The color of changing leaves
is a sign of the symphony we hear.
We arrange the colors of life carefully,
folded underwear in new-fallen snow,
patterns, networks, dominoes,
sand-castles
The color of changing leaves
is the voice that we hear;
that enters our nostril and leaves by our ear:
informs us of sanity between birth and death,
a place were we rest, celebrate, sip
surrender
There is a Life Lived between Sentences,
A fragrance in the Dots, the Pronouns,
the Fresh Morning Adjectives.
We speak of Love rarely in our Lives,
As though Love is a Four-Letter word,
discouraged through Generations of History,
Frowned-Upon by the Mentors of an
Technicality-Hungry culture.
So I have a few things that have rambled through my head on this particular subject, and I wanted to jot them down, in case there was anyone who had an interest. Also because sometimes when you are too full, one needs to empty the glass so it can be cleaned and made useful for some other draught.
Being “selfish” is a big subject, as the self naturally tends to want to know itself. In the usual sense we have crammed the self with information and goods, till really it cannot stand alone as it naturally is, for it has so many attachments, like some massive octopus with all these suckers attached to its arms. Give me, give me, give me, has become the human beings main motto.
Time will say
the words
that neither you nor I
communicate
You know that love must win
either way
whether we decide this is the end..
or we find the inner strength to begin again..
time will say
Chorus
Patience has its own private toll road
History’s the price paid as the truth unfolds
in the natural order of living things
while changes spring in everything
Love won’t be intellectualized
in the fiery looks from familiar eyes
Love’s been there since my first sight of you
Since.. my first.. sight of you..
Bridge
Time has a language all its own
with dedicated lines we learn to follow it home
I hear the answers in the beating of my heart
I’d follow the road where we’d never part
This can go either way…
only time will say
Precious gazes pierce my mind
I remember every second
Cherished most among my time
Mastered laughter free with bliss
Showers of the sweetest kisses
Warmest memories coming through
It’s been a gift every single moment with you
Chorus
You taught me the meaning of love
The easiness and difficulty of
Standing strong when life calls upon you
With dignity I live a life in love with truth
Light of my life
It is my privilege
It is my privilege
To be true to my moments with you
I love you.
That which is for you a poem for me is not,
that which is a poem for me for you is not,
that which is for you a truth for me is not,
that which is a truth for me for you is not,
that which is for you a peace for me is not
that which is for me a peace for you is not,
that which is for you love, for me is not,
that which is for me love for you is not,
I walk through the café of life.
There are several smells along the way. It is a café of smells. There is no escaping beauty, doom, magnificence, banality and orchids. We are swimmers; sinking is not an option.
The Smell of Love is the most noteworthy. It writhes like a golden serpent, sinking deep into fabrics unseen, riding in Dream Territory, speaking to the sounds that came before words.
It is the smell most of us avoid, yet the fragrance most of us seek. The odor undealt-with, the nameless sound we all recognize like a dog’s ears that rise to the Distant Familiar.
