Random poetry
I sometimes think we are too complicated,
Too full of dreams, and hopes, and hobbies, and memory,
too stuffed with life, and death, and thought, and solace,
too rimmed with tears, and pain, and smiles, and gladness,
so that when we lived, we lived with an burdonsome sense of overfullness.
I sometimes think we are too much
as if the world had only so much space for us,
as if the space we had were only allotted for dreaming,
as if by dreaming we came to close to waking,
so that when we woke, we left our dreams to sleaping, and were weary.
I do not think the gift of touch is touching,
I do not think the gift of speech is speaking,
I do not think the gift of time is timeless,
I do not think the gift of love is loving.
There is substance to our touching,
there is listening to our speaking,
there is purpose to our timing,
there is grief and joy to love.
---
I thought today, in a grey fugue, of the people I had known who now were gone.
Not those ghosts of yesteryear, those fragile spectres dead and buried,
but those still living, yet distant, both in mind and presence.
--
There is a grief that's real and present, found in silence and in stillness, wrapped in ordinary actions, and hidden beneath our smiles. It grows on us from shadows, and prospers in our sunlight, it finds solace in our quiet, but grows deeper as we laugh. It is that grieving in the pauses, those in between sorrows, that console us as we write, that confront us as we dream, that shadow every mountain, and highlight every sunrise. We are men, and women, and cats, and brothers, and sisters, and friends, and teammates, and lovers, and enemies. We are all these things, in part and parcel, mixed together like a fine sherbert, different flavors, with the same texture. Our grieving is done silently, in the in between places, and we put it down when it is too heavy, and lift it up when it is heavier still. I do not know how grief will find me, I do not know when grief will leave me, but I am shaped by it. Held in it's tender hand, and my thoughts, and actions, and reflections, and reactions all tempered with the dull sobbing pain that anchors, or flies free. We are all this grief, as much as we are any man.
--
Yellow petals, full and vibrant,
slip into soft shadows, falling, spinning, whirling, drowning.
The deeps are still and silent, the flowers all forgotten.
I remember that fountain, and the roses.
Soft petals, full and vibrant against my lips.
--
I was in a writing mood, and this was handy.
Too full of dreams, and hopes, and hobbies, and memory,
too stuffed with life, and death, and thought, and solace,
too rimmed with tears, and pain, and smiles, and gladness,
so that when we lived, we lived with an burdonsome sense of overfullness.
I sometimes think we are too much
as if the world had only so much space for us,
as if the space we had were only allotted for dreaming,
as if by dreaming we came to close to waking,
so that when we woke, we left our dreams to sleaping, and were weary.
I do not think the gift of touch is touching,
I do not think the gift of speech is speaking,
I do not think the gift of time is timeless,
I do not think the gift of love is loving.
There is substance to our touching,
there is listening to our speaking,
there is purpose to our timing,
there is grief and joy to love.
---
I thought today, in a grey fugue, of the people I had known who now were gone.
Not those ghosts of yesteryear, those fragile spectres dead and buried,
but those still living, yet distant, both in mind and presence.
--
There is a grief that's real and present, found in silence and in stillness, wrapped in ordinary actions, and hidden beneath our smiles. It grows on us from shadows, and prospers in our sunlight, it finds solace in our quiet, but grows deeper as we laugh. It is that grieving in the pauses, those in between sorrows, that console us as we write, that confront us as we dream, that shadow every mountain, and highlight every sunrise. We are men, and women, and cats, and brothers, and sisters, and friends, and teammates, and lovers, and enemies. We are all these things, in part and parcel, mixed together like a fine sherbert, different flavors, with the same texture. Our grieving is done silently, in the in between places, and we put it down when it is too heavy, and lift it up when it is heavier still. I do not know how grief will find me, I do not know when grief will leave me, but I am shaped by it. Held in it's tender hand, and my thoughts, and actions, and reflections, and reactions all tempered with the dull sobbing pain that anchors, or flies free. We are all this grief, as much as we are any man.
--
Yellow petals, full and vibrant,
slip into soft shadows, falling, spinning, whirling, drowning.
The deeps are still and silent, the flowers all forgotten.
I remember that fountain, and the roses.
Soft petals, full and vibrant against my lips.
--
I was in a writing mood, and this was handy.