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It's kind of a low, sad day, so have a poem. WOOL-GATHERED CHILD
Wool-gathered child, who walks
as if through cloud-cloaked air,
and dances thoughtlessly
in dreams that shroud the light:
you forget your flesh,
and then in slow naiveté
you wonder how
the world around you runs.
The rules of Earth are mysteries
to you, unknowable, a matter of faith
and not subject to experiment.
Oh, I know your secret,
air-born aesthete, blind outside
your pale cocoon: so
deep do you spin your dreams
they occlude your sight, and layered
'round you deepening they
snow you in until they block out
the sunlit real and you —
you do not know how to see.
I look at you and in your eyes
I see a fragile fantasy.
How strange that you look at me
and the world we live in
and think the same.
But if you woke tomorrow and
could strip the cloudy veils
from your sight,
would you still be you? Or
would you fly apart and return
to the stuff of nonsense
that alone made order of an Earthly, fleshy life?
Wool-gathered child,
spirit built of clouds:
too much wool-gathering
made you, but also set you at
a star-shelled remove.
You are of this world,
but you do not move through it.
When you at last return to the matter
from which you sprung,
only God will know how much of you
was ever really here. —M. Stardancer Home.Tags: poetry
Current Mood: tired
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*rock rock rock*o/~ I wish I lived in a place with dragons-- that would be so cool. I would walk to see the dragons... and ask them for a companion for you. They would send me a dragon, little, warm and green... she would stay in your crib with you and watch you while you sleep. And because dragons live a thousand years, you would have a friend forever. o/~ *rock rock rock*Tags: mom in spots, poetry
Current Location: rocking chair
Current Mood: quiet
Current Music: jaguar lullaby
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If there were literary journals for meteorologists, dentists and telecomm workers, I could probably live for a year on poetry sales. But alas, I fear most of these will never be read. So have this one, from when I was working at Intermedia Communications. Skop's ConfessionEven the ones who like it don't understand. 'Why?' they ask me. 'It's not an epic poem. It's coffee in the mornings, irate vendors in the afternoons, meetings longer than forty days in the desert and deadlines shorter than one beat of the heart. It's a business, not an adventure.' And I fold my arms and shake my head. How to amend a paucity of understanding with a measure of paltry words? But I try. They do not understand that there is a heroism in the field tech driving through the snow to a downed site. that there is a nobility in a contract completed despite the odds. that there is courage to be found in a computer lab, and joy in a job done well. They do not understand that it has as much to do with coffee and meetings as the paint has with the meaning of a work of art. They do not understand that it's about the men free-falling in a space station, their voices travelling, packets dropping down an invisible highway to the earth in a future that is ours to hold and ours to carve. But I see it. To me the journey is meaningless without an understanding of the destination. And so I try. Poor bard, skop that I am, with only words for a weapon and my eyes as a guide. Even the ones who like it do not understand. 'Why?' they inquire, at last. And I say, 'Because you had to ask.' Stardancer Home.Tags: poetry
Current Location: cool, incense-scented
Current Mood: quiet
Current Music: Depeche Mode - Suffer Well
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Did it work? No? Step back. Try again. Did it work? No. Try again. Try again. Try harder. Try until you scream. Try until the sweat runs down your body and your clothes stick to your back and your muscles blind you and your bones creak and your vision expands with a field of darting white dots. Try until you forget how to stop. Keep moving. Keep moving even under strain. Keep moving until you're dancing. Dance in tears and through laughter, while howling to the sky. Dance with the grace of beauty. Dance with the gracelessness of anger. Dance because there is no alternative. Did it work? No? Try again. NEVER STOP TRYING.Tags: philosophy, poetry
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