now i look across this life under the glowing memory of days gone by hanging like a setting horizon upon an endless turning sea, austere aquamarines hanging like a kite string slightly slipping ajar from fingers uncurled gone in the wind unto an endless burning sky, orange-crimson nylon dye hanging like smoke rings always carried in the breeze, hanging like sacred smudge auspicious tiny swirls hang on the frayed ends of my clothes, little hooks hanging like pictures of a special uncle hanging like soft white coals of incense
at the stretches / vast edges of the universe touching blurry cusps of existence life wriggles from behind a telescope and sits down at the desk to write. in this moment evidence of a beauty (who has gone away.) bending with the curve of time. the secrets of the moon.
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap and to your(in my arms flowering so new) self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to a disappearing poet of always,snow and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid down with ought with because with every brain which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness) here's to one undiscoverable guess of whose mad skill each world of blood is made (whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting- over and over
announcing your place
in the family of things.
life's too short but it's fulfilling enough like getting lost in your mind while your feet sit buried in the sandbox in the backyard, the thought of flying away on a turtle because you learned turtles hatch from eggs in the sand was somehow magical so you wonder why the sandbox now has beetles and holes and millipedes... life's too short but it's meaningful enough to know that you can suffer the saddest sad a blue-soaked towel sagging under heavy eyes stealing heat from your armpits and ribs that you can turn around, fill with sand and shape into statues and castles and bridges away from here, collapsing as you step off, feet on new land life's too short because snowflakes, dance recitals, and moons don't last nearly long enough, and christmas only happens once a year, but even as the snail leaves its shell after it is gone, you can still hold the ocean to your ear.
i believe in the quiet revolution the hum of the garden at tea time, the dance of rain on the rim of a pond, the fingers that pluck to the beat of the heart, the soul that bathes in the glow of a flicker of flame, the pen dipped in hot stroking ink bleeding trails on the page (two leaves of a book that forget their separation), pastel haystacks coloured fuzzy outside the lines, bristled lips on bristled lips after a tour at sea, salty-sweet flakes of the forbidden fruit a smudge on the cheek of Mona Lisa, the man in the moon in the mirror.
At night this world is so dark and confusing that I can almost feel the globe tremble as it spins. Stars barely peek through a sky filled with illumination – artificial light is beautiful but it is not aurora borealis. People are contradictions, and sometimes the obscure distance is too much. I’m overcome by the hypocrisy. No, I do not claim that I can do better – but I live it in my bones as a fiery passion. And so much I’m caught up in now – a moment that will never be lived again with the same consequences or metamorphosed line of time…
then i am touched by relief, a calm spirited wind that descends upon our shoulders like winter’s blanket and she says: ‘there will be a day when you were young once.’
—Excerpted from diary