In thinking of metaphors,
with all their correlations,
showing what it was like,
with a hope it might validate,
the reader and writer to a,
common ground of mutual-ness,
within any topic of chance.
In 2004 I jotted this after dear
friends of many years went
their own way. I oft took
care of their three kids as
to make the best of the worst.
We had fun as I watched over
them with nothing to say or that
could be said. I still love them all and
some love is impossible change, go
Well, this is a piece I wrote during
that. It's all about the...like!
...is like a good wine paired with the perfect entree.
...is like a career, something you are always working at.
...is like a vase holding both- fresh and wilted flowers.
...is like a hinge that works well for years then just rusts and rots.
...is like delicate onion skin paper that you must hold gently.
...is like God. Mighty and praise-worthy.
...is like a kiln, hot and able to make sand and clay rock hard.
...is like a shower, refreshingly comfortable and renewable.
...is like a patched roof that will eventually leak again.
...is like a silk straight jacket, feeling the restrained pleasure of it.
...is like water contained in a glass slowly evaporating as it is not being drunk.
It was Faith, was it not? Ensuing
it was what it is and not arrived
by common means but every unique
avenue and footpath. To be able
(even as in a study) to find a maliceless
state-of-being, as we are assured we
all know, exists.
But alas can it exist while bearing
flesh. Fleshless bones do tell a story
all their own. And ashes are never
what they were anyways and everything
has been ashes already.
Many of them are their own graves. Then,
like the rhyme...ashes, ashes. I am going to
make a fire to only but really...make some ashes,
making ashes all the day. Even the incense that
smells of rose and stone are henceforth ashes...
ashes, ashes, ashes, dropping ashes, ashes.
Ashes are the key in reverse to all, 360 circle.
And the malicelessness in pretty ashes will
remain a part me, I am ashes, indeed.
"Faith, Hope and Love...
the Greatest of these Love"
The ashes of lovingkindness,
a gift of this day, not only to me
but to all of you, xo.
So beautiful are these writings
I've kept with a vast keeping of
black and whites filled with
greatness and nothingness-
An excerpt from-
THE PILLOW BOOK OF
TRANSLATED AND EDITED
BY IVAN MORRIS
In Spring It Is the Dawn
In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful. As the light
creeps over the hills, their outlines are dyed a faint red and wisps
of purplish cloud trail over them.
In summer the nights. Not only when the moon shines, but
on dark nights too, as the fireflies flit to and fro, and even when
it rains, how beautiful it is!
In autumn the evenings, when the glittering sun sinks close
to the edge of the hills and the crows fly back to their nests in
threes and fours and twos; more charming still is a file of wild
geese, like specks in the distant sky. When the sun has set, one's
heart is moved by the sound of the wind and the hum of the
In winter the early morning. It is beautiful indeed when
snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the
ground is white with frost; or even when there is no snow or
frost, but it is simply very cold and the attendants hurry from
room to room stirring up the fires and bringing charcoal, how
well this fits the season's mood! But as noon approaches and the
cold wears off, no one bothers to keep the braziers alight, and
soon nothing remains but piles of white ashes.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS
hours on end
glued to this screen
ingesting beautiful poetry from the vault
laundry piled high
it's clearly all of you's thoughtful fault
Full of mycellium
Richness of blue
Comes right on cue.
what I so dearly miss
that came out
that could take
a long day
of my misery
and melt it
into a gently
that could make
here on earth
is exactly as
I love you
The Unknown Date
It's of an
to be waiting
for Spring (sigh)
waited for the
the buds upon
I guess- ever,
so I hath something
new today in
The frozen milky
snow to all be
drunk and the
to dry the rocks
Then on the
true greens of
the fertile soil
of the end
Saved a blue jellybean today
From his arch-enemies
Acid and enzymes
Named him "Puddles"
Put a collar on him
And together we walked home
Puddles has taken to his new
Surroundings rather well
And the neighbors just adore him
But the only thing this
Stubborn-ass, blue mule is good at
So Puddles and I had a
And cleared the air
And from that gentle session, I learned
If I breathe on Puddles just right.....just right
He will ever so kindly oblige and "roll over"
Sweet, blue Puddles
You're a keeper
LOVE is patient;
live is kind.
Love is not jealous
it is not arrogant or rude.
Love does not insist
on its own way; it is not
irritable- or resentful;
it does not rejoice at wrong
but rejoices in the right.
Love bears all things,
believes all things, hopes
all things, endures all things,
Love never ends.
This is apart of a beautiful picture
all set in pink roses in bloom
that I had given my Dad long ago
that has just came back to me.
Sher-ing the love my Dad gave...
to me, xo!
For the longest while
I didn't think
I had anything to say.
Then, it occurred to me
that maybe the problem
was there was no one I
wanted to say anything
to. Now, I'm not so sure,
but I'm listening more mindfully,
and hearing words yet unspoken,
again and again,
and with such resounding clarity
at times that I am moved to write
the thoughts I think I have heard
Part of my reluctance,
if you could call it that,
to be my own bellringer
for the longest while,
it was decades if a day,
arises from the knowledge,
of which I am fairly certain
following years of informal
field research into the issue,
that it has indeed
all been said before, and
probably said better than
my meager poetic means
will ever come to muster.
I saw no point, then,
in being derivative,
that was all
Any self-imposed silence, I knew,
would be unoriginal. But I was no
Stoic in my having-nothing-to-say,
nor would I ever be confused
with a silently suffering saint.
Even with not a thing to say, I always
found injustices to make noise about,
if only to draw attention to my plight,
which, to my recollective secondary sight
looks as unfocused as it was unfounded,
but at the time it seemed real and imposing
enough for me to raise a serious stink about.
What gives a bell its tone
is not simply the material
of which the chime is cast,
which, otherwise arranged,
would only clank or clang.
Rather, it is the void defined
by the placement of material
wherein emerges the ringing.