Contrast: Splendor in the grass

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Splendor in the grass

If I had cried over a twenty dollar bill, a car, a morning, a day wasted, then one would think I complained. But, is their anything for which I should be mourning? What is worth our weeping, worth our time? What governs sadness? What beautiful moment missed should ever be mourned?

They live. I live. Life is ceaseless, the possibilities endless. I grasp my eternal hand with yours and into that something we continue, never leaving behind those cherished, but letting them follow us in wonder at our ability to progress. This ceaseless trade of thoughts and times presses on, and together we follow--caught in the wave.

1 comment:

Worlds EndlessFebruary 5, 2012 at 6:19 PM
To paraphrase Gordon B. Hinckley, to remove life's mourning is to remove its love.
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Father Set the Stars Alight

Father set the stars alight

in spite of darkness coming on

And on, on throughout the night

I heard the hammer beat along.

Visage makes the work appear

A weight, a burden, a crafter's perish.

Father's gaze would have us fear

He struck off all that we boys cherish

Amidst the dross hung paper planes

and marbles and cars and sidewalk chalk:

All that we held from eight years gains

mere spatterings on the painters smock

It was time to become a man he'd said

Time to put all this nonsense behind,

but years later now dear father is dead

and we are still children, merely refined

Strange things

I keep seeing strange things

outside my window.

Like fairy walkways In the sky.

Or scarlet stairways to the stars.

And I know

There were different times

where such things inspired flight

or electricity

or rocket ships.

But

I start here and now

with paper planes,

double A batteries,

and helium balloons.

Who is to say

they won't reach the stars

Or soar with the greats

in some grand airway

where you don't need legs

for anything

but impression?

None

that wake and feel

the infinite morning

with our eyes

Battle of the Sun

The sun has brought the battle low

Below the height the clouds will go

and from beneath his golden gaze

removes the filth of dusty haze

The tides retreat with silver feet

As they their eternal sunshine meet

and cower away from the glory of day

falling, falling in their streams of gray

The birds their merry songs do sing

after gloom's defeat they wing

high above the green of earth

that cloud's defeat has grown in mirth

The sun receives his praise with joy

His monarchal sincere employ:

These daily battles he creates

as water he precipitates

Death

Sweet severance that you are,

So mysterious when one part

flees to that distant unseen place

Yet to my knowledge I am reminded

that this is all the matter is, with neither part

being lost

Separation most dear, most able in all beings

We look forward now as truly as we do

carry with us what is behind.
In this moment can one not say he is separated?

Quite, but only in this moment

Looking not then into a future we cannot fully see,

we use other senses to carry us through each day.

With hope and faith do we look about with our eyes

at the glorious ~now~ quite aware

that we can have both this

and sweet tomorrow.

Thoughts on a conference

World, gather round.

open ear (even just one),

iListen!

while others sleep

or fail to ~change ~ (please)

the station

What are they hearing?

Climbing mountains

trying to listen?

To get closer too;

you're speaking!

We could hear you

on the mountain...

if we wanted...

but the height

(they've tried towers)

actually.

doesn't.

help

.

We best hear sitting--

and best remember

writing--Words that

You speak through

the aged

Much more now

than words. This

becomes some sort of

WONDERFUL!

Betterment!

(Elixir!)

The entire world

could

-you CAN-

stand on mountains

...

but, these worn hands

would still

lift you higher

What speaks the Wisdom

What speaks the wisdom of our mind

When Temptation brings such simple doubt,

And all our horrors we herewith find

Within ourselves and not without

What we need we cannot fathom.

We know our wants we should not gain,

Yet when all desires shouts to have them

Our will starts to wear and wane.

Deciding to make a sensuous fall

Or fight in anguish beneath the pain

Describes the eternal struggle of all:

Of sinless insanity or sinful sane

Perchance, then, choose the lesser ill,

For looking back should hold no shame

As "I am a city set on an hill,"

I have only myself to blame.

You might think it weary

Here,

You might think it weary

When filtered light

is all there is to bask in

But

What we lack in color,

lack in sunshine,

we make in moments.

Moments without eyes

Moments without ears

Moments without hearts

Moments without tongues

Moments without fingers

indeed

you might think it weary

indeed,

You might

Never bask in our reticent

light

sight

sound

feeling

word

touch

And be very weary,

Very weary indeed,

here

But,

give me one moment

without my senses

(I've too many with them)

and

I will tell you what

they cannot.