My time is a thing that I cannot retract:
No “Give me that back!”s.
No, no, no.
If I take my own wrist,
and I give you my watch,
you must guard it and not let it go.
When I see that watch hang
from two fingers that quake,
I shall tug to remind you it’s gold.
You should know my time’s best
kept too tight to your chest;
if it is, it shall guide you till old.
Because time signals chances,
and each chance rings a tick:
you can hear why I want you, and when.
Now, I see that your fingers
still but loosen that gem;
you will not see my timepiece again.
“Each of us must look at the significant turns in our lives and reinterpret them in light of our evolutionary question” – The Celestine Prophecy
“Always go a little further into the water than you feel capable of being in. Go a little bit out of your depth, and when you don’t feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting.” – Bowie
Today I have decided:
not to be how I’ve been being;
not to wonder about wandering,
but to roam the land of living.
Although I have derided –
until now I’ve been quite seething –
the wickedness of pondering
the unusualness of living,
today I have decided
that such thoughts come of unseeing.
It’s not to be left dwindling,
the unusualness of living.
At night I’m undecided,
visit thoughts that seemed quite heathen,
but dreams see these thoughts fondling
the unusualness of living.
Awake, I am decided
that for no apparent reason,
today’s the day – quit wondering –
to embrace my ways of being.
There is a land of dreams untold,
where love for living can unfold.
Creatures sing in mounting fervour;
in one voice they cross the river.
Callings sent down through the ages –
touched by man, and gods, and sages –
come to meet me where I stand
in this distant (phantom?) land.
I wait upon the mountaintop
to hear the furthest waterdrop.
And with that, then, I somehow knew:
one day I will see you here, too.
They’ll call your voice, and see us meet!
They’ll clap, and cheer, and stamp their feet!
It’s to this place we all can get;
I think no-one can know it yet.
The peace with which
you weigh each word
to give me sermons
best and pure.
The throttle off,
you thrill me still –
because you do.
There’s nothing more.
itself to you
so long ago,
no questions asked.
The girl with words
to fill the seas
brought to her knees
without her mask.
She does not plea,
but prays to you,
to show you thanks
for what you’ve done.
Between us nothing
because for both
the battle’s won.
Now, I can’t talk
for the rest of them,
but my feelings
a man-made plank
seven inches thick
breathes in the ocean’s gust,
and just so I
come to walk it once,
it beckons to me, “Do!”
Implores me for
it sees on shores
its daughter’s soul anew.
Thus ships whereon
fateful timber’s sprung
may also look like cliffs,
and when I jump
from the plank you built,
its your face shall see fists.
Art is because for reality, no cure.
Art is because the only set of stairs lead back to the only floor.
Art is because the narrowest axis of the windmill is the farthest.
Art is because I haven’t answered this yet.
took me to the mirror
(in the corner of a room filled with only the darkest of dark matter),
stood me up against myself and said,
…“Now can you see clearer?”…
Inside were banks
their currents still but strong.
She wasn’t walking,
yet somehow she moved along.
Carried by a cord
of frogs and orchids
to the sun
that spun to warm the rivers’ banks
and for her
that cord had spun.
…“Did you know our stars absorb all the knowledge of every heart that ever beat,
every wing that ever billowed with its heat, and every woman who’d ever
ever ever had a thought while looking in the mirror where, betwixt her own eyes,
she did meet her maker?”…
It gave it to her,
knowing one day she’d find its use
in that mirror;
knowing one day
that she’d know
to never think she knew a thing.
it, or I
breathe in what we know and out what we think.