Going with the flow aka whatever aka chillaxin' aka meh aka brush it off and just float along for a bit > Taking everything/everyone/every-choice so seriously.
Can't be too bad for awhile, right?
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
It is a privilege to use 'love' so often in poetry
It is easy to see how one could become wrapped up in being delighted.
Oh I love this, possibility of leisure in the beautiful things.
That certain distance about the ones I love remembering ones they loved.
Loving (words: love; loved). Such prevalence and privilege;
The possibility of taking it, cocooning a lifespan in it.
Ah, and you, Kindness. You delight me. And I desperately want you to surround me.
Because when you are evident, there is a lightness to me, and there is a Me that could live surrounded with your consequences.
And this me is an artist. She is an author. She is married to a good man, with kind children.
These children: They love to learn. They share their lunches with the sad ones. They play music that makes everyone listen.
This me, she grows old, and does not notice, because time is on her side. She paints until the day she dies painlessly, delighted, few lines on her face, gripping the hand of someone who loves her, proceeded by many she loves.
But this me-- she chooses not to invite the stranger into her home.
She never
spun that stranger around.
She never
swept away his mask and begged him to let her take some of the darkness away.
The one walking away from her.
The tired one, matted in blood, hungry.
The one with the torn boots and a damaged heart.
"Do not forget me," he cries desperately.
"You promised.'
Oh I love this, possibility of leisure in the beautiful things.
That certain distance about the ones I love remembering ones they loved.
Loving (words: love; loved). Such prevalence and privilege;
The possibility of taking it, cocooning a lifespan in it.
Ah, and you, Kindness. You delight me. And I desperately want you to surround me.
Because when you are evident, there is a lightness to me, and there is a Me that could live surrounded with your consequences.
And this me is an artist. She is an author. She is married to a good man, with kind children.
These children: They love to learn. They share their lunches with the sad ones. They play music that makes everyone listen.
This me, she grows old, and does not notice, because time is on her side. She paints until the day she dies painlessly, delighted, few lines on her face, gripping the hand of someone who loves her, proceeded by many she loves.
But this me-- she chooses not to invite the stranger into her home.
She never
spun that stranger around.
She never
swept away his mask and begged him to let her take some of the darkness away.
The one walking away from her.
The tired one, matted in blood, hungry.
The one with the torn boots and a damaged heart.
"Do not forget me," he cries desperately.
"You promised.'
Cruelty is
It is hard to imagine
why if something is alive and bursting, sizzling, seething
more alive than all the living things have ever been,
leaking all the sounds that you could not have created
out of your own heart and mind;
if you can look out, bare,
and find you are looking in.
The way it is when I am not I.
why,
if you can taste the salt and the slight sweetness on the tip of your lips,
and your body is buzzing and reeling from the constant realization that this is good:
You would turn to the colorless, the tasteless.
So this secret you take with you,
and even if you choose the colorless, the tasteless
You, advocate of choice.
Dearest friend,
You have taken this from me.
why if something is alive and bursting, sizzling, seething
more alive than all the living things have ever been,
leaking all the sounds that you could not have created
out of your own heart and mind;
if you can look out, bare,
and find you are looking in.
The way it is when I am not I.
why,
if you can taste the salt and the slight sweetness on the tip of your lips,
and your body is buzzing and reeling from the constant realization that this is good:
You would turn to the colorless, the tasteless.
So this secret you take with you,
and even if you choose the colorless, the tasteless
You, advocate of choice.
Dearest friend,
You have taken this from me.
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