Journal Entry of The Wild Life
The juice of my heart lies wild.
Having tested wild days and nights
of glee, danger and indulgence,
I come to say in truth
that to be wild
is better described as to be
influenced by the showers of lightning storms,
the pale, calm moonlit nights,
the desiccating heat of sunshine and
the winds of piercing snows,-
to be affected in the mind and skin
while others stay protected or
troubled by every change in tide.
To be wild is to learn by hunger,
coldness, and loneliness,
what the essence of life is
apart from preoccupations.
To be wild is to understand all propriety
is but a means of caste.
To be wild is to be of nature,
hence wilderness and wildness-
these not to be confused with madhouses
and senselessness, but to exemplify
a depth unparallel to the trappings of culture.
My thoughts bleed from a game.
I've confessed contempt for the games
that prize what many trophy
as success in this empire,
and disdain also for what
emulates from those players
and that arena
while others try to live simply.
I have lacked the privilege, the lust or
the guilt that leads into games of success.
My admiration falls on dull sparrows.
What sparrows concern themselves
with how to be made better sparrows -
tested by degrees, better attired, with better nests,
better sung and set apart in ranks?
Does the sparrow ever think itself inadequate
and in need of improvement?
What folly of us humankind
spending the greater parts of our very life
to attain a vague quality and
all that is considered betterment in humanity!
What is the outcome of this,
and through who's eyes are we
discerning the betterment of our own selves?
My road has left me weary at times.
I have come a ways and found myself empty handed
but not empty. Crow’s feet
around the wince or smile of my own eyes
bear testimony of time under the sun and also
of an internal aging.
I have come to most revel
in meaningful, honest labor
to earn good bread and sufficient lodging.
I have discovered meaningful employment
more abundant beyond my origin amidst
times when proud, meaningful work
becomes scarce and fleeting-
an irony shared by all the empires
where sports are played for gain.
As for the wages of sports,
they are hardly honest enough
for me to bother putting my
hands or head to while I can
find my bread by other means.
I seek to find what is respectable rather
than what is respected, to admire
things which happen slowly, and also
the small and simple endeavors,
timeless things which need no improvement.
Amidst my dreams, there is longing.
And that of love which I always yearn for?
For hereafter there cannot be more
romance and pleasure to have, but rather
as a gardener observes the soil, -a place
where things are planted and tended with careful hands,
with diligent eyes, -a medium to be nourished
and worked with toilsome effort, with patience
in hopes of fragrant blossoms and succulent fruits.
Love is now to be a long made art done sober
and without the haste of indulgence or hopes of perfection.
Shall I grow old before my time?
I've heard the seekers of wisdom themselves
remark on the superiority of a child’s perspective.
Perhaps, age brings no more understanding.
Suppose, it is
steadiness, slowness and
the fewer words which become
envied by the middle-youth expending
wearisome amounts of effort in
trivial pursuits and desperate circles,
and thus the slowness brought by age
is taken for a sort of wisdom.
Suppose, experience has no bearing on wisdom
and further clouds the clarity of the child.
I have not yet been slowed by age,
and it is more likely that my prime is near.
The vitality is strong.
Yet, to have already known the euphoria of impulse,
the destiny brought by setting sails into
the winds of change,
-having lent the senses as guide,
-to have sung the body electric,
-felt the fabric of suede, silk and cashmere,
-felt the prick of thorns from every fragrant rose,
-to have tasted the tones of sweetness
sticking on the palette after every cup,
-having had the sleepless dreams of unforgiving chill,
in loneliness, poverty and lostness,
-to have been a great many thoughts and pieces,
-to have given and gained
and to have taken and squandered,
-to be equaled out with
neither glory or shame nor profit or debt,
-to have no will to go back and any of several
directions forward; what then do you say?
What then does one go on for
with no delightful anticipation, or
coercion from gainful loans, -with
no aid of benefactors
or inheritance to await for, -with no
stern eyes watching, no consternation
nor reassurance from mentors
or near and dear ones,
no grand prospects, no credentials,
-essentially with no wake left in the waters?
To have been confused by the games and
to have been cut from the wild.
To have lived and loved, to have held
the amethyst jewel-
to have lost and
to feel done and finished with life
still there
blinking in the mirror after flossing;
what then?
Could there be any superior sunrise and sunset,
any more grandiose mountains,
any more passion, any sweeter evenings
or more dreadful mornings;
or does one simply wash the mind to make way for
the new, living a continuance of shifting,
letting go and reaching again?
The juice of my heart pumps wild and wanting.
What then, to go on
with no expectation in one's prime-
to have no desire to win, to have no desire to lose,
and to have no desire to stop?
It is simply to say
I have come a ways and found myself empty handed
but not empty. There are seeds in my pockets,
and the season is new for planting.
Having tested wild days and nights
of glee, danger and indulgence,
I come to say in truth
that to be wild
is better described as to be
influenced by the showers of lightning storms,
the pale, calm moonlit nights,
the desiccating heat of sunshine and
the winds of piercing snows,-
to be affected in the mind and skin
while others stay protected or
troubled by every change in tide.
To be wild is to learn by hunger,
coldness, and loneliness,
what the essence of life is
apart from preoccupations.
To be wild is to understand all propriety
is but a means of caste.
To be wild is to be of nature,
hence wilderness and wildness-
these not to be confused with madhouses
and senselessness, but to exemplify
a depth unparallel to the trappings of culture.
My thoughts bleed from a game.
I've confessed contempt for the games
that prize what many trophy
as success in this empire,
and disdain also for what
emulates from those players
and that arena
while others try to live simply.
I have lacked the privilege, the lust or
the guilt that leads into games of success.
My admiration falls on dull sparrows.
What sparrows concern themselves
with how to be made better sparrows -
tested by degrees, better attired, with better nests,
better sung and set apart in ranks?
Does the sparrow ever think itself inadequate
and in need of improvement?
What folly of us humankind
spending the greater parts of our very life
to attain a vague quality and
all that is considered betterment in humanity!
What is the outcome of this,
and through who's eyes are we
discerning the betterment of our own selves?
My road has left me weary at times.
I have come a ways and found myself empty handed
but not empty. Crow’s feet
around the wince or smile of my own eyes
bear testimony of time under the sun and also
of an internal aging.
I have come to most revel
in meaningful, honest labor
to earn good bread and sufficient lodging.
I have discovered meaningful employment
more abundant beyond my origin amidst
times when proud, meaningful work
becomes scarce and fleeting-
an irony shared by all the empires
where sports are played for gain.
As for the wages of sports,
they are hardly honest enough
for me to bother putting my
hands or head to while I can
find my bread by other means.
I seek to find what is respectable rather
than what is respected, to admire
things which happen slowly, and also
the small and simple endeavors,
timeless things which need no improvement.
Amidst my dreams, there is longing.
And that of love which I always yearn for?
For hereafter there cannot be more
romance and pleasure to have, but rather
as a gardener observes the soil, -a place
where things are planted and tended with careful hands,
with diligent eyes, -a medium to be nourished
and worked with toilsome effort, with patience
in hopes of fragrant blossoms and succulent fruits.
Love is now to be a long made art done sober
and without the haste of indulgence or hopes of perfection.
Shall I grow old before my time?
I've heard the seekers of wisdom themselves
remark on the superiority of a child’s perspective.
Perhaps, age brings no more understanding.
Suppose, it is
steadiness, slowness and
the fewer words which become
envied by the middle-youth expending
wearisome amounts of effort in
trivial pursuits and desperate circles,
and thus the slowness brought by age
is taken for a sort of wisdom.
Suppose, experience has no bearing on wisdom
and further clouds the clarity of the child.
I have not yet been slowed by age,
and it is more likely that my prime is near.
The vitality is strong.
Yet, to have already known the euphoria of impulse,
the destiny brought by setting sails into
the winds of change,
-having lent the senses as guide,
-to have sung the body electric,
-felt the fabric of suede, silk and cashmere,
-felt the prick of thorns from every fragrant rose,
-to have tasted the tones of sweetness
sticking on the palette after every cup,
-having had the sleepless dreams of unforgiving chill,
in loneliness, poverty and lostness,
-to have been a great many thoughts and pieces,
-to have given and gained
and to have taken and squandered,
-to be equaled out with
neither glory or shame nor profit or debt,
-to have no will to go back and any of several
directions forward; what then do you say?
What then does one go on for
with no delightful anticipation, or
coercion from gainful loans, -with
no aid of benefactors
or inheritance to await for, -with no
stern eyes watching, no consternation
nor reassurance from mentors
or near and dear ones,
no grand prospects, no credentials,
-essentially with no wake left in the waters?
To have been confused by the games and
to have been cut from the wild.
To have lived and loved, to have held
the amethyst jewel-
to have lost and
to feel done and finished with life
still there
blinking in the mirror after flossing;
what then?
Could there be any superior sunrise and sunset,
any more grandiose mountains,
any more passion, any sweeter evenings
or more dreadful mornings;
or does one simply wash the mind to make way for
the new, living a continuance of shifting,
letting go and reaching again?
The juice of my heart pumps wild and wanting.
What then, to go on
with no expectation in one's prime-
to have no desire to win, to have no desire to lose,
and to have no desire to stop?
It is simply to say
I have come a ways and found myself empty handed
but not empty. There are seeds in my pockets,
and the season is new for planting.