I have been reading more blogs… other peoples’ words, other windows. I love to hear the voices, layer upon layer. Rich with life experience that I have not had… It’s like walking down a street at night, peeking in… seeing other people’s wallpaper, paint… negligee.
In a way, it makes me wonder if there is any real value in my own words. Fleetingly. This passes. Perhaps there is only one other who is moved by the music in my words. It is worth it, for that one moment… regardless of distance or geography… we connect. It’s not that my words hold value. It’s if my words tell the truth.
There is only truth here. Sweet. Bitter. Fire and starlight. Whatever it may be.
All those words have made me hunger for an old friend and his words. Moon. His words are now only faded mementos… and all I have left are the poems I wrote to solve his beauty. I never have enough friends like this… truthful ones. Real ones. And when they finally go down their own paths, I miss them like an old lover. It’s such a mixture of love and loss.
Paper Roses for Moon
I seek the seer, a sage
whose wisdom is filled,
to a ripeness of which
hangs high, moon
and stars
reflected off your face.
I have wandered
the long lonely woodland path,
followed the frogs
and wind, feet bare
on the moss, the stairs silent.
Wandered, found you
in your dusty wisdom;
a tuxedo of sadness
rumpled and frayed at the cuffs.
Your lapel is bare, my love.
Am I beautiful to you?
My toes
buried in all what has fallen.
my eyes filled with weeping
Fingering into your memories,
my hair smelling of the cedars,
you cannot speak
so you pull me in,
a father a lover a savior.
We bleed
on the spit and polish lost
the truth hidden in the underbrush
smelling of green.
Tongue finding no words
I pin all of my fading
paper roses
to your heart.
~
Reach out to me. Fill me with your voice. Your ideas. Your fingerprints. Pour into me the affluence of your individual dialogue. Raise it up. Higher. Touch me here… there… inside… out. Leave no stone unturned. No leaf on the limbs of our solitude. Come. Knock on my door. Leave your name, your song. Together we shall write the new masterpiece of the living. Together we shall live the truth that is ordinariness.
That is what we are. Inside the silent frame of our windows.
G.
October 05, 2005
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6 comments:
Hey Blue,
We don't always write for other people, we write for ourselves and then they find us. This is a nice blog but, as I found out with mine, a very good way to attract readers is to comment on the blogs of others. After a while you find like-minded people and the infamoust "network effect" starts to kick in.
Glad to meet yet another wonderful western Canadian. I love B.C., have a branch of the family on my partner's side up there, and always enjoy visiting.
This is very nice writing, by the way, and I like your eye for photography -- you capture a lot in the landscapes, the self-portraits, and the architecture. Thanks.
figleaf
Thank you....
Yes, I write for me. But if I wrote for only me, I would confine it to those bound books on the shelf. You know the ones, the black journals. (The ones they will have to burn when I die...)
I love the echo on the internet. Something like the grand canyon. I whisper out and someone will whisper back.
Welcome to my window....
G.
"if there is any real value in my own words"
????
blimey.
read it again luv.
OF COURSE THERE IS.
(as one old fart i like the Moodies reference)
i love that line, letters i have written....
if even one person can relate to your thoughts, its a very nice feeling. you get to say stuff which you would not normally and make connections across miles with people who think like you...now isnt that wonderful.
Wow, that was unexpected & very lovely & rather intoxicating!
Keep writing, rare blue!
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