26 Aug 2014

This Is Just to Say

I hate the way
we left things

I did not mean
what I said,
I was so angry

and you
are just so

(forgive me, William Carlos Williams)

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 pm

18 Aug 2014

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:58 pm

12 Aug 2014

Very few people in the world would care to listen to the real defense of their own characters. The real defense, the defense which belongs to the Day of Judgment, would make such damaging admissions, would clear away so many artificial virtues, would tell such tragedies of weakness and failure, that a man would sooner be misunderstood and censured by the world than exposed to that awful and merciless eulogy.

 - Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Make me what Thou wouldst have me. I bargain for nothing. I make no terms. I seek for no previous information whither Thou art taking me. I will be what Thou wilt make me, and all that Thou wilt make me. I say not, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goest, for I am weak, but I give myself to Thee, to lead me anywhither.

 - John Henry Newman

... They haled him, trembling, to the Judgment Seat.

“O Lord, behold the man who made the nails that pierced Thy feet!”

The Master laid a thin, scarred hand upon the shame-bowed head.

“They were good nails,” he said…

 - Kenneth W. Porter

posted by John H. Doe @ 4:06 pm

6 Aug 2014

Last night I dined with afterimages
of angels, in whose minds
I was the quotient of their imaginations.
We were served emotions by maids
whose faces were mirrors, and we
ate until only distance remained.
The flavor of despair was akin
to blood, like iron ground into nothing,
only a tingle that something once was.
Solitude tasted of a star grown cold,
reminded me of the air of Autumn
where the leaves had all fallen,
complete, yet yearning. Anger
was the strongest rum pressure
could distill, it churned in my belly
like a violent wave disbelieving its
confinement. And our dessert was joy,
yellow sprouts of light which had
the savor of a tickle, and was gone
before the tongue had finished
tasting. Afterwards, the Book of Life
was opened, and every name
written therein danced ethereally
above the pages and then rained
into my soul to give me new breath.
The air, now heavy with promises,
folded, again and again and again and
again, until finally, being nothing,
everything was as the moment
before creation, empty and perfect.

posted by John H. Doe @ 1:21 am

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.