Yasushi Ikeda

Student

A student plays the paper piano

Penniless and inexperienced

Anxious and frenzied

Chaotic but proud

There is no sound

But surely music is here

Paper piano is piano itself

Anyone can play it

No one can play it

The sacred instrument creates

Murmuring bubbles gold and silver

Flying soon to vanish

When you play the paper piano

Something thoroughly pure comes

Take out your piano from your pocket

Put your fingers softly on it

And here comes from the world bottom

Faint rhythm and rhyme

Muses' glimmering dream

Every song and music hides

deep in itself

You

A student playing the paper piano

Turfalko

Veins of rain...

Veins of rain

on the glass

autumn colors

under the gray

sky

through the landscape

we explore

motionless

other worlds

other leaves

other memories

always traveling

we cross

alone

and nothing

we need

through existence

through the flow of time

we move

unpossessingly

sunlit and peaceful

the exit

we greet

Turfalko

Music is our spice...

Music is our spice

music is lucid dreams

pure awareness

sounds

silence

atmospheric travels

through consciousness

drawn waves

on the sand

new mindsets

emerge

from depth

noises bloom

music softens

fractal motions

in the loom

entwined threads

of minds

tones mutiny

rhythms revolt

wordlessly

voices appeal

Tim Taylor

Leaves



Born of the sunlight,


cracking bud coccoons


they stretch and fill their veins like butterflies.


Tethered to the tree that bore them,


they do not take wing


but they can dance, ecstatic


in the first wild gusts of spring.


They revel in their newness, playing


with the wind a whispered symphony in green.


They must make the most of these times


for, unlike the tree, they soon grow old.


Autumn gives them one last flourish,


painting them in red and brown and gold


but soon the wind that was their friend


will tear them from their homes


and then, at last


the leaves will learn to fly