My love feeds off your love, beloved

You and me, we
are one, action, reaction.

Fire, ash, regrowth.

For as long as your roar,

I roar.

I'll fade if you do.

For as long as you grow,

I grow to you,

I'll wilt if you do.

For as long as you're rooted,

I'll root to you.

My love will set sail as you do.

Autotelic

My heart for my heart's sake

My ambition for my ambition's sake

My art for art's sake

My self. for goodness' sake.

Myself, is myself, for Pete's sake.

"My whole life has been a poem I would have writ

but could I not both live and utter it"

~ Thoreau

Birdhouse

Who am I without you?
A birdhouse without
a bird, without a song without a nest without
your discarded feathers without
your weariness in stormy weather without
your weight without your warmth without
your eggs without your morning call.

Who am I without you?
Who am I without you

The story of morality

In the beginning there was white.
and for quite a while that seemed quite alright,
and by its absence, there was black.
But soon things started to get off-track.
The first mistake meant the birth of grey,
and then fifty shades of gray,
and if you open your eyes wide,
for each shade, you have a black and white on either side.

So - in an attempt to get back to white,
and stop things getting duller,
they tried get there from new ways,
but instead they invented, err - colour.
In an attempt for real improvement,
they accidentally introduced movement,
And since we're doomed now we might as well mention
the inadvertent début of the third dimension.

So now we know we won't get to white,
since it was probably only real in our minds,
lets hope it doesn't hurt to try,
then we might slip in some fun. on the side.

Hanami

Who thinks of winter,

while spring is in the world?

Beyond their evident beauty

sakura contain the reminder

that all beauty is ephemeral

appreciate it every moment you can.

"kisses are a far better fate

than wisdom"
 ~ E.E.Cummings

Poetry makes nothing happen

"For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives

In the valley of its making where executives

Would never want to tamper, flows on south

From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,

Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,

A way of happening, a mouth."

~ WH Auden

My mouth, my mouth!

my subtle chirping,

my squawks and my slurping,

my lisp mutterer,

my gluton-er and my stu-stu-stutter-er.

My mouth, my megaphone,

shared by my single-minded mind

and a sentient soul.

Mind you, my sole

goal is to be and feel alive,

 and so my poetry, (if you stretch to call it that),

my poetry, my way of happening, my mouth,

it
will
survive.

The rest will follow

I'll not beg for attention,

I'll not even earn it,

I'll become someone worthy of holding my own first.

What I was to you

The future fell farther than the furthest clouds
on that warm, blue, day of fun,
We sipped on high spirits, spit limericks, and licked liquor-ish;
committed cynics, splitting politics,
all day sitting in the sun.

The future fell fast when the sun faded,
under an inverted black sea of cloud;
it whipped as if bent on flipping cloud ships,
while blipping drops gripped our outfits;
we sheltered in your alley.

When morning came, I limped away,
weak knees were hurting badly,
with dark clouds still above, no sign of a dove,
I looked up -
and remembered -
that one night stand-ing in your alley.

New York

She's Royal without a Monarch
She's Grand without being old

A heterogeneous hegemonous metropolis

And for some her streets are made of gold.

She's confident without perfection

She's self-aware with out a self

She's glamorous and generous, wealthy and amorous

Indifferent to those on the shelf.

Your Air

I was swept beneath your carpet once,
as if without your care,
the last in line to breathe your air
between the dust and spiders that sheltered there,
the last to breathe your air.

The things I saw, I'd heard about,
in the times you'd let me breathe,
the papers of sweets you'd once ate,
a corpse from when you'd fumigate,
it had run out of your air.

Periodically, you'd vacuum clean,
and sucked unto the carpet's fur ceiling,
the closest to you I'd recently been,
I'd gasp out for your air.

Through lint and mold,
I've heard wives tales of old,
behold a sky so big so bold, so slightly cold-
er than your bless-ed air.
And sold I'll stroll consoled and inhale my whole,
one day you'll find me there.
With lungs full of my fresh air.

Ambitious Growth

When I grow up
I don't want to be a..
an actuary or a reactionary
a commentator or a mere spectator
a passive participator or contrived test acer
an impotent protester or a haughty rule maker.
No,
When I grow up,
I'd want to be a fiduciary revolutionary
a mover and a shaker
a polemic king-maker
A pragmatic ideologue the anti-demagogue
A first mover - a way chooser.

And the growing up started today.

The Unfortunate Tail of the Lobster and the Chef

Lifting the lid of the boiling pot,

the steam rose thick as death,

it frothed at the mouth,

and it coughed;

with a towel,

the chef dabbed her brow,

extractor fans whirred ahead.

The bullet-proof leviathan of the sea,

king among crustacean kind,

lightly lay, tanked, with huge humiliated claws

contracted by plastic ratchet tags.

It didn't squeal as it was placed in the pot

the searing swell served to massage smoothly

when you've got shells made of steel, 

not even bullets from an uzi, nor this sizzling jacuzzi

could cook this colossal crustacean into sushi.

"Look, lobster, I'm going to lunch on you." the chef warned bluntly

"Its just a matter of time.

I've got a life I love, but other things to be done,

if you want in, you just decide."

Taken a-back the lobster kept its cool

and thoughtfully readied the reply,

And goes the proverbial tale of old,

as it opened its three mouths to speak, things started to go awry.

Quick as a flash, the scalding water was in,

its life extinguished like a light

it doesn't matter how thick your skin

when you're being cooked from inside.

To Love At All

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. 

Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. 

If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. 

Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. 

Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. 

But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. 

It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. 

To love is to be vulnerable.”

~ C.S. Lewis

They Can't Ignore You

"Pursue your passion / follow your dream"

may be the worst advice

given to our generation.

Following your dream may leave you with no options

because you can find 'non-dream like aspects' in every kind of work,

because passion is not the same as disciplined improvement,

because what we want to do is not always what society wants.

But if you pursue mastery

at something that you can be great at,

something you can see the greater value to;

you may hang around long enough, to see 

your work appreciated and respected and

the positive impact of your personal contribution.

So you may just find yourself pursuing your passion

after all.

inspired by "So Good They Can't Ignore You" - Cal Newport

Do your best

What does it mean

to do your best?

Is it the best action you are capable of?

What does your best look like

with finite time and energy,
finite patience and compassion,
finite waking hours, money and influence,
finite motivation and inspiration?

Aren't we doing that all the time?
Are we?
and,
Is that enough?

Remember

Every now and again
He'd look up from his papers
to the mirror sitting idly
in the corner.

A glance just long enough,
to remember.