The morning wakes upon the hill,
The moon awaits me in the glen;
I set out with a frozen will
To talk to you again.
The world is just a funeral fire,
A ceremony of remorse;
And still I’m climbing, ever higher,
Set upon this course —
I asked you for forgiveness once;
You set about it with good grace –
But you’ve been gone, and now your ghost
Moves softly through this place
Of missing leaves, and morning mist.
Mid echoes of intention,
I take the path that upward lies
Defying such convention
As would dictate a different course.
I knew you back when love was life;
And life was not enframed by death
And peace was not entombed in strife.
We can’t recapture innocence —
For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good,
And all our striving, in a sense,
Is just so much misunderstood
By others; and by (often) us.
How can it be the trees still know?
They lose their splendor; still, they stand.
And every single path will show
The wisdom of the rocks and trees,
The solemn beauty in the soil;
Where love is not some rash disease,
But more like liberty in toil –
To live, to grow: these are our days –
To strive to know as many ways
To scale the hills as we can find:
And integrate the body-mind
Into the whole ’twas meant to be.
Whether on mountainside or fen —
As morning wakes upon the hill,
And moon awaits us in
Part of knowing love’s to know
That no one person can be everything:
No man or woman truly loves
Who leaves a rose to die from lack of light
Or soil, or even the water of shared grief —
In a universe so vast that we can only
Truly have a known place by
Where we are in relation to others
The inter-connectedness of friends
Is the often forgotten
Part of knowing love
Where darkness travels
Lilacs never sing
Why won’t you help me?
Is it the darkness?
Or the silent flowers?
Why can’t stand
I can’t stand
the world’s a store, and
we walk by products that are
arranged to catch our eyes;
our attention often fixed upon
objects not present, the
subjects of our current fixations –
and yet, if economics allow, we often
buy products that we know we may not
need or even want, merely from a sort of
habit of politeness; a feeling that
so much trouble was gone to for us, we
really should show some support –
bringing home these pointless objects, we
find ourselves leaving by-products, traces
of these and other half-optimal choices that
make up most of our days; the things we do, because
we must do something, and so we choose from among
the options available to us
if, of course, by “products” we are thinking of
things like relationship and career choices, this
only becomes more true – and more the
pity, since we frequently either don’t go to
enough stores to provide sufficient choice or
go to stores long after the right choice has been
purchased by someone else
If you stop making memories,
All you have
Are the old ones
living in a city
can be the ultimate
love / hate relationship —
for little else in life
can simultaneously give you energy
and sap you of it at the same time.
it is equal parts
splendor and squalor,
joyfulness and misery,
brotherhood and animus.
but in the light of a beautiful morning,
both sides of the city, in reflection,
seem to just represent
we wash away the dirt
but long to be in sand:
and yet, they might be synonyms.
it’s hard to understand —
but that is how we think,
and that is who we are:
where dirt is just a dirty word,
but sand gets good