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Posts Tagged ‘love’

Luck

 

 

 

It’s like just happening

to find in the drawer

the tiny screw that fits

in my glasses so the lens

won’t fall out, yes,

the fact that any of us

find each other and

happen to fit

into each other’s lives

at all seems shocking

when the drawer’s so big,

and after the discovery

so beautiful, so strange

how we never again

see the world

quite the same.

 

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we become what we love and yet remain ourselves.

Martin Heidegger

 

 

and this is how

the vessel learns

that though it’s full

there’s room for more—

those sides of us

we thought were walls

were well concealed

doors

 

 

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Never Mind It Was a Dream

 

 

 

because when the wise old man said

that the loving itself

was all that mattered—

somehow, for that moment,

while his suggestion still hung

like perfume in the air,

all the stubborn queries

of how and why and when

that usually knock and crack

and rap and ring, they all laid down

to take a nap,

and in that fragrant silence,

what rose was the most

beautiful tenderness,

a shining faith,

how improbably it opened

like a stone turned iris,

like a bone blooming

into spring.

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wishing I could wrap

devotion, wishing you

could open it

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for Art

 

sparring with an old friend,

each round, loving

him more deeply

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Besides learning to see, there is another art to be learned, — not to see what is not.

            —Maria Mitchell, pioneering astronomer

 

 

Give me eyes that see only what is,

eyes not fooled by veils, by scars.

Give me ears that hear only the words that are said,

ears that clearly translate silence.

But give me a heart that feels into

what is possible, a heart that believes

in goodness, despite reports

from ears, from eyes. Give

me a heart that speaks only love,

that leans toward kindness, that opens

again and again like an O’Keefe petunia—

larger than anticipated, mind stopping,

soul rousing, haloed by wonder

and wholly true to itself.

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One Marriage

 

ever conversing

the canyon and river—

one carves,

one contains,

one sings,

one resonates,

summer, winter,

sun, rain,

both endure

both change

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I watched it happen, the confrontation.

The one who was hurt and the one

with no inkling that harm had been done,

and my heart ached for both of them—

for all of us really—all of us fragile, all of us

witless, all of us longing to love, to be loved

for being ourselves.

 

Outside the window, the leaves

were brilliantly dying, burning auburn,

vermillion, a heart swelling show

of what it is we’ve come here to do—

to give our all and give some more,

to do it unreservedly.

 

It’s all a series of repetition, design—

the leaves, the fall, the hurt, the blame,

the confusion, the reconciliation.

It’s all a matter of pattern and letting

go, letting go of whatever we think we know

about how to give.

 

What I’m trying to say is if I have hurt you,

I’m sorry. I don’t understand my own thorns.

I think I am singing and it comes out crooked.

I think I’m supporting and it comes out cage.

There are so many mistakes in my blood,

all of them believing they’re butterflies.

 

My friend tells me the leaves in fall

are returning to their true colors—

how the necessary chlorophyll disguises

what’s really inside.

 

What I’m trying to say is look at the leaves

outside the window, see how vibrant they are?

I am trying to love like that,

every day, the colors more true.

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I was fourteen, Richard was eighteen,

and he was Romeo in the high school play.

 

He was Romeo and I was chorus, and

every song I sang, I sang for him.

 

Every song I sang, a love song.

I had never been taught any other,

 

I had never been taught to be hard,

I longed to give him everything,

 

I longed for him to want to kiss me,

to give me everything, and when

 

he kissed me, which he did, he gave

me mono. I was somehow proud,

 

was proud of getting sick because

he kissed me, as if it were a badge

 

that I was worthy of being kissed,

kissed by Richard, Richard Smith, who left me

 

shortly after, who left me crumpled, weeping

in the green cement block halls,

 

halls that rang back all my emptiness.

I didn’t know then love could end.

 

I was a girl who knew only beginnings,

a girl who trusted in happily evers,

 

a girl who wanted to be chosen. Years later

I’d learn there are many kinds of love,

 

how all of them depend on one thing.

Years later I’d learn to choose myself,

 

to show up at my own balcony,

roses and poems in hand.

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all four legs midair

the horse thrusts forward—

loving you like that

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