You get up from a park bench
And you walk away
And you stop
And look back
As if something -- what? --
Had been left behind
It was nothing
Just a bit of myself
As if I were a snail
Leaving a trail of myself behind
The day has opened
And my hand has opened
And the poem opens
Where the heart opens
The loss of the fear
The falling away of death
The opening of death
The embrace of the dark
The hello to light
This love is bigger than I am
It cannot go on carrying
As if I knew myself at all
As if I need needed
And now a song ...
Can you hear the melody
Arising from the fantasy
Arising from the common sense
And breaking down the self-defense?
You come to them with poetry
And listen to the mystery
They oblige sincerity
And offer up a yes indeed
Deeper still than garden seeds
Fuller than those garden weeds
Tending to your deepest needs
They know that you've been always free
And what if it's a dream bouquet?
They echo what you've always said
They know where you've been always dead
The palace living in your head
The world is just a dream machine
Or so it is on tv screens
The river flowing in your veins
The moment living still remains
And so you give them all you have
And pray the rhyme will be less bad
The way you dance across the floor
As if you're sure there's dancing more
"Words realize nothing, vivify nothing, unless you have suffered
in your own person the thing which the words try to describe"
- Mark Twain.
never mind all of this crap
about the heart being a pump
about the lungs being a bellows
about the soul being neurons
with sparks or chemicals
about the moon in your head
never mind all of that
time is short
metaphors are tall
that weave together the
and one day science will agree
that the hummingbird
the pure nectar
in the center
of the chest
and all other gold
is fool's gold
Last edited by River; 07-16-2011 at 04:13 PM.
Where a kiss is a mandala
Where the elements conspire against sleep
Where naked and clad and broken and together
Arms and hands and feet and legs reaching
Reaching toward the soil
Which is the skin
Which is the body
Which is the heart
Which is the sun
The blue of sky
And Grandmother Maple
Was that her name?
Holding us all
In breathing stillness
And illuminated kiss
Last edited by River; 07-16-2011 at 04:08 PM.
The image, as in a hexagram. - Lew Welch
The image, as in a Hexagram:
The hermit locks his door against the blizzard.
He keeps the cabin warm.
All winter long he sorts out all he has.
What was well started shall be finished.
What was not, should be thrown away.
In spring he emerges with one garment
and a single book.
The cabin is very clean.
Except for that, you'd never guess
anyone lived there.
perhaps harmonies are made of balances
as when we stand
because all standing
is minute wobbles
when not big wobbles
even the earth herself wobbles a bit
and when a poem is set in motion
it is like a spinning top
which knows where it wants to go
and the poet can only follow
and wobble a bit
there is no real life that doesn't wobble
who gave us this notion of steadiness?
as if being steady were not a recipe for
only that which bends
i used to prefer the word harmony
"because it is dynamic" i said
now all i see are words
sounds made with the mouth and
printed on the page
don't get me wrong
i love language
only i'm losing the trail
of the top
of the poem
the shiver on the skin
and when i lean left i must therefore
and when my love becomes great longing
i must be with my love
though she is so far away
and when i have tears
i have a smile
and when i am laughing
i am also sad
Last edited by River; 08-16-2011 at 05:34 PM.
Another Love Poem
Thunder rolls slowly over the mountaintops
And today is cool and grey
And tonight the crickets will sing again
But right now I'm seeking the idea for this poem
This poem which writes my life
This poem which shivers my skin
This poem which shakes my foundations
This poem which startles my heart
Into astonished peace and joy and wonder
Somebody in a dream came to me and gave me
And then asked
How will you spend this?
And I replied
Send me thunder that rolls slowly over mountaintops
Cool and grey
And in the night bring crickets
For these cheap bits of golden disks
I'll take a single purple crocus
And instead of a big house and a fancy car and career
And a backyard swimming pool
I'll take my simple life
Just as it is
With so much love
Last edited by River; 08-17-2011 at 10:51 PM.
I could have told you you would leave
But I did so hope you'd stay
I told what I could not do
But still, you went away
It's not the miles of ocean wide
That sit between you and me
It's the fickle nature of your heart
And my willingness to flee
Praise be for the pain of love!
The way the seed breaks open and flowers shortly.
The wash of flood!
The breaking finally free.
And still there is the pain of love.
Its growing pains.
Not so final, after all.
Praise for the pain of love.
For the joy and the pain of love.
by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
The world opens up... when you do.
"Oh, oh, can't you see? Love is the drug for me." ~Bryan Ferry
"Love and the self are one . . ." ~Leo Buscaglia "
An excellent blog post on hierarchy in polyamory:
Last edited by nycindie; 09-02-2011 at 12:34 AM. Reason: If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all me