Stories bred us.
Stories fell us.
Stories met us.
Stories gave us.
Stories change us.
Stories save us.
Borrowed eternity…
The moon was given as a ring around the sky
while up the glassy aisle we waked
an unstanding repose, still, two gathered.
Borne forward, a greater Power and not our own.
In quietness and trust, breathing the liquid night
and the fragrance of one Fire.
I decided I wouldn’t mind if that River would wind forever…
and see, it does.
I has not seen…
“What are you writing little one?”
“Secret.”
Her eyes bright and a familiar glint,
steady delight and a flash of mischief.
His smile split a sun in a far solar system.
“Secrets, indeed.”
Flipping a page in the little purple notebook
her obedient pencil fills fresh paper with gangly letters
sprawling and alive with a new lamb’s steady uncertainty.
He drew his own instrument and began:
“Secrets they are, dear one. And I will reveal them to your precious heart, every one.”
Words written and mailed to years forward,
folded with care into the mind of a future playmate.
Will of the woods…
(from Skagit Valley, British Columbia)
Slopes lay streaked with skeletons where the giants had stood. Bandage white, washed by mountain sun… not the color of woods. Yet wood they fell; still there. Some steel, man, his will; well they just bent wood’s will. Steel will where wood won’t, and man won’t where God will. So all these you see, men brought buckling to theirs. Trees seen to scratch the back of the sky; trees known for whispers, groan… stop. Now men and their screaming claws have fled with the crop. Only remains rotting bones of pine with no box. These woods cannot whisper but look, their story is a plain glare.
But there, with a Poet’s eyes, look. That is, look and be wise. Humble death’s child must rise.
Sparkling needles press through, bleeding green and the ground is a quilt of life, all new.
It is man to wail and steal and make some way.
It is woods to lay and wait and grow another day.
I wonder who will have the final will and say…
Will man hold and stay, or will the Woods?
Soul tied to…
“Been thinking about your loony bottle cap idea…”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, maybe it goes with the whole ‘no greater love’ thing. You know, maybe what someone will pay for something, that’s what makes it worth that much.”
Squinty eyes.
“I mean, how do we know when a painting is worth a million dollars?
…When someone pays $1MM for it.”
Light bulbs.
“Yes! Right! And how do we know she’s a princess with virtue and beauty?
…When a prince dares death for her!”
“How do you make everything about a princess?
What are you.. are you writing down our conversation?”
—
If Someone bleeds for you, that makes you pretty precious… right?
Hold that thought…
I thought she would be the best thing that ever happened to me
I thought kids would bring the brightest shine you’d ever seen
But the winces and winks said “just you wait and see”
Well I don’t want to wait and see
I wanna laugh and fight and love and make it be
We’re made for this play not a possibility
I wanna give it all we’ve got
I wanna hold that thought
I thought love could walk you two a whole life through
I thought if you believe too, so would it be to you
But the winces and wags said “really, don’t play the fool”
Well I wanna play like it’s all brand new
I wanna do and teach and believe that word is true
We’re made for faith and flying too
I wanna give it all we’ve got
I wanna hold that thought
I thought it’s time to break and whaddayou say
I thought the light is here and dying is the way
But the winces and whines said “we fear, you should stay”
—
Hey.
You’ll find the rest of the third verse through the links below.
You get to write the end of the story.
Open the one that speaks to you.
What you see is what you will get.
Not everything that is true is the truth.
True story…
V3: Facts Are truth
…if enough people are saying it, it must be true.
V3: Faith is Truth
…some things are just plain worth believing in.
Time to go…
Some people leave without saying goodbye.
Some people goodbye for awhile without leaving.
Call me crazy; I’ve always admired the first.
There’s a certain confidence, leaving without saying goodbye.
Con-fidence… with-faith.
With-faith, we’ll be together again.
With-faith, shared between steadfast-hearted friends.
So slip out the side when Time knows it’s right.
Them whose truth is tried will know.
Dying isn’t “goodbye.”
It’s “see you when I see you.”
—
P.S. Flip one page back for a picture of the meeting before the leaving…
Waiting to go home…
Drinking and thirsting again.
Having and not holding.
Resting in anticipation.
Sealed and stored.
Bled and bought.
Sunny showers.
Dying for Joy.
Not yet.
Still.
A drinking problem…
“What’s your favorite poetry?”
“Poetry? You mean ‘poem?’”
“Yeah yeah, what’s your favorite poem.”
“Geez. I don’t know. That’s like asking… I don’t know. ‘What’s your favorite drink of water?’”
“I don’t drink water.”
“What?”
“Too boring.”
“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
“You don’t have any other friends.”
“I will cut you.”
“Poetry. Come on, educate me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not gonna try to explain it.”
“See, that’s the problem. No one knows what the darn stuff means.”
“Look out here. What do you see?”
“Uh, trees, sky, a hill, some cows.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Uh, relaxed, I guess. I mean, it’s pretty.”
“What does it mean?”
“Huh? What does it mean? It’s just… dadgumit. You always do this.”
“Start with Frost. His famous stuff. He’s crisp and clear.”
“I’m still mad.”
“The foggier ones, not as popular, but usually my favorites. Here listen to this…”
“She would refuse love safe with wealth and honor!
The lovely shall be choosers, shall they?
Then let them choose!”
“Then we shall let her choose?”
“Yes, let her choose.
Take up the task beyond her choosing.”
Invisible hands crowned on her shoulder
In readiness to weigh upon her.
But she stood straight still,
In broad round earrings, gold and jet with pearls,
And broad round suchlike brooch,
Her cheeks high-colored,
Proud and the pride of friends.
The Voice asked, “You can let her choose?”
“Yes, we can let her and still triumph.”
“Do it by joys, and leave her always blameless.”
Empathy overflowed to me…
The best writers I’ve ever read can write about everything and nothing, with the same words. She won’t tell you what to think. Just touches you where you feel, up to her wrist in my rib cage, “it’s okay.” I don’t know how it’s done; probably with great care, hard work, lots of practice. From here, it looks like magic.
It looks like by water or wind she swishes the skirts of her soul and words ballet from there to here with a basketful of empathy.
Flash forward…
It was a grey pickup, like their hair. Same year and single cab.
Some couples sit silently in the car. Not them.
Couldn’t hear their words, but it was friendly on their faces.
They went into a sunset yellow light.
I caught the red.
Don’t worry.
I’m only a little bit behind them.
Hey baby…
Look into her too-big eyes… she knows something.
“What is it baby? What do you know?”
Baby can’t talk. So I search her eyes for her secret.
“Your drool doesn’t fool me baby. I will guess what you’re hiding, soon I think.”
Awe and then some.
Stricken ground…
I’m a sucker for a good storm. It’s embarrassing. I just sit on his tailgate and watch the thunderheads walk straight at me; striking, ponderous steps. “You’re gonna get soaked.” I know. “You’re gonna be miserable.” Silence. “You might even get struck.” Struck. Stricken. Ooh, interesting words to play with… “You’re hopeless.” Thunder. Smile. Rain.
Watch with your ears on…
Last night…
Laughter climbed the walls and swung from heart to heart on those steel monkey bars forged in long furious fights for love.
Freedom stained our lips and the white tablecloth where a joke ambushed us mid drink.
Looking around, finding sparkling soul windows all around, mine almost cried.
We fought battles to be here. We got scars to be here.
But not everyone is here.
So we drink, and we remember.
We remember the battle we couldn’t fight and the scars we didn’t get.
We remember the night Death found us covered in blood and not our own.
And we remember the One who doesn’t drink tonight.
We drink a bright living thing trampled underfoot
and killed
and wrung
and flowed into a dark place to rest.
We drink a new thing, living again
and poured out
and blotting out
and knitting heartstrings
in glowing bonds of a forever freedom.
We drink. And this is called Joy.
So I smile while my eyes surrender.
I laugh and taste the salt too.
Because we are here and not every one, yet.
Timely…
Time is a friend I love to hate.
So fanciful and flighty and romantic and… untrue.
Seven hours in a second and seven days feeling every second like an hour.
Time, why are you so timely?
Salty and sweet…
Hope is best savored in sips
so that the flavor frolics
and on your taste buds
makes melting mosaics
that behind your eyes
thought does glow, sticks.
What does it all mean?
Only 7% of humans are alive today.
Wise guys guess over 100 billion humans have existed, ever.
7 billion alive today = 7%.
That means you are 0.00000000001% of humans to have life, ever. *
At any point in life, a human is personally familiar with about 150 other humans, on average. **
The 150 people you know total 0.0000000015% of the humans to have life, ever. ***
You are alive today. And the few with you.
Not 1,000 years ago or a 1,000 years from now.
You are here today.
Not in a different galaxy or even a different town.
Who else is here today?
What do you think that means?
Today is the only day.
Is it marvelous in your eyes?
We are here. For a moment.
Will you rejoice and be glad with me?
—
* 1 / 100,000,000,000 = 1e-11
** Dunbar’s Number: Group Size and Brain Physiology in Humans
*** 150 / 100,000,000,000 = 1.5e-9
Spilled on a tree…
Valentine’s Day celebrated everyone knows but I’m not very sure I have one of those so I’m writing to you to celebrate red.
Red is good for many things.
Keeping the robin warm in rain springs and telling the tomato how to make a burger look yum and making barns less boring and Texas tourists call the fire department when they see fields on fire with all the Indian paintbrush.
Red is always reminding us where we are.
A red dot in a crowded mall or a red blot on a cursed tree.
Red is good for knowing where you are.
You are here.
Are you glad you are here?
I am.
Glad you are here.