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Category Archives: Poesy

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

via Solitude – Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

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Digging a fresh grave, foot by foot,
Fill it with dead visions of hope.

Returned to earth, from dust to dust.
Building its tomb up brick by brick.

Clack then click. Arise stony walls.
Inch by inch. Hide what lies behind.

Shut firmly the gate, with a world
weary grip; lock it all inside.

Falling far down, beneath the ground, alone,
Amidst humane company.
I half turn inward, my mask unsure,
Divested so nearly.
In frankness I’d tell; there’s much you could know.
Saying “listen, please” quietly.
I want to sit on the grassy hills and grasp.
Fresh winds blowing off the sea.
While standing tall at the peak’s point to gaze.
Upwards at eternity.
To hear, in nature’s creaks and groans, the sound
Of life’s bitter melody.
I turn away, these things shan’t be said.
My concession to Gravity.

Finish Each Day by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities
no doubt have crept in;
forget them as soon as you can.

Tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely
and with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with
your old nonsense.

This day is all that is
good and fair.
It is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on yesterdays.

Sage advice; and a point of view that is beginning to approximate my own. I’m okay with the fact that every day I’m making mistakes. For the first time ever I’m okay with it.

They’re the cost of living. Of living a life that’s not meticulously planned and regimented and controlled. Of opening myself up to the risks that must be taken to find rewards worth having.

That involves saying stupid things, feeling stupid, and asking questions. It involves not saying stupid things and not feeling stupid but exploring doors that have always been closed before. Its discovering that the boundaries aren’t where I thought they were. That most of these boundaries don’t matter, and the ones that do matter aren’t in the place I thought they were.

That kind of living involves an infinite number of mistakes.

What I’m doing is making the effort to learn from my mistakes. The one’s that I recognise I’ve made. They have to be taken on board to the best of my ability. They shouldn’t happen again.

It reminds me of a cynical quotation by James Mayo (“Lord, deliver me from the man who never makes a mistake, and also from the man who makes the same mistake twice”) that said much the same thing. I wasn’t too impressed with it then, it seemed glib and arrogant.

Now it appears smart. One of the the many things you learn to appreciate in hindsight. A portion of the art of living that you learn through living.

There is a part of me that is fascinated by effortless perfection. The smooth performance that is so complete in every aspect, that the person seems larger than life, an impresario resurrected to show a failing world a true superstar.

I’ve made my peace with that part. Its there for certain things. I intend to give reign to that part in mooting, in presentations, in anything where polish is as important as substance. But I don’t need it for the rest of the day. For the rest of my life.

Even after all this time
The Sun never says to the Earth
“You owe me”

Look what happens
With a love like that
It lights
The Whole Sky…

By the Persian poet Hafez, circa 1300 AD

A vista changed, lit with flickering flames,
Arises unbidden. Usurping space I’d sold
To toil through dead men’s thoughts. In search of Truth.

Was I vain to search for Truth in Reason?
A fool, no doubt. To tend a soul demands
A minds subordination to heart.

If consumed in flame, emits the vibe,
Of indignant rage; desist. Instead elect
to take my place, to stand in mine own shoes.

And find, in fire, the heat that cracks through frost.
That reaches deep to thaw the steadfast seed
From fertile ground. Within, hope springs eternal.

I feel the urge to shout out loud. To shake
The world with primal sounds of gnashing teeth.
Unchain the inner animal and seize
In grasping hand a crown, a green hued wreath.
To find in prizes, sublime contentment,
Which fills the void. I must elude this taint.
Evade these peaceful paths without resentment.
Rebuking both the sinner and the saint
As false exercises in genuflection.
This weighty burden of introspection,
I surrender. Let others carry on.

The Mob, the People don’t exercise their
Initiative. Because no body told them
To. Living life this same way, every day
Won’t try exotic smells, brighter hues. En Garde!
The tongue unsheath’d, watch words’ audacious edge.
The impish levity worn today. The Cad
waggish, whimsical. Did today mark out 
An end? I felt relief from haunting times
Relief from days gone. No need to restrain
and measure instinct, to protect Ego,
from friends’ sharp jabs. I just poke back all smiles.

A sudden fall from flight. The earthbound weight
Outright collapsed me to the floor. The shock.
Sends pulse and sense amok. I cannot keep
A grip on fear. I know where ends this road.
I’ve walked these walls before. To End’s dread door.
A hand, I sense. It grips me tight. It holds
Me, posture straight. I’m saved. By Providence
Supplying answers, calming my thrashing mind
Unask’d. Courage seeps back, the heart restarts.
I steel my will. I’ll walk this maze upright.

I wrote, in words, without the beats. I told
you tales in prose. Now, I prefer, in verse, iambic.
Amazing how words flow; smooth like silk. Ink falls
To paper with meaning bleeding out. Time
Stops to listen, ears sharp and poised.
My twitter is clearer, my ideas scurry,
Clothed by deception. I, Writer, fade away.
The Reader becomes central. What you wish
To see is here. The unwanted love child
of words, that bastard Truth, stares in your eyes.