Just as a stone drawn from a well
sparkles deep red with silver lines
that same stone will dull to brown and gray
once the water dries.
But haven't I already heard this story?
If my life were recorded in a leather bound book
by a scribe he would write: Here is where
she starts to live above the ground.
But sometimes I long for the richness
of my hibernation as does a seed before it roots.
How it's white heart beats beneath the husk
before it decides to shoot through earth.
Are each of us bound to stretch towards the light
bending our heads like sunflowers across the plains?
The scribe writes my answer to be yes.
But always my soul will sometimes cower in the darkness
dissolving into a wordless jungle soup meant to soothe
the throats of those who seek to shout across oceans.
Listen. Can you hear their voices
tangle in a wind heavy with salted air?
Nothing will ever mask their mournfulness.
Actually, that's not the one I was thinking of, but it also fight (they are all archived on MySpace)
Here is the other one:
To live the internal life is to hold one star you keep in a box at the back of your closet. Nobody knows its white brilliance or how it dances around when you let it out in your room at night. It is to dwell so deep you have forgotten your fire is not like the sun.
To live the internal life is to chop wood in the forest but not make a sound, your footprints as small as a swallow's. It is to know, by heart, all the lines on your hands in their jungle richness but with them, you sometimes touch none.
And the painter who paints the beautiful paintings alone in his one bedroom apartment in Prenlauerberg, his hands black with coal dust, will he die a sad man, regretting what he had done? Is a life with toil but no achievement, no notice, is it in the end worth it? Do I toil hard enough or do I get too distracted, my life scattering in so many directions like a jar of marbles dropped in slow motion? These are my questions. I want to leave here with an image.
This is me, by the ocean that I love....