While rummaging, he found a favorite picture from the days that love was new in purpose and in countless other ways; He thought, then, with a smile of how they used burn and smolder, before he put that life away in this manila folder
Tag: Perspective
Be Capricious
Be capricious, lavishly; Find a whim and set it free. Jump up on your favorite chair; Stay for far too long up there. Never mind your age or state; Play before it gets too late -- Be capricious, lavishly: Find a whim and set it free
To share is human:
The Model Life
The model life is funny, since It's largely made of standing And looking sad, or joyful, or Excited, or commanding -- Short moments being perfect, like A painting, or a carving, While spending the rest of your weeks and days In working out And starving
To share is human:
Perfection / Perspective
Morning soft and warm, Breeze enough, light enough, It is a perfect feeling -- But then again, I am on the shore, Not out there Cashing fewer fish than Will feed my family
To share is human:
When Seasons Changed
When seasons changed, and I knew what it meant, The world and I were one in our intent. The clouds made sense -- their movement, and their grace -- And why a dog finds butterflies to chase Across a meadow seemed to me just right. An empty exercise more than a fight: The things we do because we're wired to That have no meaning, neither false, nor true. The voices in my head, then, weren't man-made, And pleasures came as circumstance arrayed Them; always wondering, and wonder-led -- The eye that waits becomes the soul that's fed. But now a season might walk in my door, And I don't seem to notice anymore
To share is human:
a secret paradise
within a secret paradise we gave our time and hearts to further our entanglement in duties, fits, and starts -- we touched the ceiling of the sky, that pure-blue canopy -- so young, and so unwise, in secret paradise. the shadows, once an aqua-green, gave way to dark and gray: we thought we'd never end, for there was always one more day -- but silence comes with separateness, and all eyes come to see the time is just a slice in secret paradise. the memory now lives on, but only for a little while; our paths are merely leaves we move for all our wit, and guile -- but still, such colors as can make a sweet day come to be are worth the timeless price of secret paradise.
To share is human:
Why I Do This
I write to understand: Not myself, but others around me -- When I turn inward, I twist and twist Until I end up either in knots Or broken. So I look out to those available to me Of every age, type, and situation, And I seek to know their hearts: Our eyes are meant to see outward, And our souls to grow through contact. It doesn't make me feel better, But it is better to feel. Maybe we learn to appreciate, Maybe we learn to empathize. Maybe we seek to help, Maybe we seek a different viewpoint. This world is a trap These days are our playground This life is a tragedy These moments are all the beauty we have... But trapped in worrying about My own disappointments, I cannot See the world for the shadows I place In front of my own eyes -- I write to understand What I can never know firsthand: What you feel, what he feels, How they feel, how she feels -- The furniture of the mind, The decor of the soul, Complete with the marks of spills and accidents, Things dropped, things lost, Pictures of people who've left this place, And hopes for better Always hopes For better
To share is human:
interconnected (xii)
"this was never anything," he thinks, as he walks by: "a cottage? or a shed?" he wonders, turning, with a sigh, towards the estate he purchased, and the long walk to the mansion, and shapes his thoughts to tearing down to make room for expansion
To share is human:
interconnected (xi)
a text that says that she is gone, the grandmother who raised him; a maid for country squires, who had children of their own a tiny house that she made warm, a smell of apples baking, a story as the rain fell loud, a king upon his throne -- but she died lone and far away, while he was chasing pleasure: to grow up poor with someone who gave to him her best treasure, the rich ones, with their perfect lives, could never know the feeling, of having nothing but pretend from his side of the ceiling but anger won't protect him, now, for life goes where it chooses, and nothing we run out of quite surprises like excuses
