Angels fly

Nicole Page-Smith

Angels fly

Chapter 3.

We are twirled with trills of a musical nature in Baroque Bernini. His artwork came out of a style. Influenced by Roman artists like Michelangelo or growing out of them like a branch out of Daphne's fingers not that Bernini was virginal by birth or born of the Virgin, different styles of influence were as prominent as fashion is today born of the garden. Bernini's early sculptures line the gardens outside where some of the major commissions are housed. Extravagances of style were more to do with architecture and are more remembered by early music still currently played in concert houses. If we think about the structure of music and how the music builds in a composition of Bach, Georg Philipp Telemann or Monteverdi this we get in the internal structure of Bernini starting like Michelangelo's sculpture of David born out of the stone we are reminded of composition. The floral influence of Michelangelo's day would again be an influence of dress sense almost like a style of literature.

Trees grow through my mind and sprout another ascension of growth, elsewhere. You wonder if in some godly universe tree root patterns of the earth alter like a road map from the sky and stars shine down on us at night only to have a moonlit night show the way. We are then with Bach in heaven and realize what a treat heaven must be for God. The angels all fall down around us and we are leaves blowing in the wind.

Angels sing with musical angels. In heavenly ways, we are angels for God, heavenly. Birds fly through as though noisy starlings were their friends and pigeons were their home. Parks and fountains have birds flying, soaring to the sky and you feel like the ancients looking for a message from the sky viewing, ascension. Clouds gather and it is a new day. The distance between the water and the sky are like a well, heeled pattern. Roots dirge in the water and curl around like mangroves, roots all twisted. Torturous water nymphs play naked in the water but are possessed. Crawling out of water like some submerged fish people with scaly legs we too must have once emerged from the water and when did we drop our fishy tail.

Tales of another kind have us back to ancient legends and a mythology. Perhaps it was all just a dream and God is our friend to remind us that once we were, gods of a different ascension. Angels fly away when the musicians go home and birds migrate to another day. Born of another universe, planets all talk of the same sky but universes away we only see the sky with brighter stars. Angels and music are the distance of the sky between the moon and the Sun. Angels speak a different language of the planets in the sky for they are star patterns, too. Trees are there for God. 

Angels fly.

Postcard of Rome

Leaves scatter on by

Nicole Page-Smith

Leaves scatter on by

While trees lose their leaves all winter sitting in contemplation of Spiring and sit there barren with new shoots in mind, evergreens waiver in the breeze. Daphne, oh Daphne, my maid. Sunning herself in Autumn Sun, Daphne thought of the birds. Twittering the birds joyfully sheltered in Daphne, the tree. Daphne thought of Spring and new flowers. The water nymph thought of her watery countenance and the freshwater falling down with the rain, pleased her. Clouds welled up in the sky and the birds were of exuberance of the rain. Twittering so happily, they were, you would wonder why the forest birds liked dirt baths on the forest floor, too. In all resplendent joy of the rain and streaming sunshine the clouds began to cry, gods were almost laughing with joy for the experience, themselves and Daphne felt blessed to be amongst trees in the forest. The birds flew away to spread the news and other trees smiled in the rain. God cries with joy when trees are happy but sometimes the clouds cry when it rains. The light shone that day on Daphne.

In flight in the wind sometimes trees think of past lives as trees, a wooded bliss. Soft bark enveloped her face, the face of Mother Nature. Wind caresses the upper branches of trees and birds almost fly backwards trying to land on them. Walking through the forest you see feathers on the ground, the odd one or two blowing in the wind, dropped by little feathered friends and amongst the tree tops you hear the chatter, alerting you of any dangers, ahead. 

Flight and birds, trees and gods are amongst us always, walking. Flight sometimes wanders through your mind as an idea. Birds fly through the forest and as though you are on wing your ideas fly off with the birds. Sky and clouds make it hard for you to walk on windy days. Weather dependent your ideas become clouds and drift with passing rain. Walking, walking and wondering you enter another universe. The sky is night and the trees are darkened amongst a darkened sky lit night of stars. You wonder what universe trees may come from and are somehow transported with the moon. Clouds light the sky and drift covering the stars and the moon. The trees gently blow in the breeze and you could imagine them thinking of stars, God and their origins with Mother Nature. Born under a planet is a tree sort of thing and you feel the trees thinking about stars racing with comets and shooting stars. You could imagine century old trees having comets passed overhead a couple of times in their lifetime. Stars racing and falling and back to the Seasons with Autumn leaves blowing, you leave the forest and it is daylight, again. A leaf crumbles underfoot and a pigeon flies out of the woods. Stars are lighting your mind and trees are as though they were never there on the surface of the moon, a watery knowing materialises and your thoughts follow a leaf down the stream and water, ripples, by.

Leaves drift on by and blow in the wind. Blowing, blowing in the wind the leaves continue to blow along your pathway. Swirling in the wind, leaves blow on by. Winds howl in from the sea on windy days over mountains and down rivers and you feel like a willow in the wind blowing as though your hair blows like the willow. You wander along roots scudding along the ground, sprouting out of your shoes. Your toes hang out of sandals and your toenails have grown with the roots becoming harder to walk, your shoe leather starts to crack and bend. Wondering if you stay too long in one spot the vines may start enveloping you from the floor, your fingers gnarl up with roots and leaves, cold with the wind, you continue to walk along and realise winter is fast approaching. The woods seem distant and in a museum trees bash against the window and you realise you are in a cafe eating soup and bread with perfumed herbs. Postcards of trees settle your mind once again your mind drifts with falling leaves. Your mind wanders to underwater coral, branches of the sea and you are reminded of images of Christ with red beads and branches of coral. Wearing red you are reminded of branches of the heart and a lock of hair falls down your shoulder. Leaves scatter on by. 

Existing, mmm...

Nicole Page-Smith

Existing, mmm...

Chapter 2.

Street cats walk by and as I passed several fountains, I entered my forest. 

Climbing to the top of the tree in my mind to become the treetops, I fluttered

down with the pigeons. Walking, through the forest, I encountered my feet, they had roots and slowly organic matter started to grow out of my toenails as 

earth oozed through my toes. 

Climbing up the trunk of my imaginings, I encountered bark on my chest.

Stars call your name in the night and gargoyles register in your mind as if eves of 

churches were creatures of the night. Some painted churchyard frescoes or

mosaic floors suggest Christ. A long, history of Roman, sculpture, have you

thinking of Ovid and early writings. You are eating spaghetti carbonara. Walking you find you are growing, sprouting leaves start appearing under your jumper 

but your coat fits you better.

Leaves start growing from your hair, sprouting from your ears but you look at 

the baggage check in attendant and they do not seem to notice. Putting the bag in

the locker was difficult for roots were starting to grow out your hands and buckle up your fingers, lacing into your toenail, roots. 

Entwining the staircase, you appear pursued by not Apollo but throngs of 

tourists and again you enter the room of Bernini's Apollo and Daphne sculpture.

Becoming Daphne, I entered my forest again. Bark enveloped my feet and the 

stars lit my upper branches along with the moon. Planets revolved around the 

ceiling and I found myself in the cafe reading a book. Some crumbs had fallen on

the table and I was reminded of the earth of the forest floor. Cats wandered by

out the window. Leaves were falling and it was Autumn but the sky was bright on

a sunny day amongst the trees. Libraries of imaging and manuscripts of Bernini were as the metamorphoses and you felt as the sculptures, chiselled.

Oh, the forest. Leaves fell to the ground. In the forest, creatures and animals live

there, wild boar, scurry and roam, through. There are phantoms of the night but

they do not share the night with the ghosts. Water nymphs have a watery 

existence. Transformation is imminent, there were three on a dreaded night, the 

moon was shining and we were the stars in heaven. The planets between the 

Earth and the Sun were Jupiter, Mars and another planet blocked out because of 

the Sun. An eclipse occurred and then there were comets like a meteorite shower

all like fallen stars falling like leaves on the ground, the river flowed. Water

nymphs and their leaves, the Holy Virgin saw a dreaded night. No birds dared

enter the forest. There was a blackened night and the moon sung along with the 

clouds in the sky. The starless night was one with the Lord, above.

Stars, oh stars oh. Monsters raced and trespassed through in the clouds above

the sky. Patterns were there but oh, the literature and their gods all

representative in the sky. There were sky maps and charts. Oh, bibles nominated another language. Stones of old chipped away the block. Philosophers became

books of literature and they were in the becoming, a beckoning of the Lord,

above and all number of former gods and religions referred to the same, Aeneid.

Stars shone at night. When the stars shine at night you are shining with the moon

and are one with the gods, the divine angels and the planets, all spinning around, 

the Earth. Now, Earth was a shining. When the shining Earth originally rose out of the universe we were one with the Lord. The Earth was born like a Sun. Suns 

and moons have not always been frequent in our Universe but a many moons

ago, the Sun was born and accumulating energy is almost what the Earth does,

spinning. Does the Sun move in our Universe? You could imagine many moons 

and Suns have expired over the centuries of light years but where did they go?

The moons and the Sun like Earth appear to accumulate energy, hence our

existence, we were born from the energy from the moon and Sun. Ah, moons and

the Sun. We are almost like plant life but consume our energy differently. When

the Earth runs out of water, we will still exist.

Existing, mmm...

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, 

The Blessed Ludovica Albertoni, 1671-1674 

S. Francesco a Ripa, Altieri Chapel, 

Rome

The streets of Rome

Nicole Page-Smith

The streets of Rome

Chapter 1.

Gods frequent, there.

Thinking of old literature and places, home to the gods, you can imagine unknown to us for the imagination of the authors of the books has long since, gone, the gods still live there, unseen and seldom worshipped. Gods frequenting, Mt. Olympus, for example, whereas tourists you walk amongst the ruins. Delphi is one such place and gods appear to be present in images. Dreams and memories drift on by. Forests are visited, you remember the sunset, views of the Acropolis from the hotel windows, strong coffee not Greek, woman as predominant as Greek plays and tragedies with heavy makeup, seething.

Forests often walked through. Greek legends and Roman mythology take you in pursuit of water nymphs. Gods fly through as if on winged heel and you enter another realm. Godly and slightly battered, wings torn, you recover strength.

Walking through the forest, you encounter Bernini. The forest of imaginings has you blessing the earth with each step. Walking through museums has snaky headed gods approach you amongst philosophers, emperors and warriors, all figures from literature. Hellenistic in style or copies of the ancient Greek, philosophy and origins of Western culture demonstrate the history of monuments on display. Architecture has you building and towering and thinking of Michelangelo, too, maybe better known to the Romans for his architecture.

Bernini has us building architecture with his sculpture and quite often all around it, monuments, monumental and tombs for the sarcophagi. Churches, once visited, Autumn leaves in the street. Walking, I continue to walk.

The Autumn leaves stir under my feet and fall. Still warm from Summer Sun, Rome, continues to wander through my mind.

Wandering, the leaves tend to wander and blow along in the wind. Of clouds and wandering the wind blows. Trees talk away to nature and the wind. In the forest they blow around and the noise has an eerie silence about it. Blowing, you become wind amongst the treetops only to fall down to the ground with the leaves, there is a protective feeling and the leaves nestle in for the winter. Blowing the wind becomes spirit, the spirit wind blows and to become tree is an act of nature. Nature blows with the wind.

The gods answer your call and you are taken back to the streets of Rome.

Forests of imaginings

Nicole Page-Smith

Your voyage home goes by churches and another day is tomorrow.

Bernini grew like the leaves of the Apollo and Daphne, sculpture, grew out of Daphne's hands only to remain with firm roots in the earth. Popes and churches, architecture and museums are testament to Bernini, maybe, Rome's favoured sculptor, although, Michelangelo is more, well known. We walk along again as though the roots attached to our feet are getting in the way. 

Ancient ruins and the Vatican are like streets well worn by centuries gone by, you can feel the history and Michelangelo is better known for his painting in the Sistine Chapel.

As the foliage grows over my face, I am reminded of Bernini, again.

Foliage, growing on trees and the leaves crumble underfoot as you walk, you feel you are in a forest twirling around and around Bernini's Apollo and Daphne sculpture. Instead, reminded of books on the subject, you turn another page to realise the monstrous influence of the history of Hellenistic philosophy. Bulginging leg muscles are refined in a classical revival and the skill of genius needs another god. You are not reminded of forests old warriors once traipsed through but more the burning battlefields.

Forest of imaginings and idyllic places for gods, only... 

Apollo and Daphne, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, c. 1622-1625, Galleria Borghese, Rome, Italy

Leaves falling like the memories

Nicole Page-Smith

The leaves fall through our mind and we are rooted to the spot, drifting though in memory as leaves blow through trees and rustle in the wind, storms of lightening and gods of old. Leaves scatter on the ground and it is Autumn.

Leaves are crisp underfoot and you walk through the Autumn leaves, they blow. Blowing leaves swirl all around and are as though extensions of your thinking blowing, blow through you as though through a forest. Forest leaves, blow and Creaking, bows answer. You are wandering through your mind to the other side.

In the forest of imaginings leaves grow and leaves grow out of branches. The branches extend, upwards, outwards and are as ancient as the trees. Species of trees feel they have been there for thousands of years, propagating; there were seven, hills of Rome.

Walking the forest in the history books but not experienced felt only the emotion not the place and then, you go there. Preconceived ideas, ideals and your mind travels elsewhere to far off places, only for the gods, seldom do visitors trespass and are not noticed for the temples worth. Long since gods seldom worshipped for the same purpose, a religion not practiced. Gods live there for trees to grow through ruins, columns litter the earth and once, we were temples for former gods gone by. Wooded knowledge of trees once fallen and leaves blow on by in the wind.

Favoured books and then, you found Bernini as though by accident and there were tours all the while, churchyard and service. We walked as though forests were all around us but were never there in the low, lying place. Oh, the river Tiber.

Walking along where angels were angelic at birth, we cross the river. Saint Cecilia and Bernini are churchyard monuments on one side of the river while Moses and museums take us to the enormous tribute to Bernini, a tribute to Hellenistic sculpture, making you jealous. Lived lives, people have been and not gone, linger. Halls and halls of sculptures, Romans being Roman, the leaves crumble underfoot like leaves of a book, old with yellowing parchment and pages well learned. Manuscript libraries of manuscripts and sculpture in practice, physical, weighty monuments, a tribute to the Roman Empire, walking, we walk with the angels and the history books.

Sitting, quietly, I enter my forest of imaginings and wonder.

Leaves crumple, underfoot.

Autumn is upon us. You wonder where the cats go all winter. You sit in a cafe having coffee and sweet cakes. Modern art and modernism have equal masculine weight with melted plastic, tributes to Vulcan and bronze sculpture, collect your bags and wander home. Oh, the pathways and the Christian missionaries, the martyrs and Popes, gone by. Rome in Autumn. Leaves falling like the memories, befalling.

God bless the Earth

Nicole Page-Smith

God Bless the Earth

Trees grow new branches and when they start spouting from your ears leaves

 start to interfere with your mind. Now, Ears grow in trees, too.

But, trees cannot hear. Trees breathe in and out like oxygen.

To walk amongst trees in forest growth, roots seem to get in the way, especially 

if they are attached to your feet. Growing roots and new feet are a way through 

the forest. The forest floor is littered with leaves. Roots entangle your ankles if

you remain in one place for too long.

Gardens of growth are the way forward. Growth is what we have to look forward,

too.

Now, walking through the wooded park gardens with the cats in Rome is a place to find Bernini. Museums taper our way.

Twirling around Bernini you see the prowess. Leaves start falling on your mind. 

Through museums you enter. Leaves grow out your fingernails while roots grow 

from your toes and rooted to the spot you are taken as if Daphne through

Apollo's pursuit.

Not enough coinage for illumination in churches you pray.

Leaves drop on the ground all around you and you walk forward through 

squares across rivers lined with angels and join great throngs of people in

worship on churchyard days honoring Saints. Closed or open are museums on

no tourist brochures nominated days and you join lines of tourists queuing for the 

Vatican. Cameras flashing tourist groups and tour guides flock past until for a 

few moments long book learned sculptures, paintings and Ancients Greeks or 

Romans appear before your eyes on display.

Oh, Bernini you are my god as gods could be as artists on display. Cats walk by as

old cats tend to wander, wandering in another world soon to join another. Street

cats are like street people and wander. Monument after monument is on display

until you almost feel the street is not your friend and exhausted you wander

yourself, onward and rest in coffee shops or on park benches. Everything is so

ancient you feel the Roman Empire from books long since past may raise again

from the Earth and ancient ruins, still occasionally surround you on display.

Walking, walking the leaves blow along the ground and you continue walking.

In Rome, you are reminded of film directors and film stars, old black and white

movies, the taxi rides in with your suitcase, whirling past monuments, tiny cars

and no speed limits implied, Rome and its memories.