January 2010
16 posts
1 tag
Bottom.
I have reached the bottom of this cup. There is no more.
Before, when I thought I was here, always there was more from somewhere.
I have looked everywhere I can think to look. There is no more.
Before, when I thought this was absolutely it, always I was wrong, and I found more.
I have touched the bottom and all four corners. There is no more.
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“Be with those who help your being.
Don’t sit with indifferent people,...”
– Rumi, Ode 2865 (translated by Coleman Barks)
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Unuttered.
Unuttered words hang still midair filling the chasm gaping between two halves of a broken still beating heart.
Wordless rending sounds echo from ragged edges, secrets untold - spilling without sounds, harmlessly falling silent.
No use now. No purpose in sharing. No hungry bonds to feed painful recollections and sacred triumphs. No thrumming resonance making the awkward natural. No point, then....
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Another storm.
I.
collarbones painted with sadness gray clouds burdened by rain not ready to fall
eyes voice chest weighed down with unshed tears
gather, swirl, deepen arch high with torrents barely contained
canny creatures sense impending devastation flee fleetly
feet cannot follow Do clouds fear rain? Does wind fear tempest?
II.
What if this storm should break, restraint succumbing to exhaustion and...
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Familiar.
familiar a favorite sweater missing for years rediscovered sleeves just right soft, warm familiar i missed this cells and fibers aching in need though i didn’t even really know how could i so easily forget? this isn’t something so prosaic as to be cast aside easily, without note this, this sings speaks in full-body language every atom thrumming precisely every particle jumping for joy...
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Tools and trades.
keyboard, not strings
matte black plastic versus gloss blonde maple curly
arches against the body easy, speaking the language of comfort flat, unyielding desk doesn’t understand it strains, it pains, it pushes
effort, staying there putting in the full measure of service not losing track of time, caught up, natural as breath
vocation, not expression
Season of freezing.
Why should you feel wrong, wrapping yourself in ice? We trudge towards the season of freezing, And surely it is only to be expected. Spring is for blushing buds, bursting leaves, thrusting shoots: growing warmth. Summer is for ripening fruit, violent sweetness splashed hungrily on a thunderstorm canvas. Autumn is for mourning, leeching scarlet and verdant from a landscape swept bare to sepia...
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31.
There are crinkles living in the corners of my eyes; they used to rent but now they’ve bought the place and are fixing it up real nice like they mean to stay. A nagging ache stops by sometimes in the bone I snapped years ago running in platform shoes. Achilles and I stretch together, but if the weather’s bad it doesn’t matter. My shoulders creak now and then, if I sit still too...
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Brink.
she’s holding her breath an autumn inhalation captured indefinitely she’s been turning spokes rolling one after another pacing the seasons darkness light passing in shifts one after another frantic noise dwindles down into silence she waits breath no longer held deep drawing in long, slow exhale the world pauses with her held on an unseen brink
2 tags
The seedling place.
I long for the seedling place redolent of resources and hopefulness things just begun I tend a row whose fruits are older, the path worn - even if not well I thirst for a cleansing blank, a question unanswered, a desire untried I cannot un-walk my roads, though - cannot see such pristine white through all this fog of time
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I haven’t recorded any new tracks in...
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The tyranny of expectation.
I often try to balance my rational-science-lovin’ self with my woo-woo-artsy-pagan-poet self…and lately that’s been a pain in my ass. Which brings me to this here tumblog. I had been planning to use it as a photoblog for my planned trip to New Orleans, which was why I bothered to set this thing up in the first place - I liked the idea of a dedicated photoblog, and I thought I...
