She was his love, behind the fence, but he was loth to show it; She was his only, long, true, love -- but didn't know it. He built them castles made of ice, to float with weightlessness; His every thought, of her, while she could not care less. Behind the fence was where she stayed, while he grew old with waiting -- A love made up of naught, but one anticipating
Amid the Blight
In the cold and lonely morning, In the gray and sullen light, There's a sadness, and a longing With each step amid the blight. There's a comfort, somehow, knowing That the world is past our might; That there's more than just what's showing, All the pain amid the blight. Are you loved, and are you loving? Are you moved by others' plight? Or are you dancing in the shadows And the snow amid the blight? In the long and silver morning, Truth is evident, if trite: We no perjury suborning, Must trod on amid the blight.
To share is human:
the state of the world.
a welcoming of everything like sun, the marriage of convenience and desire, a cabaret of indolence and peace. how is it that one finds a separate peace with all our troubles magnified by sun that shines into the cracks in our desire? a shibboleth: the words that mean desire -- a constituted wreck upon the peace of all we worship underneath the sun -- this sun, that burns away desire and peace
To share is human:
Another Life
In music, she can live another life,
For sound is architecture, and ideal;
It’s nature and it’s calm amid the strife
Of all the world has come to make her feel.
To make of chaos, beauty, order, love —
To find in sorrow, comfort and release —
To be beneath, within, and yet above,
To breathe in every moment filled with peace
But also, there’s the struggle of technique:
To concentrate on something not herself
And use her heart and mind both at their peak
While being fully present, somewhere else
And all of this, it should be understood
From one whose playing isn’t all that good
To share is human:
In The Whirl of Seasons (3)
Summer hits hard
When you’re on your feet all day
Customers, patrons, friends
Seem like
So many hostile invaders after awhile
And she has eight more weeks of this
Before she goes back to school
And she can’t remember
Why she took this job
Why she’s even going to school
Or why being around people
Tires her out like this
She’d love a glass of wine,
But that will have to wait
For payday
To share is human:
In The Whirl of Seasons (2)
Love may not begin with self-love, But it rarely makes it past its absence. Exercise and forest air, Water, sweat, and absent noise -- She finds that working at loving herself Tends to achieve its objectives, at best, Imperceptibly. But she trusts the process, as they say. To cultivate her mind, she is learning, Exploring, venturing -- To cultivate her body, she is working, Disciplined, sacrificing -- But to cultivate her heart, she must Love what is closest to her, namely Her
To share is human:
In the Whirl of Seasons (1)
It's neither grief, nor flaws: Some sadness has no cause, But merely is, like gravity, Or nature's other laws. She's chilly to the bone, And one thing is her own: And that's that she is here, and now, And totally Alone
To share is human:
Breakfast Buffet, Pre-Open
Early Wednesday, people stirring, Place not open, motors whirring, Lobbies full of walkers bleary, Heavy baggage, workers weary, Lonely trav'ler, sittting, waiting Scanning phone and incubating Thoughts of nothing, applications Made for daily mass sedations Breakfast soon and what's-called coffee, Toxins for the ever-groggy, Working, fretting, selling, buying -- Life goes on amid The dying
To share is human:
blown leaves and shadows kissing the daylight moving where the heart finds rest we often find evidence of what tired it formerly
