it’s been quite a while since i’ve posted! but i’m back, and in good spirits. the new book is progressing smoothly, and i’ll keep you updated on its progress. stay tuned, and visit regularly!

a rock in your hand-
your life, pebbles of dust in your
palm-
small bits of happiness-
plentiful particles-
thousands of miniscule grains
combining to form a goal-
a vision-
all within the weathered crevasses
of your grip-
squeeze tightly-
build pressure-
tighten those pebbles of dust in your
palm-
until they exlpode like a geyser-
and rush out like a waterfall-
reach deeply-
grasp at what you seek-
fill your hands with these little bits
of happiness-
fill your hands with tiny bits of life-
until those grains spill out onto the
earth of your choosing*

i envy a certain drift of air-
a specific draft of wind that has
blown many times under my nose-
and over my face-
i long for it as if it were the cure
for me-
i desire it as though it were the beginning
of me-
an invigorating scent-
full of everything that i’ve never had-
a full breath-
full of everything that i’ve ever lost-
i envy that drift of air-
and i covet it as though it were the last
thing on earth that could make
seeds blossom-
as though it were the end of all endings*

The concept of life and death is incredibly interesting; what’s fascinating is reading the poems constructed centuries ago by dying individuals. Many of the same sentiments felt by them ring true today; most importantly, that life is but a fleeting dream, and must be lived thoroughly while time exists. Enjoy this great example, written by Uesugi Kenshin (1530-1578).

Even a life-long prosperity is but one cup of sake;
A life of forty-nine years is passed in a dream;
I know not what life is, nor death.
Year in year out-all but a dream.
Both Heaven and Hell are left behind;
I stand in the moonlit dawn,
Free from clouds of attachment.

Here is another by Ôuchi Yoshitaka (1507-1551),

Both the victor
and the vanquished are
but drops of dew,
but bolts of lightning –
thus should we view the world.

Here is one written by Minamoto Yorimasa (1104-1180),

Like a rotten log
half buried in the ground –
my life, which
has not flowered, comes
to this sad end.

And a final one written by Hôjô Ujimasa (1538-1590),

Autumn wind of eve,
blow away the clouds that mass
over the moon’s pure light
and the mists that cloud our mind,
do thou sweep away as well.
Now we disappear,
well, what must we think of it?
From the sky we came.
Now we may go back again.
That’s at least one point of view.

there’s a quiet peace in
love-
i enjoy what it represents-
there’s a subtle depth
in the expression-
a touching breath
so delicate that it can dissipate like
a dandelion gone to seed-
so strong that it could overtake
any wall-
there’s a quiet strength in
love-
a truth so prevalent-
a reality so stark-
a still room in spring-
silent with the calm of
the comfort that comes with
a smile upon waking-
knowing that there’s a quiet peace in
love*

there’s something about the way the sun
hits in fall-
there’s something about the clarity-
the opaque fullness of the light-
that cleanses me-
there’s a mystery in that light-
a question waiting for an
answer-
it’s the starting line for the road
ahead-
the green light-
the reason-
it pushes me gently-
like a parent nudges a willing
child-
it fills me-
like a freshly drawn breath-
it becomes me-
and i beam with it-
bright,
and clear,
and calm-
i move and it fills just enough
of my shadow to let me know
that there’s more to me
than what’s visible-
there’s a clarity yet to be discovered-
a mystery-
a question-
there’s something about the way the
sun hits in the fall-
it’s the starting line for the road
ahead*

i can’t deny that my thoughts are
fueled by words-
letters are my foundation-
memories are my source-
like an adventurous expedition-
my brain leads my hand into the
wild-
like a rough hewn guide-
it directs the way-
i won’t deny that my thoughts are
fueled by words-
i must admit that i am directed
by wayward imaginations-
distant urges-
and constant yearnings-
they made me who i was-
they’ve allowed me to be who
i am-
and they will inevitably mold me
into who i need to be*

The poetry in this piece is stellar; the voice, velvet.  Arthur Prysock was truly one of a kind.  Enjoy this track; words by Walter Benton published in 1949, album performed by Prysock in 1968.