Home is the habit that dwells in
habitation. Out of the familiar comes the longing, Making
place a matter of belonging, Enduring urge that hungers for
relation.
WHERE DO WE GO
Where
do we go when we go to a place That simply is no place at
all? When we step out of time to become nothing more Than
a memory few can recall?
How can we be when we no
longer are? Or, earlier, not yet have been? A bit
of eternity sits in our souls Though we live in the house of
the wind.
Consciousness comes like a stranger to
call, Both us and yet something quite more. Where
it may come from and where it may go Is a wonder behind a
locked door.
TRUTH IS RARELY AN EXPRESSION OF
LOVE
Truth is rarely an expression of
love: Honesty most often precedes pain. In hope
there is the fragrance of illusion; Romance requires the
charm of light confusion; The best lovers are criminally
insane. Yet lies, eventually, will suck out
passion.
One must be truthful if one hopes to
love: Not cruelly, but enough to ease delusion. Each
love must be broken, then built back again.
HORROR
IS A KIND OF PLAY
Horror is a kind of play, A
need to undergo Life along the borderline, Lest
death be just a name. On Halloween we dream away What
wailing we well know, Enchanted by the danger sign Each
savors up and down the spine, Near haunts that are no
game.
AUNT LOUISE
Aunt Louise
lived only half on Earth, Unable quite to leave her prior
home, Nestled in a dream, perhaps by birth, Though
loved--ah, loved!--ultimately alone. Let her be a lesson in
delight: Of cats and restaurants and small
routines, Undaunted by the nearness of the
night, Improvising much with meager means. She was
for us an enigmatic face, Eloquent of innocence and
grace.
LOVE RETURNS ON SATURDAYS
Love
returns on Saturdays, Having been away To labor in
the labyrinth That underlies our joy.
How
dark the days of abstinence, Of sleep too dire to
stay, Of mornings mere mechanical And flesh no
hands employ!
But then--Ah, then!--on
Saturdays Love finally has its way, Coming into
crevices Whose cravings passions buoy.
How
beautiful, the love that can Such soporifics sway! No
wasteland world of weekdays shall Our dalliance
destroy!
COULD WE BUT HAVE THE CLARITY OF
FATE
Could we but have the clarity of fate Or
see the future as we do the past, Little would we miss the
mystery Unknown to those who know what lies
ahead. Mountains make horizons definite, Blocking
off infinity, the last Unbroken wave upon this solid
sea, Singing songs that we have long since heard. Do,
then, those few sailors celebrate, Alone amidst the watery
wilderness, Yet seeking grandly what it is to be.
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