Today I’m feeling rather productive in my productionlessness. My boss, however, disagrees.
the thing I love about futballers is that they’ll keep running at and trying to beat an opponent, they rarely give up.
It’s amazing how quickly and easily their joy becomes your joy, your joy becomes my joy.
And your body is the harp of your soul,
And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.
And the wind and pine combine to whistle a melody, but what of that melody if there were no ear to hear ?
and what is the mind, but the engineer of the body’s will
The above quote: Khalil Gibran from The Prophet pg. 81
there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.
Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?
and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far
Poetry informs our very nature
it is woven into our existence
the saguaros of my youth —
in every word. I know some
who have chosen to give their
life to a company. Company
men they used to call them—
now just men.
I once had a boss with a
generator in his back-
yard. Sun draped mountain
ranges in every breath.
And here I choose poetry
everyday. What a cruel joke
the gods have played. Who
could wake up and go to work
and profit from corporate
spoils when the cormorant
flies over a rush-hour freeway
in the autumn twilight. Flies
across the glinting lake, and yet
no one has written it!
Poetry is like breathing; when attention is given an understanding comes up, seemingly, from nowhere.
New study finds snoring may actually be subliminal human mating call
The author is a poem and the poem is a blank page.