what we do, we are

Many times, we stand on the fallow banks, transfixed before such a sullen river. Some remain fixated with a distant vision of the opposite shore; others see just the abysmal current that sequesters them slumbering by; and then there are those with imaginations drawn to a proclivity for action, who cannot help but see a bridge.

On Trust

Trust is the blend of belief and action…belief in motion, motion believed. It is not just given to another, but also earned and accepted with both emotional and intellectual acknowledgment. If trust were just a voice, it would mean little without ears to hear it. There are many forms of trust and each requires “self-awareness” before the “awareness of other.” Trust is a sphere, an ethereal world between two people with their own latitudes and longitudes of permitted change. A world, where secrets, promises and contracts are merely contrived words that approximate trust, but there is something immeasurable and beyond the bond. An indescribable glow in a snow framed window of a cold dark night; whenever you go there, no matter what, you just know they’ll be there too - you need not ask. To be entrusted BY another, you must show your true self to them and you must open your eyes to how they value themselves, their beliefs, their feelings - this is the real estate of their existence - with it’s gardens and shelters. It is the turning up of ones cards first – the boxer who first drops his gloves when the bell ends the round…they trust you, they can be trusted. It is not the revelation of a vulnerability with expected protection, but the demonstration of strength and capacity to protect. The seal of trust marks the gates of love…and even when love has run out between two people, trust is willing to remain. But, once out side the gate – love is lost, unremembered, unhonored.

on 9-11

If every objects matter were no different than that of the next, but for their arrangement of atoms. Then truly all we can distinguish and behold with our eyes, is the play of light on the world. You can knock down a building, but you can’t kill it’s spirit. Peace on earth.

I don’t mind forgetting the right places I put things as much as I do having to remember the wrong places I left them.

I don’t mind forgetting the right places I put things as much as I do having to remember the wrong places I left them.
LDF

…our worries are but a thimble of moments in an ocean of eternity. take care in what you trade your moments for…

…our worries are but a thimble of moments in an ocean of eternity. take care in what you trade your moments for…
LDF

MOMENTS

Each moment – for an instant – is the beginning of the rest of your life; like the first pearl slipped onto a string. When you look back at the beauty across time, the primary compulsion is to find the next pearl, to string the next moment.

As a child I remember collecting sea glass on the beach. I exalted at each discovery, slipping each piece into my pocket as I walked in the surf. Every new chip all the more beautiful as I stowed it away anxiously. For hours my day was beautiful and I never as much as paused to stop and count my bounty of color. Just as dusk fell I found the most beautiful crimson shard, a twinkling drop of ruby, and it was so beautiful I lost my breath for a moment…and I carried it all the way back, running. Little did I know, there was a huge hole in my pocket - and every tiny treasure pocketed was instantly falling right back into the shifting sands … except the last, which I held tightly in my hand.

Which reminds of the poem Winding to a Point by LDF,
“…So are the thoughts of aging men
Holding dreams in the palms of their hands
They cast their stones along the surface of time
And spend their lives trying to find them again…”

(The poem, “Winding to a Point” can be found somewhere, down below, scroll to the depths - I’ll pull you up)

We are vectors in the stream

Collective totality, whether tiers of Gaia or far beyond, can in one way, be thought of as disconnected parts…yet there is something greater in their integrated whole; a “whole of whole’s” perhaps.

Consciousness, which is dimensionless, weightless, and timeless, nearly wraps itself around these transcendental notions. And awkwardly wading through our consciousness, we are able to communicate in the measurable realm of human expression. But it is fascinating how we ironically wander into conceptions of the immeasurable, running headlong into the blackness of our own inexpressibility. Creativity has limits, creative genius pushes those limits, but collective creation breaks through. All objects are ultimately in animation, whether carbon based, silica, or some other un-humanly-discoverable element. So it is best to be a force in the state of motion, than an object that can simply be moved.

As the sun, I may be able to move the ocean in one direction, as the moon, you may be able to move the ocean in another opposing direction…but as one connected and choreographed singular unit – we are the tides that ebb and flow all over the earth, that brings wind when sails are slack, light when it is night, warmth when it is cold, repose for dawn as the day turns to dusk, and rebirth for the dusk as night turns to morning.

Rain Interrupted

The sun pranced out after the rain
As if it were some glowing hero!
As if we weren’t humbled in anonymity,
Pleasant, numbing, insulation
From such villainous precipitation.

Maxwell Parish sighs, the artist
Is always too late to his easel.
Missing the sheets and shards,
the splash and writhing hiss
Of small united rain drops,
Terminating on the ground
In a death pact, shhh, and die.

I wish it to stay
To drown the sun just once.
Aspirating glaucous somber gun metal gray.
Most perfect line, speeding vertically down
Through a windless,
Most un-hoped for day.

Chased by the lumbering sledge of Thor
hastened by this ancient molten core.
Gravity, once more.

…I slide shut a thin glass door…
for the villain and hero to rumble on,
Rumble on….the spoils to the victor.

Somnol-essence

Hopes we take into our sleep
Become the seeds of dreams to come;
Fears then, roots of nightmares.
Stir our hearts awake,
If you must
Wind gypsies crooning quixotic notes
Dappled like leopard in dandelion dust
Caught in the clatter of castanets
If poems were sheep, this one would be black
That one is black,
And that one is black.
Pupils leaping into pathos,
Without a splash,
That one is black, that one is black.
Somnolence, when ripples lull
Where all lambs go, when somnolent,
When somnolent.