After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers, "Mary."
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the windâit cries, "Mary!"
The traffic lightsâthey turn, uh, blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
"Cause the life that lived isâis dead
And the wind screams, "Mary!"
Will the wind ever remember The names it has blown in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers, "No. This will be the last."
The Panther In Jardin des Plantes, Paris by Rainer Maria Rilke
His tired gaze — from passing endless bars — has turned into a vacant stare which nothing holds. To him there seem to be a thousand bars, and out beyond these bars exists no world. His supple gait, the smoothness of strong strides that gently turn in ever smaller circles perform a dance of strength, centered deep within a will, stunned, but untamed, indomitable. But sometimes the curtains of his eyelids part, the pupils of his eyes dilate as images of past encounters enter while through his limbs a tension strains in silence only to cease to be, to die within his heart.
The Panther In Jardin des Plantes, Paris by Rainer Maria Rilke
His tired gaze â from passing endless bars â has turned into a vacant stare which nothing holds. To him there seem to be a thousand bars, and out beyond these bars exists no world. His supple gait, the smoothness of strong strides that gently turn in ever smaller circles perform a dance of strength, centered deep within a will, stunned, but untamed, indomitable. But sometimes the curtains of his eyelids part, the pupils of his eyes dilate as images of past encounters enter while through his limbs a tension strains in silence only to cease to be, to die within his heart.
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates: Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes, Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness, Rembrant looks relieved as if he were taking a breather from painting The Blinding of Sampson.
But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head which is fitted around the brim with candle holders, a device that allowed him to work into the night.
You can only wonder what it would be like to be wearing such a chandelier on your head as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.
But once you see this hat there is no need to read any biography of Goya or to memorize his dates.
To understand Goya you only have to imagine him lighting the candles one by one, then placing the hat on his head, ready for a night of work.
Imagine him surprising his wife with his new invention, the laughing like a birthday cake when she saw the glow.
Imagine him flickering through the rooms of his house with all the shadows flying across the walls.
Imagine a lost traveler knocking on his door one dark night in the hill country of Spain. "Come in, " he would say, "I was just painting myself," as he stood in the doorway holding up the wand of a brush, illuminated in the blaze of his famous candle hat.
Episodes in Recent American History by Jeremy Pikser
Johnson wages genocidal war on Vietnam, but the idea of Nixon winning seems impossible.
Nixon wins. Is worse than anyone imagined.
Carter promises a new era of honesty and all decent people rejoice when he wins.
He doesn’t do anything to undo damage of Nixon, but supports Shah of Iran and funds the birth of Islamic fundamentalists to bring down USSR but the thought of an idiotic right wing phony like Reagan winning seems impossible.
Reagan wins. Is much worse than anyone imagines is possible. Much worse than Nixon.
Clinton promises a new era of populism and all decent people rejoice when he wins.
Clinton doesn’t do anything to undo damage of Reagan, (except make economy profitable again for the 1%) but starves half million Iraqi children to death, repeals glass steagal, privatizes prison system and ends welfare, but the idea that such a big idiot and right wing nut as Bush could win seems impossible.
Bush wins. Is much more terrible than anyone imagined. Much worse than Reagan.
Obama promises new era of post racial hope and change and wins. The whole world rejoices.
Obama doesn’t undo any of the damage of Bush (except making the economy profitable for the 1% again) bombs 7 countries but the thought that an absolute lunatic like Trump could win seems ABSOLUTELY impossible….
I will remember The creek dancing through the rock bed Sparkling Birdsong echoing high in the treetops Boulders shouldering their way through the earth So slowly we don't know it's happening Steep hills crisscrossed with trails so old I hear the whispering of the ancients who guard them And the tension of the city, the intensity of its inhabitants So fast, so vibrant The laughter of children running wild like foxes They grow before my eyes Baggins, the panther, loyal, protective, who follows us On our hikes through the woods Socks, the soft gray shadow with white paws Sadie, all dogs incarnate, wise, alert, a loving presence This woman born of my heart and body now grown with the family she has created and nurtured The years without her now soothed with her love And the gift of family and home I will remember and cherish these memories
I will remember The creek dancing through the rock bed Sparkling Birdsong echoing high in the treetops Boulders shouldering their way through the earth So slowly we don't know it's happening Steep hills crisscrossed with trails so old I hear the whispering of the ancients who guard them And the tension of the city, the intensity of its inhabitants So fast, so vibrant The laughter of children running wild like foxes They grow before my eyes Baggins, the panther, loyal, protective, who follows us On our hikes through the woods Socks, the soft gray shadow with white paws Sadie, all dogs incarnate, wise, alert, a loving presence This woman born of my heart and body now grown with the family she has created and nurtured The years without her now soothed with her love And the gift of family and home I will remember and cherish these memories
I will remember The creek dancing through the rock bed Sparkling Birdsong echoing high in the treetops Boulders shouldering their way through the earth So slowly we don't know it's happening Steep hills crisscrossed with trails so old I hear the whispering of the ancients who guard them And the tension of the city, the intensity of its inhabitants So fast, so vibrant The laughter of children running wild like foxes They grow before my eyes Baggins, the panther, loyal, protective, who follows us On our hikes through the woods Socks, the soft gray shadow with white paws Sadie, all dogs incarnate, wise, alert, a loving presence This woman born of my heart and body now grown with the family she has created and nurtured The years without her now soothed with her love And the gift of family and home I will remember and cherish these memories
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Jan 29, 2013 - 2:37pm
fuzzy wrote:
Many years ago on what i believe was the coldest winter night i've ever seen, i wrote what i believe is a thoughtful and well-written piece of poetry. I know it by heart now, so i can go back to it anytime i want during the winter season and 'read' it.
It's a very personal work of art to me and I've decided to share it with you.
Hope you like it.
A Winter Poem (by fuzzy)
SHIT ITS COLD
I bow to your eloquence. Check out Minneapolis temps on Wednesday. Supposedly going to -15F
for as long as i stand here and you stand there the appearance of difference is the God divided and worshiped from a bloody altar that man has built to his own dark needs everything moves toward a unity gone missing time and time again until pain has brought forth the blossom of loves symmetry but there is no injustice anywhere there are no innocent bystanders there are no accidents and being sorry doesn't help
maybe... its not your fault it may not even be wrong
who knows...? whose view is vast enough that passing time does not soon compromise their line of sight? who sees well enough to leave well enough alone?
beautiful bubbles break inside the oceans foam the water leaks into the sand then swims away unseen the wind stirs the leaves the grass grows the bees make honey the fish laugh beneath the surface and the horses gallop forever beneath the waves that will never free them
it is only longing and there is no injustice anywhere
clouds float by like dreams in a peaceful sleep and the sky is blue and the sun is brimming with life and the moon is pregnant with form and the coyote howls and the eagle screams and longing and hunger will never end desire is the agent of Gods will and there is no injustice anywhere
the light changes and gridlock comes and the car horns honk in Hells unfinished symphony where the smoke from hidden fires blows from the manholes and grates as Jesus blows on his hands in a broken stairwell with Bethlehem two thousand years away its going to be a long night but there is no injustice anywhere the heat blisters the streets in these cities of wanting the mad fire dance the insane dervish in a suit it fries the palate all sense of taste is gone it burns the bowels and turns the earth an alkaline white devoid of life here in the pushing crowd where loneliness is king where no one makes love but are only ashamed and cannot speak eyes do not meet the money changes hands but never the heart nor the mind a place is what takes place if you want something else then go somewhere else love will only be a problem for you here It is incredible and it is insane it will not get better it is supposed to be this way a million years ahead or a million years behind t'was ever thus the city is the same the drama does not change the cataclysm comes and the fiery rain vaporizes the stage so that it might all begin again and there is no injustice anywhere.
I had some trouble seeing some of this. Here it is, a little easier on the eyes. Thanks for posting. It's not clear when Sandburg typed the poem:
Here is a revolver.
It has an amazing language all its own.
It delivers unmistakable ultimatums.
It is the last word.
A simple, little human forefinger can tell a terrible story with it.
Hunger, fear, revenge, robbery hide behind it.
It is the claw of the jungle made quick and powerful.
It is the club of the savage turned to magnificent precision.
It is more rapid than any judge or court of law.
It is less subtle and treacherous than any one lawyer or ten.
When it has spoken, the case can not be appealed to the supreme court, nor any mandamus nor any injunction nor any stay of execution in and interfere with the original purpose.
And nothing in human philosophy persists more strangely than the old belief that God is always on the side of those who have the most revolvers.
We should mourn the death of every creature. But because of the infinity of death cascading all around us... at every moment of every moment... one might look and sound like a saint having the endless torment of the damned bleeding from one's blinded eyes, and making us worthy of our saintliness.
So...instead of this great wasting of our lives... we choose special beings; heroes, who mean something to us, in which to honor death.
And so it goes, by honoring fulfilled lives, we pay homage to all the little creatures who did what they had come here to do... and in so doing... have held up the foundations of our various lives; with their thoughts and/or dreams gone namelessly into the long, long, night, alone.
