our minutes & hours
did run their course,
as days & nights
were flowing me by,
life’s tears & blessings
did raise us high
as years and decades
knew never love’s force…
I was in mother’s dream.
My dream was her,
I’m a piece of dream
The most beautiful dream
Of the most beautiful woman!
What we lose today is but a tiny chunk of what we build
with such care and earnestness,
Lost days always look shiny,
But those from future yield
High hopes and nothing else.
We build many little dreams,
and forget that there is just one road narrow and scary.
We curse the road
And reward the ferry.
And the distance goes dizzying
Footsteps are scarce,
and our constant worrying
Makes the passage worse.
But what we lose
After all, is nothing
But the heap of our great flaws
We call adventures,
And Our greatest accomplice
We call soul.
Ce matin, c’est comme si je souffle
comme un vent subtil,
et je vol dans mon propre vent
comme une feuille d’automne…
je ne sais par où je vais tomber
à côté de quel rêve sombre,
près de la maison de qui,
mais je sais un nouveau vent vindrait me…
My every October waking has been a new search, I know not for exactly what, or what the search terms are, or what the results may look like.
And my every day is a constant effort to reopening myself to new avenues of life of thought of never returning; to new possibilities, probabilities, creations, or perhaps the inverse: my way of making life more adventurous.
And boy, adventure tastes great! I find it so soul-empowering; it encourages acceptance, & enlivens living like nothing else. More & more, I’m realising that ‘acceptance’ is like a nuclear power for the mind. Taking things as they unfolds an ocean of energy, an outburst of true happiness, an odyssey of life!
A mind-blowing view
it was me, me was us: I knew
It takes a mind-blower
To fully fill the view
With touches and whispers.
A breath-taking view were you
But was I a breath taker…
I recall not, nor a giver
I was breath-taken
mind-blown….
four grayhounds howl outside the whitened
Yuriatin midnight-
and the fierce winter wind
passes thrashing the desolated village,
much like the war that came
in devasting footsteps
and left the fear-ridden souls
with nothing but yearning even deeper,
for what?
maybe a greener horizon, renewal of love…
whatever dream the ink is capable of dreaming,
or was taught to invoke
in the freezing memory of the withering writer
who is still a soldier in uniform,
but a refugee in his poems…
Gatineau
20:29 pm