14 Jun 2005

Dreamery

The imagery subsides,
the words drift off,
and there is nothing
more to think for one moment.
In the subconscious
poetry of night, the rhythms
are scattered, except
when in the eye of a stranger
one spies a savage,
kindred art, and the rhythms
build toward the unknown
heaven. Days and millennia pass.
Were we so truly hopeful,
in the ages of revolution, now past,
when it seemed so
that all our dreams were possible?
For we forget the future —
we have learned how —
where all joined in peace,
and now, we grope through
uncertainty, as if we always had.
I imagine, though, that
the rare faith survives —
yet he, too, is taken.
In the final reading of the signs,
it is our turn, we
who know not how
we arrived, less what to do:
but we may choose the
manner in which the
next generation will blame us:
let them hate us
for trying, even if it were
for a hopeless quest.
We may save our souls, yet.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

13 Jun 2005

In a thousand years from now, how would we prove that we lived? For what traces would remain — even if we had descendants, who of them would recall someone that ancestral? The sturdiest lives, those who held so much promise: how many from that far back can you say achieved the merest immortality, that we see their name jotted down somewhere? More are they the vast majority: there is no proof of them at all. But yet, even if there be the fact that I leave behind nothing that lasts, ultimately, I myself am the only true witness whether I haved lived or no. My proof is in my living this day. The meaning of life is not that you be remembered — for much of that is accident and rushed chances — but instead that you remember how sweet life has been when at last you die. For the memorials to us do us no good when we no longer walk this world: rather that it is up to us to make of the days we have a life that is worth all the miraculous seconds that are given us. And in a thousand years, this will still be true.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

11 Jun 2005

I’ve heard newborn babies wailin’ like a mournin’ dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
“Come in,” she said,
“I’ll give you shelter from the storm.”

– Bob Dylan

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

William Blake: The Ancient of Days

Click on the pic for a larger version.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

10 Jun 2005

I wish to be disarmed. And I wonder, do I ask for too much? Who of us now, of those that have lived, still believe in love? Yet this is what I speak of, if you will: magic. How can it be that — so thrashed about that I have been — I have returned here, to the lonely mountaintop, to overlook the vast empty landscape and dream? There were times when I lost hope, that love did nothing for me but make me hurt (or even less, and how sad that was). But this believing — that there be a woman’s eyes somewhere that makes me forget all the world — returns to me like moonlight after a long, stormy season. When my heart was a desolate thing, I had forgotten what ultimately gives us all breath. And some divine afterthought now speaks this secret to me: you need not even believe for love to happen to you. You need no qualification at all. Believing just makes the anticipation smile — but there is nothing that prepares you for when it may so strike you, disarm you. Sometimes, even the broken heart is sweet enough: for poetry shall always come when hearts long genuine, truth! But really, I might end that you forget you ever read this, for I wish not to get your hopes up. These are just words; just get back to your everyday. (And remember that I told you so.)

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

9 Jun 2005

To make the improving of our own character our central aim is hardly the highest kind of goodness. True goodness forgets itself and goes out to do the right thing for no other reason than that it is right.

– Lesslie Newbigin

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

I breeze by like the wind upon the cemetery trees.
My shadow acts as if it never knew me, nonchalantly leans.
I never knew it took so many colors to paint me blue.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

7 Jun 2005

Ask a hungry ant for what purpose God created ants, and it will answer, “to eat”.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

If the spirit is willing, but the flesh weak, at least the spirit is willing. For this is not always so. The flesh may be forgiven, but if the spirit is bad, to what recourse shall you call? In the words of St. Augustine, one can say: “I will, but my body does not obey me”; but not: “My will does not obey me”. It is a question of whether one puts out the effort, and that one is sincere about what he wants to achieve. If one truly desires to be and to do good, even if he fails (and does wrongly) — we are only frail mortal forms, incapable of perfection, and it is surely understood why by the One above us all. But one cannot say that he meant to do good if it was merely some passing fancy, a half formed notion of what “should” and “should not” plainly mean. And he cannot conclude that the spirit is willing if he fights against that willingness — for merely knowing the difference between right and wrong does not make for righteousness.

I know myself that I have not always fought the good fight. It would be nice to think to myself that I always in my heart wanted to do right, but for whatever reason, the circumstances did not permit it. But no, there is darkness there, quite unlike the heart of God, in whom it is all light. I am rather thankful when my spirit is willing, even if the flesh eventually fails — yes, I feel guilty that I did wrong, but as the saying goes, at least my heart was in the right place. I make for myself a dividing line between where I willed the good (and my body did not obey), and where I simply willed wrongly: did I succeed in what I wanted to do, or did I fail? If I failed to do right, instead of succeeding to do wrong, then I deem of myself that it was not all bad. And I think I know in my heart which one it was, when I sin; I try not to fool myself — for He above is not so swayed by lame excuses, however good they sound to us, making them.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

6 Jun 2005

I do not know why, but I will keep hope alive. The taste of despair is perhaps bearable enough, and mayhap that I even deserve of my sins to suffer, but there comes from out of nowhere… something quite remarkable. And I cannot help but to listen to it. There shall be times, I know, when I can but hang on with the last erg of my strength, and the while, I may not know why I do it, why I do not merely give up — but there is a silence in me that understands something, something so fragile that to whisper it is to risk its fracture. This is what hope is like, I think, almost holy stuff: not some trivial side product of such and such desire, but a note in the key of a greater song, a greater logic of which it is entrusted of you to keep alive the simple meaning of some ephemeral truth. And I will realize, when the time comes, that it was never me that was keeping it alive, but that it instead was the hope that kept me alive — that made life worth living, the day worth seizing.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

4 Jun 2005

Rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him. In Hebrew, “Be silent in God, and let Him mould thee.” Keep still, and He will mould thee to the right shape.

– Martin Luther

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Leonardo da Vinci: Vitruvian Man

Click on the pic for a larger version.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

3 Jun 2005

Earthson

I feel the astral wind
upon my face,
a flight within the dreamtime.
I stray through
realms of fire, and of air,
past ocean worlds
and skies that snow eternally —
but yet, nothing
amazes me this nowaday;
and I think,
I need not this great
wandering to be alive,
not any the more:
I need not
light ablaze my senses
to know that I am.
I return to the quiet of my seat,
here in the four
square walls of my room,
and I breathe
air that has been exhaled
from the lungs of great humans.
Gravity is my
good friend, again,
and I need not some special
spell to take me
to the center of myself.
I know I am a miracle.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

2 Jun 2005

The shutting of the littlest life is the ending of the entire world — to the one who dies.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

At any given time, someone is being born, and someone is dying. And something amazing is happening to someone. (You might be next.) Too, at any given time, there are certainties, even if they are philosophically nebulous, logically inconsistent: some things just are, and denying them does not make them go away. For at any given time, someone is walking away, and someone is staying, and we know not the alchemy, most oft, that could make the former into the latter: and it is certain that they are leaving you, even if you can hope beyond hope for their return. At any given time, it is the dark of the midnight hour somewhere on this Earth, but how a single candle can pierce the most utter black. But at any given time, there is a hidden horror that one human being commits to another; faith in me, though, knows, “Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord, and that all secret injustice shall be blasted with light. At any given time, I might pray that such a faith holds, like that candle at midnight — not so certain, but quite the amazing that it lasts through such darkness.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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