Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors–
No–yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever–or else swoon to death.
– John Keats
IN THE RAGS OF A SERVANT
He spoke to me:
“As I walk the land,
Submerged in thought,
I hear the footsteps of my ancestors,
conquering the darkness
with their small candles.
Their once extant spirits
moonlighting as heralds from
another world, riding the winds,
praying I breath in
their ceaseless energy, So
their good can emanate through me
As it once did them.
When you dream, he says,
Dream a dream that changes
The world, not just yours.
In a world turned upside down,
Be good hearted and strong,
And watch as like minded men rush
to your aid.”
When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.
There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb
The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.
You must learn one thing:
the world was made to be free in.
Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
from The House of Belonging
In the perfect world, what would we do?
Do you think I would love you?
Would you love me back?
Would we be friends?
Do you think your mother, brother, sister would reciprocate my love?
Would there be anyone without it?
Is love the perfect world?
Not infatuation, not shallow, not relationships, not some cliche from a hallmark card
but real love.
Love of brothers and sisters.
Love of husbands and wives.
Love of children, parents, grandparents.
Love of true friends.
Is that the meaning of perfection?
Is a world of love a world of perfection?
What is the world without love?
What is perfection?
Is it beauty?
What is beauty without love?
What is the world made of?
What is it’s foundation?
Is it made by us, for us?
Is there a purpose behind it?
What is a man without love?
What is a woman?
Tell me what…
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A cottage on the prairie of red brick and clay,
My home, my sandbox, my fort of play
My forlorn crevice of secrets untold,
The ghosts of my past, ghastly and cold,
Eerie rooms now, air thick with dust,
Paint chipping, nails laden with rust,
A crack in the wall, skeletons in the store,
The laughters of life buried deep in its core,
Like a long forgotten tradition it doth dwell,
The lingering sense of failure and its musty smell,
The vermin scurry in a pile of decay,
The roof hung low with a saddening dismay,
The grass grown tall, crickets chirp through night,
A once cosy retreat, now a painful sight,
And as much as I fear, this dark recluse,
Sees me as i see it, a chronic excuse.
Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic
Flying with the breeze, blissful and free,
A stroll through the starry canopy,
Tranquillity filling the pores of my skin,
A timeless moment for both kith and kin,
No worry of what will be no care of what has,
Tonight I will surrender of what has come to pass,
So let the moonlit absolution proceed,
Let peace prevail, its what we need,
Let pebbles be pebbles and branches be leafy cones,
For no sticks shall defeat me no stones will break my bones,
Lets pick ourselves some lilies, or dandelions if you may,
Lets run again through the meadow, lets sleep once more in hay.