He fantasizes of filing in contempt the corners off squares…but for every shaved angle, two more are made. When no more can be found, he learns to love circles. What’s so boxy about a box turtle anyway…
You must cover half the journey before its end. And every half journey, is its own. So on infinitum. Hm. It is rational to postulate that our choices (to move) come down to covering half of an infinitesimally small distance… more soundly described as NOW. No matter where we are going, what visions before us, or musical notes and colors remain undiscovered, we cannot escape this exact moment. The future purely depends on NOW. There is no need to begin, you just need to be. And “be” as best you are able; for that is the distance between sky and heaven for this student of Ockham!
Our broken hearts…beat loudly. They pound away at the diamond hard surface of love with soft golden hammers. Looking for what? – to perhaps take a chip out of it, or find more gold with which to make more hammers to replace those that have become blunt. The irony is that love we seek, we wield in our very own hands and the truth is that love cannot be broken through. I have three loud clocks in this room, each set for a different longitude on earth…one ticks for the future somewhere west, the other tocks for the past toward the east…together they obscure the one rhythm I wish to hear most…that which counts the here and now. You see, the love we treasure is not buried in past or waiting in the future. Find the restless hearts such as yours; love like another, and you will love no other. These lost moments are the underpinnings of a forever that is behind us; pause tenderly in this moment and you may indeed find that love stands due before you. The paradox is, that we all share in the labors of love and strife – too busy to find the stillness in their balance.
Wink awake oh dreaming rose
Brush your trestles from the briers
Till the soils of your tactics
And climb the trellis to all you aspire.
Your roses wait another day
To see how green his eyes.
Ruby hues will take their queues
From the orchids when they cry.
Dream you’ll hear a swinging gate
While working in your garden
There past the fountain, you’ll catch an image
Of someone lost within.
You know this scented presence
Though its logic reveals little
Until he steps into the garden
Of long awaiting petals.
The orchids shout to the dandelions
“time to close up, it’s after dark.”
While two cool cats curl up to nap
in the cradle of an open heart.
Goodbye…
Hindsight.
I’ve heard goodbye whispered softly to my ear, through such sweet lips
And I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to see her go…waiting, that such gentle a sound would not carry very far into my heart.
That something which meant so much, with such gravity, could just go away forever with a goodbye. Once touched by time, it is forever part of us…goodbye does not undo what has come before. Even harder are the goodbyes we have to say to someone; because we have to hear ourselves say it.
See you later – in my heart, my dreams, in the slight change in tack of my sail, the chip you made in the wine glass, whatever is left that differs – because you were once here. It says all the world is unfinished business.
I believe that while such embers of the spirit might glow
with nothing more than the breath
of a sweetly whispered word,
they ignite with the song in the melodic voice
heard by many.
Those of true passion outpace consequence…
despite there being no faster way to fail,
or succeed.
And love – love is like a racehorse,
she doesn’t know whether she’s won or lost,
only the exhilaration of running race.
There are some mysteries in life
by which we are drawn out onto the precipice,
undaunted by where the edge might be…
or whether we’ll go over it.
And so I say,
I’d rather risk failure and sadness navigating the playful patterns of my own certainty,
than be happily swept away along the narrow path
of another’s illusion.
I’d rather risk failure and sadness navigating the promise of my own certainty, than be happily swept away by the illusion of hope that is little more than the certainty of another.
