Conjugation of Life: to live
Birth
Stuff
Death
They are born
They do stuff
They die
She is born
She does stuff
She dies
He is born
He does stuff
He dies
You are born
You do stuff
You die
We are born
We do stuff
We die
I am born
I do stuff
Wherever time ceases
the void is a mist
where there is timelessness
the void takes a turn for de-mystification and the candle burns, waits for a flicker of time.
And when we gather up the dead wood,
before its dust is damped down
or swept away,
before our log pile is stacked under eaves,
before fires spark in wintry grates,
flame, falter
in the night,
before all this I notice
the many shapes the blades
have scored on each cut branch
alongside those coiled rings
curling round that central cipher
from which all immensities
are measured.
An artsy piece of drama
yet potent enough
to turn the cards
against a solid soul.
That abstract vision
transcends
into a reality-concrete.
The once, only imagined
manifests
into an unshrinking truth.
Those thoughts, so secure
free themselves,
convert
into mindlessness,
too hard to grasp
easy to slip.
And you,
in a drunken stupor
succumb to the
in-sensibilities.
The anti
the pro
solely merge…
More at https://thewordcouch.wordpress.com/.
And it is the second day of the year, how different from the first
which had a clatter of noise and sound burst. We have proceeded from first to second arithmetical progression of hope. Should there be deception, disappointment that this second is more dubious than the first? My hill town is now breathing spaces into its little pockets of dissolution, the winter’s sun spreads a shadow of hope that the second will be more propitious than the first. I take off into reveries of another year.
Seventy degrees
in the middle of December –
Sitting on the porch
in short sleeves –
Thinking about solar cycles
and polar icecaps –
Wondering how the globalists
will get rich on carbon taxes –
How soon will it be
until air is no longer free?
More at https://17numa.wordpress.com/.
In the evening someone told me you heal with words
I want to be healed with words as well as the gash
of open-mouthed wound
I want to see the flow of the go of words
swords, dash of the sun
greenish hue of the hills that burn in the sun and
at night weep for words
of comfort.