Pottery shards and fragments of Sappho lining her bin
Falling through ancient arches
Auschwitz of your anguish
When oceans dream...when oceans scream and gasp for breath
light from lamp posts that spoke to Eliot
Amber curtains…linens, silks, wools, textiles
Palms…trees and the lines on an old woman’s hand
"Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.' " -Hamlet
Archie's very British apology while in great peril as Otto hangs him by his ankles from an upper story window:
Because of you, I did not fall. Thank you for your most excellent timing. You know who you are...so very appreciated.
Don't talk in your sleep
When it's all been said
And I'm not in your bed,
Only the counsel you keep.
Roll over and get your rest;
Dream of choices you'll make
And positions you'll take.
May morning bring you her best.
lamb of the people - called away
gate of god's grace - anticipated
On reading "The Prophet" tonight, which my father gave me when I went away to college, I found so many passages that choked me up, so many that seemed personal and profound, none more so than the following:
Your Joy is Your Sorrow Unmasked
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, 'Joy is greater than sorrow,' and others say, 'Nay, sorrow is the greater.'
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
- Kahil Gibran
God! She fights her hair with heat,
With straighteners, gels and combs.
She declares a war to make it neat.
She bows, she ballcaps and ponytails,
Pulls faces in the mirror, makes me grin.
Is she wistful for promises in fairy tales,
Of their towers, princes and ever after,
The girl who fiercely spars across a mat
Razing the room with wit and laughter?
And when she sleeps, her hair all fanned,
At peace with brushes, man and dream,
I caress each tress and gently, kiss her hand.
OK, a clarification on an Oct '07 haiku in "Inhalations." I'm putting it here, because it is disruptive there. No, the child is not mine. I am writing about a man I know and his child...no relation to me.
A comment about it prompted me to clarify. I can now see how it could easily look that way, and while I rather like how that can completely change my initial intent and the mood of the piece, I felt personally compelled to state that I am not writing about my own child.
Further, I apologize for naming the child originally. My thought was to keep my friend anonymous, but knew he'd see his son's name. What I did not consider was that it might in any way give anyone else concern. I can completely see how it might have and my respect dictates that I rename this piece and extend assurances that all I had in mind when I wrote it was the joy of a father seeing his son after a long absence. I pictured him drinking in his son's face and holding him. Please forgive any accidental insensitivity on my part.
I recently saw that 50 people have added me to their favorites list. I'm so honored. Thank you for reading. Thank you for helpful comments, advice, and encouragement. Thank you most for just wanting to read what I set out for you.
I try my best to get your attention and woo you. Between author and reader, there is love. I check for your footprints to see if you've stopped by and I look for your return. Know that each time I see you here, it brightens my day and inspires me to write again so that you will have something new to find when you let yourself in.
Please keep reading and your reflections and input are always welcome. Merci à tous!
Pillaged and prowled
Where I dwell
I am the scorched earth
I am the poisoned well
Raided and robbed
Now I burn provisions
I salt my invaded lands,
I assault your decisions
I weave for you still.
Stabb: I watched paint dry on Sunday. You are better than that, at least.
Joli Dy: wow
Joli Dy: *whistles in her breath*
Joli Dy: You're not just saying that?
Joli Dy: I mean...
Joli Dy: You wouldn't toy with me?
Stabb: No. You really hold my interest more than a damp white wall.
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