dear blog:
I think we should see other blogs. i don't really feel like you're investing in this relationship. you haven't called for months, and i'm feeling neglected. plus, to be honest, you're a downer. it's always deep thoughts, angst and gloom from you. I need a fresh start. I'm moving on to athenaslipstick.blogspot.com. maybe i'll see you around sometime.
regretfully: your writer
(summary: new blog: athenaslipstick.blogspot.com. girly-fashiony stuff. travelling mouse will hibernate until i feel poetic again.)
okay, that was kind of a post.
The End.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
some days
some days I am an empty clay bowl.
some days the bowl is full of rain.
other days it is full of sun.
some days the emptiness itself shines like a planet
spinning on and on into the blackness.
some days the bowl is full of rain.
other days it is full of sun.
some days the emptiness itself shines like a planet
spinning on and on into the blackness.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
some words
Hungry to fold these feelings inside-out, outside of myself; to weave this tangle of disillusionment into a smooth blanket of truth. Discover myself creating again. Remember that which is forgotten. Dig up my own buried heart. Shake it out and pin it to the line, in full view of the sun.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
one for beth..
poem by Wendell Berry, from Given
(VI)
By expenditure of hope,
Intelligence, and work,
You think you have it fixed.
It is unfixed by rule.
Within the darkness, all
Is being changed, and you
Also will be changed.
Now I recall to mind
A costly year: Jane Kenyon,
Bill Lippert, Philip Sherrard,
All in the same spring dead,
So much companionship
Gone as the river goes.
And my good workhorse Nick
Dead, who called out to me
In his conclusive pain
To ask my help. I had
No help to give. And flood
Covered the cropland twice.
By summer's end there are
No more perfect leaves.
But won't you be ashamed
To count the passing year
At its mere cost, your debt
Inevitably paid?
For every year is costly,
As you know well. Nothing
Is given that is not
Taken, and nothing taken
That was not first a gift.
The gift is balanced by
Its total loss, and yet,
And yet the light breaks in,
Heaven seizing its moments
That are at once its own
And yours. The day ends
And is unending where
The summer tanager,
Warbler, and vireo
Sing as they move among
Illuminated leaves.
(VI)
By expenditure of hope,
Intelligence, and work,
You think you have it fixed.
It is unfixed by rule.
Within the darkness, all
Is being changed, and you
Also will be changed.
Now I recall to mind
A costly year: Jane Kenyon,
Bill Lippert, Philip Sherrard,
All in the same spring dead,
So much companionship
Gone as the river goes.
And my good workhorse Nick
Dead, who called out to me
In his conclusive pain
To ask my help. I had
No help to give. And flood
Covered the cropland twice.
By summer's end there are
No more perfect leaves.
But won't you be ashamed
To count the passing year
At its mere cost, your debt
Inevitably paid?
For every year is costly,
As you know well. Nothing
Is given that is not
Taken, and nothing taken
That was not first a gift.
The gift is balanced by
Its total loss, and yet,
And yet the light breaks in,
Heaven seizing its moments
That are at once its own
And yours. The day ends
And is unending where
The summer tanager,
Warbler, and vireo
Sing as they move among
Illuminated leaves.
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