The World Seems…

By Gregory Orr

The world seems so palpable
And dense: people and things
And the landscapes
They inhabit or move through.

Words, on the other hand,
Are so abstract—they’re
Made of empty air
Or black scratches on a page
That urge us to utter
Certain sounds.
And us:
Poised in the middle, aware
Of the objects out there
Waiting patiently to be named,
As if the right words
Could save them.
And don’t
They deserve it?
So much hidden inside each one,
Such a longing
To become the beloved.

And inside us: the sounds
That could extend that blessing—
How they crowd our mouths,
How they press up against
Our lips, which are such
A narrow exit for a joy so desperate.

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heaven’s sigh

blank pages fan out before me,
sheafs of sterile, empty
mocking pages -

a lost lonesome pen lay, black
and blue, bruised from
abuse. ironic,

it must be broken too.

my heart, devoid of words, clouded,
deep in an emotional fog, lost
to a journey, searching for a reflection
in the moon, as flowers bend for
even’s sup and fires cool to fly
with graceful mirth -

where is heaven’s sigh, the breeze
rustling across the listless edge of the
unconscious mind? the breath of
lazarus life stirring long dormant need
to once again set fire, lift the fog,
feel the joy of living love,

if only just to write home once again.

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“On the horizon was the moon. She fattened, she grew huge and rusty, she mellowed and rolled, till the morning-star contended and dews began to blow in our windows——and still we rolled.”

Jack Kerouac, On the Road; The Original Scroll p371

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You can lose yourself watching rain as easily as you can watching a fire. Both are deliberate yet whimsical, completely engrossing in no time at all.

Jonathan Carroll / Bones of The Moon (via browndresswithwhitedots)
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by Sally Van Doren

I remember the hour
you stole time from me

and here in these late pages
I try to collect back

the kisses in the parking lot
that erased my history

next to that green F-150
when you became my future.

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Cusheen Loo

SLEEP, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.

Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath sooth’d thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mother’s breast.
Sleep, my child!

Weary hath pass’d the time forlorn,
Since to your mansion I was borne,
Tho’ bright the feast of its airy halls,
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.
Sleep, my child!

Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide,
And many a hoar and shrivell’d sage,
And many a matron bow’d with age.
Sleep, my child!

Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourner’s home these tidings bear.
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.
Sleep, my child!

Haste! for tomorrow’s sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart.
Sleep, my child!

Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,
Stirr’d by the breath of summer breeze.
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.

**Old Irish poem translated from the Irish by J. J. Callanan

[This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.]
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I Know How You Want IT by TheSeaLivesInMe

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