Danny James

Tag: dawn

369: Still I rise

That glorious golden bulb again rose to finish the thaw of yesterdays ail and satisfied, I closed the shades to find a progress my own. It need not be enticed from the outside if I am present within. I will be light through, not merely in its absence elsewhere. These endeavours must daily begin anew, for strength is not strength that is not used and so require the strain. We make no ground by our mere intention, but must saturate the Earth with that you would receive of it. And still I rise, as ever. That we are all here today gathered is much now.

Bondi morning, 2014

Bondi, 2014

331: My glowing daybreak friend

My glowing daybreak friend, from the nearest reachable greeting point of this shifting globe I lunge thee toward with unbearable stillness, and will, with all the wishing might of a child at Christmas Eve, for a quicker revolution and that cardinal glimpse of thy gladdening light jovial patience rewards.

329: Light reveals wonder

Hurling toward thee, o herald of the Auroral sky, I bring news of many revolutions. So much has changed again, I wonder if you’ll perceive me anymore, as much to myself am I unfamiliar anew. But o, the things you must have seen of the world while I slept. How fares my neighbours on the other side? What colours of expression will you carry for the impression? Our reconciliations bear an amnesic appeal, that every colloquy is the first and no other and we are at once the oldest of friends and loving strangers, by attached we know not what.

Bondi, 2013

Bondi, 2013

281

O daybreak, that I am ever with fresh gladness seen, and not honoured to evenings conviction, that today I do not mean.

Coogee, 2012

Coogee, 2012

274

The sun too quickly reaches height, say you? But it has its own duties to fulfil, and you yours. And have you not time to make reparation for your wrong doing, which includes doing nothing, in this instance?

Bondi, 2014

Bondi, 2014

268: All colours soon fade

The morning begins in a blaze of luminous peach and hot pink swirls like a pooling rain of lava to fall; the light at the edge of the world and there’s not a violence in the air. No fire in the sky or gaping hell unloosed, it’s far too still, too beautiful for it, but a blinding promise of a paradise already here perhaps. And sitting over this vivid glow of reaching holiness, is a guide of perfect puffs of white cloud, arranged in a homeward going it seems, dispersed like stepping-stones of cotton for the angels trailing to a golden trapdoor haven in the sky. It peels open slowly, like a wise and ancient eye knowing all and well as it slips from the darkness milk of a century-long slumber, upon what futile routine will its look rest. This human fumbling, short-lived evaporating everlast of unbearable wonder. Peering over the sizzling lip with a brilliance unheard, our saviour orb of blood orange is roaring to ascendency, where it will sit with explosive resplendence, the very centre and light of things all and not a sound. O relief, ye smiling humble high sun, beacon to the weary confused, nothing is dispossessed of your gentle touch across the Earth, but greeting cheerfully all tears and dew and drying the surface of lack and lament like a mother’s hand. How daily new and utterly heart bewildering. There is nothing, sets right or overcomes me quite. Another chance for a fool.

And less nowadays, in these fine moments that might have been shared, comes strolling thee into my reveries mead… then does. As though within the very nature of the occasions sudden vacancy of memory embedded is a deeper and more adamant remembrance in wait. Instants, bright and fulfilling, riotous with life urge me to enquire what shade and resignation prefers. The contrast emphasis. And we cannot just go along easily, but puncture directly to the heart or hold our own from a safe screaming distance. Telling it is when I cannot sever so quickly the cords of an attachment anymore. Good soul, who found a reason to stay in the first, and last place; none so can ever leave without a trace.
‘Anyway, don’t get too caught up in it now like always, aching over the intricacies of lapping little shore breaks on the beach, or the Coasts Winter mantle of mist and whitewash and what distant winds have hither inspired them. Like a flag in the Summer sea breeze flailing tirelessly resisting the flagpole oppression it needs. Welling tears at melodies that demonstrate your gentler parts, and returning always to the same hard stoic stare of modesty and recovered order, the state from which you will again stray and which you hold most dear.’ Practice, practice, practice. It’s a rehearsal anyway, for the big last dance at midnight and it’s been the eleventh hour for almost a lifetime now. ‘Your mind you can change, and do and will, but the sky not. It is not for you but simply is. The birds, happy enough do they sail on, and you should go with their philosophy awhile, for clear days or not know there are many days, many colours and all colours soon fade.’

230

Wake and rest your look, long and unthinking at the moments before you remember all the things that rush to confuse and deter you. That creeps forth like a rain over the ocean and obscures your pristine skies.

Yield not your strength to strife unarrived.

Nor by any light may find thee out, fold up your sacred absence.

Embrace the silence before sun; the calm that companions the dawn.

187

I much enjoy my daily visits with the rising Sun, which greets me from over the yonder each morn with an everlasting cheerful tenderness. Then a gladness washes over my heart, much in the way that sleep overwhelms the consciousness: delicately, and then utterly.

Bondi, 2013

Bondi, 2013

141: Star failing

It is beautiful and it breaks you heart to look up and see home in the endless glade of impossible-to-reach heavens. For you are of the very same stuff as composes the Stars, that smiling in their silence conceive only that you will rejoin them, and so gaping linger dangerously into the dawn until one by one, day puts them out, and their wishes you cannot live up to.

139: Over the pond

Though the sun I daily see, I am never at the hour of its promise, rehearsed in the effect. Every occasion retains a new and unique array of lucent qualities that encroaches upon expectation and suspends the senses of the seer in dreamy relief. For as long as it is often and never the same, other what significance could draw me thence that illuminates the facts of being with so subtle an intensity as can daze?

Danny James blog sunrise Bondi