I thought love was too much to ask for. Life tells me it may not be
found and yet it is the only thing to ask for. The magnetic north, the
We are bennu birds, birds-to-be with the grain of life and eternity in our beaks,
birds waiting open-mouthed for eternities for that single drop from the stars,
defined by thirst and poetry.
“As a [person’s] desire is, so is his destiny. For as his desire is, so is his will; as his will is, so is his deed; and as his deed is, so are its consequences, good or bad.” So say the Upanishads. And Descartes came along a lot later to say again, “I think, therefore I am,” and now for the next millennium or so written records will pay attention to this truism. So much of the charm of human history is in our forgetting and rediscovering ourselves and our philosophies and their inspirations. Hide and seek. Ends and origins.
If I feel the void I must remember I am a reed; out of my space comes
my music.That which I cannot see need not be absent, for life is a
double-edged sword–perfect in heft and balance, seeking the hand of
the soul-master, bearing the known and unknown on its edge. The thin
red line is the one I walk today. Some day it shall be the lighted
Life always brings you that which you ask for, but in such a way as to leave you without words.
I am wet earth. Wet with the stuff of life. Tears, blood, rain. Mud. I
tried to give birth to one said to be born of mud. It was a still
birth. Tears cannot retard us now.
And so it turns, day after day, season after season; the diurnal within the annual and the seasons of the heart within it, in a slight
syncopation of emotion and action, in endurance and agony.
The story of each hour, the tales that go untold.
Here I remain, a bent wordsmith who thinks she may write one day, in search of a muse and Mt. Helicon all at once. Poor midget, who doesn’t know that the price of wisdom is sight, and the price of the mead of poetry is love.