When it's over, I want to
say: all my life
I was a bride married to
I was the bridegroom,
taking the world into my
—Mary Oliver, "When Death Comes"
Carefully discern the cost and the calling.
Then, commit for life, if you are able.
If you can't be X all day, much less for life,
try being X for the next second, minute, or hour.
Failure will never stand in your way,
unless you fail to learn, the true failure.
What you say and do, it matters.
How you survive, it matters.
You don't have to screw people
to live, as long as living is enough.
Make the effort, focus, watch your mind.
For your mind, your ideas about the world
are like trying to capture being alive
with a camera, a microphone, or a word.
It makes objects of moments. Moments
are life, succulent and raw, a ripe fruit
better tasted and felt than captured and told.
Reach for grace, weave it through your life
and the lives of others, in community. Together,
we can build a life of shared experience,
of deep connection and intimacy. Beauty
is everywhere, we only need to strive to see
through our own senses and those of others
to dip into the richness of our lived experience.
Knowing, ain't doing, my friends. I know enough,
to write this, but I also know that I am too frequently
sucking on the stone pit, the abstraction better
thrown away that prevents us from eating good fruit.
And all fruit is best, when it is shared with love.
Whatever comes together | disintegrates, falls apart
the skeleton key fits, | unlocks our heart's door.
Desire, stormy weather | on a cartographer's chart,
wrinkled, it transmits | an unintelligible, mad lore.
The key catches the lock | faceted truth, splinters
dirty data, overload | bits are entangled, not lost.
Progress of the clock | mind strikes, then winters
ticking seconds, explode | the play, dis/plays its cost.
Words wound the heart | basecamp Sherpa of love
jungle justice, swamping | red over red, absent, loose
tears pool, drip, a start | the unbidden kind, above
the tiger, before chomping | life: marrow or juice?
Sight in blind eyes | illusion becomes truth
perfect error, knowing | one's body is another's bread
reach out, touch skies | blood transfuses into youth
lives reborn, growing | feed, burn, then again, dead.
Frames on the pictures | no happy, was ever after
the past cannot speak | so all are new/old battles.
In the face of strictures | hear the freedman's laughter
violence is for the weak | born again into new saddles.