Life is short, though I keep this from my children. Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, though I keep this from my children. For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird. For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you, though I keep this from my children. I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.
EMILY DICKINSON I YEARS had been from home, And now before the door, I dare not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced, But never quaked before. I fitted to the latch My hand with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Jan 1, 2022 - 5:53am
Another Year
by Gary Johnson
Another year gone and the old man with the scythe
Is mowing closer. He hasn’t been subtle, has he. Too many good people gone, and I could sit and cry For them except that you look exceptionally snazzy Despite the miles on your odometer, As if you have a few more aces up your sleeve, Maybe you were born under a lucky comet or Maybe it’s the wine, but I do believe When I look at you and take your hand you’re Positively glowing. Maybe we’ve been sorry a Long enough time and now we get some grandeur And do our dance and sing our aria. May this year bring us before it has flown All we would have wished for had we only known.
Location: On the edge of tomorrow looking back at yesterday. Gender:
Posted:
Dec 20, 2021 - 5:15pm
Tomorrow the winter solstice creeps up upon us Wearing wings of fractal flakes made of fluffy white snow It says that it needs to trust those of us To make all those worthy a happy warm glow
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
Fading gaze - W. LeTendre I see you sitting there staring out that dirty window Are you lost in the past in a muddied cloud of memories Faces without names places just out of reach Time is not your friend when confusion sets in I'll sit with you make up conversations I could talk the same talk day after day Your gaze treats me like a stranger at your door After 57 years together I am still here for you though you left some time ago.
Fading gaze - W. LeTendre I see you sitting there staring out that dirty window Are you lost in the past in a muddied cloud of memories Faces without names places just out of reach Time is not your friend when confusion sets in I'll sit with you make up conversations I could talk the same talk day after day Your gaze treats me like a stranger at your door After 57 years together I am still here for you though you left some time ago.
I see you sitting there
staring out that dirty window
Are you lost in the past
in a muddied cloud of memories
Faces without names
places just out of reach
Time is not your friend
when confusion sets in
I'll sit with you
make up conversations
I could talk the same talk
day after day
Your gaze treats me
like a stranger at your door
After 57 years together
I am still here for you
though you left some time ago.
My friend and I snickered the first time
we heard the meditation teacher, a grown man,
call himself honey, with a hand placed
over his heart to illustrate how we too
might become more gentle with ourselves
and our runaway minds. Itâs been years
since we sat with legs twisted on cushions,
holding back our laughter, but today
I found myself crouched on the floor again,
not meditating exactly, just agreeing
to be still, saying honey to myself each time
I thought about my husband splayed
on the couch with aching joints and fever
from a tick biteâwhat if he never gets better?â
or considered the threat of more wildfires,
the possible collapse of the Gulf Stream,
then remembered that in a few more minutes,
Iâd have to climb down to the cellar and empty
the bucket I placed beneath a leaky pipe
that canât be fixed until next week. How long
do any of us really have before the body
begins to break down and empty its mysteries
into the air? Oh honey, I saidâfor once
without a trace of irony or blush of shameâ
the touch of my own hand on my chest
like that of a stranger, oddly comforting
in spite of the facts.
sometimes (mostly in the last two years) i let david whyte or conversations with david whyte play in the background sam harris has had some great conversations with him (waking up app)
