rain carries sorrow hope joy despair
each drop a tear for all you cannot express
growth and destruction entwined within
mirrored strands of the same process
germinating seedlings given enough
villages in a floodplain washed away
each vital somewhere to someone
stand with open heart and dare
to be drenched in what water brings
and it was dying on the sidewalk
one delicate wing’s edge half-missing
the black border jagged as if chewed
the bright yellow interior poised
as if to spill color onto the pavement
in one last flutter before utter stillness
such brief resplendence needing witness
there on the sidewalk in silent recognition
then off into the seasonal turn
steps echoing on the cusp
and summer was dying as well
done with the weariness of it all
overbearing traffic, busy shops
too many cars and the heaviness of trucks
no longer trying to contain chaos
within their narrow lanes
resting in time’s change
home now to mundane businesses
and the occasional solitary walker
who finds solace in abandoned dreams
lost in dreams
bridges lose their moorings
chitter through barren scapes
manufactored arthropods seeking
their remembered Paleozoic glory
roads untether from the earth
slither over desolate terrain
hardened serpentes with hidden fangs
their venom’s effect unknown
if you awaken to glimpse
this inexorable journey in the dark
close your eyes and turn away
let it rest among the debris
on the floor of your night
only a shadow cast upon the wall
faint shoe prints on the stairs
a smear from fingers upon the jar
laughter from games that never happened
the scent of dinners never cooked
warmth from arms never clasped
but in the window glimpses remain forever
of that constant playful grin
I keep reminding myself that there’s no need to say everything I think. Indeed, I do best to say very little, because most of what I think turns out to be incomplete, incorrect, and often rubbish.
Here are some danger signals I look for:
Anything that has the term “you people” is not fit to be heard and is useful only insofar as it points back at myself. Time to revisit my own biases and also the 37 practices. Anything that sets me up as expert is immediately suspect and needs to be quashed. The depths of my ignorance are more and more apparent to me, and I know very little indeed. None of what I think is truly original. Every thought exists built upon other thoughts, and the whole ediface is shakier in coherence than a tower of cards. So why bother with sentences like “I think…” unless someone first asks?
Anything that arises from negative emotions, esp those in the anger realm. Before I speak from annoyance, anger, or even outrage, check first the source, the intent, and the probable outcome. The first is usually not what it appears initially, and as before, circles back to me and my attachments, aversions, or confusion. Similar case to be made for intent. As far as outcome, safe to say that invariably differs from what I imagine.
Here are questions I ask before rushing in and allowing words to rush out:
Is this necessary? Is this wanted? Is this valuable to the listener(s)? Most importantly, is this kind? (Not “nice,” which is a different attitude, and one with which I don’t truck.)
I will revisit this page often. If you read this-and truly, there’s no reason anyone should-if you have any suggestions to add, please do. I’m an old judgmental bit of livestock but I can learn
ask for words
for script
pour this into a cup
drink slowly
let meaning slip into the heart
then
scrape letters from the dregs
eat them one by one
bitter and sweet
tasting of wisdom
tasting of tea
hours watching the sky
light that changes every second
summer weave of branches
textured movement of clouds
illusory drive of time
underlying these fluctuations a stillness
the pause within the flicker of a leaf
the infinite moment between exhale and inhale
the ever-present calm of the gap
no one that sees, nothing to be seen
only seeing
those who came before us
whoever we are, whoever they be
do they mourn the current destruction
or rejoice in the smaller joys
do they care, the ancestors, the revered ones
the sainted and the destroyers
they who change roles depending on view
will the little happinesses that anchor our lives be enough
and if we call out in desperation
these having ceased to hold, will they answer
all their wrath, all their wisdom
what becomes of them unheard
the forgotten gods and the abandoned elders
now crumbled remnants in the dirt
in order to contain the day
this day, the only day we have
build it carefully around each breath
each heartbeat each blink of the eye
the respiratory exchange the cadenced pulse
the pupillary response to light
these indicatory of physical life the structured body
the corporeal manifest all for naught
unless we construct with intent
know where we begin and end
always always let both these be
compassion and wisdom