She pads through the property as morning pushes the slow creek down through green places water drowns itself over and over.
Her thirst eased, it is hunger that drives her now, hunger and a place to rest the heat of day. A blue globe turns beneath her trod as
she paws her line in concentric geometries known only to senses she has no name for. There is no following her, no slowing her
quest to seize what the day would keep from her but for this padding, this cresting of hunger, this interminable press of wet and heavy stars.
Joseph Gallo April 11, 2008
A large female mountain lion was spotted on our 5-acre rancho earlier this week, evidenced by the tracks she left. This poem came from that and my thinking about my daughter who was born twenty-three years ago today. Happy Birthday, Sio!
It’s always the small things that trip us up, an undipped heel, a ten-cent relay, the bird on the runway. Against all our living, wrought ironies ply their black twists in what only luck and dreams can embrace.
There was a girl once, tall and young, and she brought me a piece of myself I knew existed, but had never encountered.
It was a small thing, like an adornment one adds for grace or accent, but it was, nevertheless, essential. That part of me is who I am in her presence, because she could see between the spaces in my atömli, the vast stretches spread through my local cluster that bleed off the body into bands of broad emptiness and necessary light.
I watched a boy being fed in a restaurant. He was about twelve and sat crooked in his wheelchair. Spoon after slow spoon, his hunger was dispatched by the paternal hand that brought him into this place. Even the most withered of us need nutrient.
It’s the small things that come into play. One unnoticeable detail after another missed or disregarded, stepped over as an ant trudges across the spider’s trapdoor, never seeing the thin veiled threshold that leads the last way home.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.