Waiting is unlike anything else. It takes no short-cuts through time; always the long way around through where the story lies. ~Aucassin Verdé
Which Bird Breaks The Light For Jan
She sends me poems from the in-between place, the place where pens are dipped into petals that yield hues given them by rains, rains given their reasons to release by all our sorrowless stories, the fancy tales we tell in our sleep and send up from deep pillows as breath to the waiting sky, a sky happy to receive whatever is sent for it knows it must hold everything that matters.
There are some things one can give only to another, for that person alone and no one else, carried on shoulders of titans, dawns seen by only their eyes as they lie draped in veils of their mingleness like lovers who cannot guess at which bird breaks the light, light that cannot sense such gentle shadows as they share, the curvature of rare geometries lost to the failing perfection of pale tapers that chant them silence.
These are the lines she would choose, the patterns of words that adhere to no set purpose, their dear appearance seemingly random and without compass, veering wildly margin to margin, mattering without meaning to, but mattering nevertheless, speaking for the parts of her she once believed might be missing forever, long-slept yet stirring like the mute piston of a bulb that moves both earth and sky but to become.
puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head. “I’ve brought you sun, salt-sweetness from the sea, a gentle something to move your blinds a little.”
I look at her and there is a familiar recognition we share for a split atomic moment. “Thank you,” I say not knowing what else she might suddenly ask or offer.
“Is the roadrunner mine as well?” I continue meekly. But she does not answer. She’s already left her terse reply on the other side of my open window—in quailtwitter and mockingbird squeech, in the sunned rumps of darting rabbits and the flat meander of the blue channel beyond where June slid down the hillside to drown in days gone by, never again to be seen.
Roadrunner sets his wings on his hips and clurks, “Well, what are we waiting for?” I step out and everything I know has been resummered.
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.