CV

Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,

One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.

such a difficult thing for me to do dry.  trying to explain what the Pilgrim sees on a cold road waiting for signs and trying to lay it down in words it deserves but the words are behind glass i can only stand apart from and ache for hungry for bread and wool blankets behind midnight streetlight defenestration.  i crave the alterations that turn my cubes of words to water that wash and reflect my heart to the world it was given to.  the feel of the clay between my fingers as it spins on the wheel instead of this rolling and pinching with a chisel and half the face falls away after all.  the words dont come theyre demanding burnt offering for an unclenched hand that frees the tongue.  its just me here in the clearing a hollow reed with nothing to say.  lay me down and look through me, far things will seem closer.  the emptiness may guide you but for me its a cold road, waiting for signs to light the way.

in rags and feathers dancing down the new town my little silky thread behind me a root beneath the handshake and hello something left listening the imprint of me on  a million surfaces for so long i have been without.  and forced to face this world head on falling through the ice and not being allowed to drown ill accept the clarity but afford me my words! why is it one or the other?  i know.  both times i birthed my babies it was called a dry labor.  the water breaks at the onset and theres no buffer, no gentle making of the way.  so here i am again, working to be born, with nothing between me and pure experience.  of course the midwife was right.

i couldnt tell him why i set her there on the screen in gray robes and sad eyes, the wand and the cup, and all i could bring myself to say was i really like that name.  and in my secret heart one day i hope i can turn to him and say it again, and then he will understand.

 

when he talked it painted pictures on the drive-in of my mind.  i saw myself in a hundred happy scenes, skirting the edge of whats happening like a firefly, dressed in cloaks and wings, summer nights between scenes him leading the Fey into twilight, the feel of grass beneath my feet the sound of water over rocks the smell of the world mountains and oceans and a thousand small fires to dance to.  i was being led and loved it.  or maybe its just the hallucination of a hungry heart, the weary pilgrim on the Threshold of Home the home the soul swims in before that black river, that darkest of rooms.  cups and bowls, sieves for magick making.

ive left my laughter everywhere to bind me, each breath a stitch red thread weaving between the keys of a piano and under drums made from historys fire.  you showed me the beautiful room a red chair and a photo of your father, the talking water that brings snowmelt ducks and leaves in their seasons sleeping under the heartshaped hole in a hat you wore beneath a million suns thinking mad beautiful thoughts of Bringing Together what had been cast away.  The Box long dissembled for planks and nails, the empty space inside it buried under an arc of trees leading the pilgrim to the next gently lit and waiting stage.

We Play Portal

I awoke
this morning
in the gold light
turning this way
and that

thinking for
a moment
it was one
day
like any other.

But
the veil had gone
from my
darkened heart
and I thought

it must have been the quiet
candlelight
that filled my room,

it must have been
the first easy rhythm
with which I breathed
myself to sleep,

it must have been
the prayer I said
speaking to the otherness
of the night.

And
I thought
this is the good day
you could meet your love,

this is the black day
someone close
to you could die.

This is the day
you realize
how easily the thread
is broken
between this world
and the next

and I found myself
sitting up
in the quiet pathway
of light,

the tawny
close grained cedar
burning round
me like a fire
and all the angels of this housely
heaven ascending
through the first
roof of light
the sun has made.

This is the bright home
in which I live,
this is where
I ask
my friends
to come,
this is where I want
to love all the things
it has taken me so long
to learn to love.

This is the temple
of my adult aloneness
and I belong
to that aloneness
as I belong to my life.

There is no house
like the house of belonging.

~ David Whyte ~

(whats going to get me through today besides Tom, multivitamins and Thou).

 this ones for all those Drunk with Love this morning:



this ones for all my Brothers and Sisters who Sing in the Car:



this ones for the Golden Boy, and my friends in the Jewish Mafia:

for sending me one of the most perfect and beautiful pieces of Poetry ever.

he asked, who is he?
and i said, god sent him to play the piano.

he had a Ferdinand tattoo.

listen to my Light Brother, whom i Love.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122813866

a Pacifist honors the Resistance

"The Heart is a Muscle

Keep Loving

Keep Fighting."

for all of them but you

It was the like the last arrow in the quiver, and it was You.  

After I stop emptying out it’ll be easier to put it in the past. 

I sincerely agree with you that whatever Happens should Happen.

But I will admit to being biased, and I will admit to grieving,

Which I honestly didn’t think id do openly with you

But my ways have never been clearly marked.

I’ve Forever had to make my way, wrestle through lowgrowth,

My skirts are ragged from water, rocks and thorns.

The open road is not familiar, nor does it comfort.

I’m out there wide open, plain to see from the Hedge

Which I’ve always called Home.

The Hedge that offers Refuge

The smell of cool Earth, the stain of berries

The words of The First Children

Written on the giving ground.

A hill in the moonlight

A clearing come morning

But the wide and open road requires

Far too much swagger and denial

For me to walk it.

I was not given much time to attach myself

To the Idea of This

But it was an Idea I carried in my Secret Heart

Since you and I began

In a corridor

Where I pushed off ill-equipped

In my coracle

Crafted from my own skin

Weeping in the grim corridor

For the loss.

The loss of my Life,

Grafted Myth

Of Love and Time

The loss of my own Meaning

The Sacrifice of Love and Time

To bottomless implacable

Death without Resurrection.

And the spirit that fluttered

Within the cage of This Flesh

Was a sudden Brightness in the

Lowering sky of the weary Traveler

A shooting star.

Not mine to know or hold

Only stand below on a Hungry Earth

And shed the shell

To release the pearl

Celestial and nebulous

Bound for other Oceans.

U.S. Defense Secretary Robert Gates, who was at the CIA during the covert campaign, said Wilson's life showed how "one brave and determined person can alter the course of history."
in honor of Charlie, be brave and determined.
in honor of Charlie, see the movie.  

worth every minute it spends of your Life. 

imho, as they say.

this is for the cowboy

with Great Love

from me

anyway.

a Journeying On Song

If On A Winter's Night a Traveler, Indeed.

Blessed Be.

Wish You Were Here.