ode to broken things

Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.

Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.

all connectivity dead. off the world wide mutual admiration club. took real guts to deactivate..didn't realize how important the virtual social network had become in my life. now i'm off it. dunno for how long though.

this too shall pass. =)

cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

~a thousand kisses deep~

Love Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. 

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, 

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

 I love you as the plant that never blooms

 but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

 thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, 

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.  

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. 

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; 

so I love you because I know no other way 

than this: where I does not exist, nor you, 

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, 

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

-neruda

.writes so beautifully that i cannot see.

there's a thin line between soltitude and loneliness... i wonder which company matters more... and which one affects us more...the solitude or the loneliness?.. there was a time when i reveled in my solitude..enjoy the company i kept in those moments and was content in the little time i had to myself... now im lonely...these very same moments of alone-ness that i have seem to bite me and my head moves about restlessly looking for company... i wonder today if solitude can be enjoyed, only when one is not alone?

~the painting on the wall~

this is the story of a little boi who believes in magic... magic that surrounds him and the miracle of everyday... he stares at the moon and sings to it.. sits down anywhere and starts strumming his guitar.. and spreads about joy and hope... he smells peaches and plays with butterflies and is alone but yet alive.. :)