the morning was, and she believed; the autumn, shy and reticent came timidly to call her name. the angels fell like leaves in droves and she a purple memory lived within a house, a home, a dream. the languor that comes easily can bring us rest, if we but see -- the morning came, and she believed.
the sun was a better boyfriend: touching her the way she liked, and at happier times
we write to show, or to express, and we're all different (I guess) in how it feels to feel desire or when we might see blue in fire. and while I struggle here with rhyme, there's others deep in story time; or gazing on a lone wind chime as it provides its music -- with precious anniversaries, or working through PTSD; or even drawing from a well of weekend stories we might tell -- it's been a month for glories, no? with perfect evenings, all aglow, and for us types who need a fix there's even been some good chex mix for we, the discombobulated, sunsets that we've celebrated; breathing in a dawning day, or wordlessly pass time away.
it's hard when you're a pepper
and sometimes you just feel
that we're all on a diet
but you must serve a meal.
for every "new beginning"
comes to us at a cost,
and without mice and wooden spoons,
i know that i'd
be lost
covid's hit us pretty hard, we have to cope in different ways: like fixing things as best we can, or organizing moving days, or bathing in the frosty calm, or pausing to do some qi gong, or working puzzles about books, or paddling through lakes, or brooks or watching rom-coms on the way, or living through election day: we each survive as best we can (especially with cats to hand!)
it's interesting what people do, i find it stimulative; for using what we have at hand enables the creative and when the spark is found it is a wonder to behold: but when the mishaps reappear it can get kind of old.
some write from a lifelong effort to address a wrong they see; while others find a special space in nights with no tv -- we hope our kids remember all the things that we did for them: for we make memories, and it is better to adore them
so hey, i'm not letting the butter thing go. i read and loved this, so you know; and Ra, it's not just this month you host: it is that i now know the hidden work most.
so one last look at where we've been: at crowded pages, full of vim, for golden kisses, warm and right, and frozen moonlight walks, last night. of prime directives, thoughtfully; of melted minds, within the sea of things that change our lives, when we count backwards from eternity. the ashes of dead stars we are. and humor can take us as far as we can go, when finding faults can keep us locked within our vaults but in the end, it's just for fun: i'm sure that i've left out someone who wasn't on the master page so don't resent me, please, or rage if you have read all of this way and do not see your blog today. i did the best i could, you see with all this time insomnia gives me
across the pages, towering and slow, the words and phrases, measured and precise; the aching, felt first centuries ago, contained within a uniform device that tells what beats and syllables to use. although some variations are allowed, some things to add, a few that you can lose, pentameter, both lyrical and proud, contains within its limits, all the joys that human kind can feel, as well as fears that join into our hearts' increasing noise, this golden mix of love and hope and tears. these voices, who could not imagine us, that we don't understand, but still, discuss.
while little we predict may yet come true, we confidently state that this or that is bound to happen, plain as blue is blue, and rarely see we're wearing the tin hat that indicates we may be way off base. but reinforcement comes: the internet is good for that. whatever be your case there's someone who agrees, and who'll abet. so being wrong's a cottage industry: a chance to bark, to posture, and to fight; we join into this ill community and rather would "be right" than "get it right". but all of it's unreal, except the mess that comes from words carved out of emptiness
we're so unlike, we could be twins, which does not even make much sins, but that's just how we roll 'round here: shoot from the hip, then pop a beer
let us look deeply into our own blindness, examining deeply everything we can't see; for the sources of our problems are many, but we remain convinced, none of them are us
people who know me, know that i'm a crashing bore; i prate on endlessly -- i'm not quite sure what for -- i cure insomnia, i think, with sentences prolific: and i know some can soothe with words, but mine are soporific
they all called him a monster, for having scales and spikes; then went back to their safety zones of pages, views, and likes but he was not a monster -- he was in fact, refined -- but words can be most harmful when they are least defined
you love love over all
me and I will always other things
love you, because triumph always, always
no one allowed the inner sanctum a temple
choices made the price of being curious
whisper where the wind blows west, murmur as your mind-paths meld into yellow yesterdays by the vanishing beheld -- leaves are rustling, and soft grows a feeling, undefined: susurration, sounds that say, you need not leave everything behind
He hears the Words she whispered once She meant them And really loved him That one lost autumn
Defining yourself By what you cannot do Is arbitrary in the extreme Since the number of such things Is infinite. In truth, we are The sum of all the things We do, or have done. Worrying about limitations Is like worrying about Not winning at the Olympics When you aren’t even entered.
The best days we ever have Aren’t about how we feel, But how others feel, around us.
If I was an Instagram model, And knew daily that Thirteen million people Saw pictures of my butt and thought, “Hey... I like that” I’m not quite sure what I’d think about anything else. Or that I ever would.
Social media algorithms Think I care about odd things. Facebook thinks I want to see Cheesy morality tale videos. I do, but... How did they know?
When I was a kid, I used to hear, “Never criticize someone Until you have walked a mile In their moccasins.” This was part of The popular wisdom of the time, Where empathy involved The appropriation of slippers. And culture, apparently.
