprises,

Nothing dpresses,



We're here,

Then there,

Only is love,

Of the colors true and in-between.



As the colors slip, and slide, and define everything,

We sit and wait for things to turn green,

Or pink, or blue, or some color hue,



That happens to be exactly right for you,

Of colors true and in-between.



Where is day?

And where is night?

There's flying, and sitting, and simple fright.

Which is real?




And which is make-believe?

Don't ry to tell me,

You don't see what I see.




Time is not time. Is it now, or later, or yesterday?

What's a calendar?

What's a clock?

Universal power says all about days,




And the tick-ticking-tick-tock of clocks.

Everytime is time to play,

And smile, and laugh, and dream awile,

Of colors true and in-between.



Somewhere in hte middle of magic and make-believe,

Way beyond our dreams,

Where all the worlds we experience meet,

Are no definitions, or labels, or situational rules,



Like boundaries,

Or loss,

Or weeping,

Of colors true and in-between.



No language,

Not really,

That's all kind of silly.

It's all about being here, or there,



Or maybe farther over there,

With blue skies,

Cloud formations,

And earth below our feet.




Where the colors of our dreams bleed into the dark,




And back again when the sky isn't dark.




People slipping away,

On most ordinary days,

On feet?

In boxes?



What for?

How far?

Just beyond the windows,

Or atop the wings of birds or butterflies?



In and out of our dreams they reappear,

The clocks and calendars remind us of our fears.



Of colors true and in-between.





Home is sweet,

And sweet is home,

What you think is what you see.

What you see is what you think.




So dream upon those blue-sky days,

And right on in the black of dark.

Magic, make-believe, or is it real?

What is it that we really see?


Is it day or is it night?

Of colors true and in-between.























































Thursday, June 2, 2011

Yard Sells and Hunting Junk




Now that I'm working on art assemblage I'm taking walks to look for rusty objects. I also love the hunt at the flea markets and yard sales. The hunts are especially fun and encouraging when I'm stuck and can't move forward. I was working with an old wooden box and I needed a piece for the background. Hmmmm. So I decided to take a break from it with a little walk. I walked less than a block and found the perfect rusty piece that had fallen off a vehicle. Voila. Two days befor I was at a flea market. This particular one is held yearly and it used to be grand but has changed into one of those crappy flea markets with tons of baby toys and clothes (yuck), and commercial products such as Avon and Tupperware. Those people who have year round yard sales, you know the ones who let their stuff sit outside all year, and they drape tarps over it, sell at this flea market now. Evidently they pull out the good stuff to bring to this sale. Little Johnny didn't get to finish nuking his breakfast poptart before they unplugged the thing and set it up at the sale. (The evidence is in the photo.) "Yes, sir, how much for that there dirty microwave?"