Evening Waterfall by Carl Sandburg
WHAT was the name you called me?—
And why did you go so soon?
The crows lift their caw on the wind,
And the wind changed and was lonely.
The warblers cry their sleepy-songs
Across the valley gloaming,
Across the cattle-horns of early stars.
Feathers and people in the crotch of a treetop
Throw an evening waterfall of sleepy-songs.
What was the name you called me?—
And why did you go so soon?
“Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.”
― Stephen King,
“For the wise have always known that no one can make much of his life until self-searching has become a regular habit, until he is able to admit and accept what he finds, and until he patiently and persistently tries to correct what is wrong. – Bill W.”
“. . .sometimes one feels freer speaking to a stranger than to people one knows. Why is that?”
“Probably because a stranger sees us the way we are, not as he wishes to think we are.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind
“From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,
A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room
And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up
From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That’s all
There was to it.”
― Mark Strand, Blizzard of One
There is a lot to be gained from painted portraits. A true portrait is fuller and richer than simply an image on a flat surface. (Sam Adoquei)
A star, however willing, cannot help the moon.
I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,
That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,
And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,
Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—
Nor any know I know the Art
Nor any Placard boast me—
It’s full as Opera—
I Cannot Dance Upon My Toes
foto – bellwood down at nambucca heads
The first river you paddle runs through the rest of your life. It bubbles up in pools and eddies to remind you who you are.
“The enemy is within the gates; it is with our own luxury, our own folly, our own criminality that we have to contend.”
― Marcus Tullius Cicero
The Bailey Barracks
Tall and bright the flowers stand:
defiant of the smoke clouds,
drowning in an ocean of liquor.
As I borrow from the lungs of my companions
My drunk mind figures,
Maybe the flowers deserve better.
The bar is an island
surrounded by endless suits;
Brown—no, Johnson—talks sales.
“Another brew, sweetheart.”
She stands tall and bright
her eyes watering
as she provides salvation from a tap;
a mother, a shepherd, her gaunt face weathers.
And as I borrow smoke from the lungs of my companions,
my drunk mind figures,
maybe she deserves better.
Freddie Young – Melbourne Boys Grammar School
We should put the emphasis on the rediscovery of our own individual clown, the one that has grown-up within us and which society does not allow us to express.
Open-mouthed, with painted smile, the clowns stand in formation,
Constantly they shake their heads in cynical negation,
Notwithstanding players skill the clowns will always win,
They walk free from the courtroom and the cycle starts again.
THE LAUGHING CLOWNS
The Australian Women’s Weekly (1933 – 1982), Saturday 7 August 1937
A clown needn’t be the same out of the ring as he has to be when he’s in it. If you look at photographs of clowns when they’re just being ordinary men, they’ve got quite sad faces.
― Enid Blyton, Five Go Off in a Caravan
With time even a bear can learn to dance. Yiddish
Myth we reject
turns inward – the selfless lover
loves no self in his other, loves only love, ends
folding on himself, ceremonial:
love’s mind loves
its own luminous terminology .
“Class is an aura of confidence that is being sure without being cocky. Class has nothing to do with money. Class never runs scared. It is self-discipline and self-knowledge. It’s the sure-footedness that comes with having proved you can meet life. ”
― Ann Landers
the coal-fired city glistens
it hums and fumes,
market shelves bristle
whiplash cracks of stilettos echo along arcades
takeaway espressos are texting Bali at the ATM feedlot,
queueing for peakhour, queueing for home;
in the happy hour
(waiting to be happy)
herds of bachelors prowl under mirror-balls
with schooner shaped hands pulsing,
slow motion cars crash on a multi-screen comedy show
million dollar footballs are kicked around arenas
drunken heads are kicked into concrete
drunk women are pulled into fast cars;
they’re only taking potshots out in the western sprawl
the odd stray bullet of gangland tit-for-tat
scaring the pigeons –
we deadlock against the headlines:
crisis shambles scandal chaos
nature is a TV doco
climate change is a prank phone call –
boats keep coming
gate-crashing the party
shocking the shock-jocks of 24/7 puppetry;
we read each other like barcodes
like molten icebergs
like sprinklers sprucing desert parklands,
we are a fire sale on fire,
electric billboards howl
you want it! now!
while a roll-call of extinction reads:
tigers, koalas, polar bears, frogs, bees,
we are failing at chemistry, at biology physics history
we are at war with religion
we are winning at scrabble, at Facebook
at the technobabble of apps and acronyms…
up through the thin and fractured membrane of our bubble
the looking-glass searching space
for a drop of water, a skerrick of life –
nothing, nowhere to conquer
to mine, to drain, to suck the gas,
just this solitary sphere, a breath of life,
this tiny troubled tired and wasting bubble.
“This explosive psychological ‘sneaking’ occurs when a woman suppresses large parts of self into the shadows of the psyche. In the view of analytical psychology, the repression of both negative and positive instincts, urges, and feelings into the unconscious causes them to inhabit a shadow realm. While the ego and superego attempt to continue to censor the shadow impulses, the very pressure that repression causes is rather like a bubble in the sidewall of a tire. Eventually, as the tire revolves and heats up, the pressure behind the bubble intensifies, causing it to explode outward, releasing all the inner content.
The shadow acts similarly. We find that by opening the door to the shadow realm a little, and letting out various elements a few at a time, relating to them, finding use for them, negotiating, we can reduce being surprised by shadow sneak attacks and unexpected explosions.”
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype
Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the men of old; seek what they sought. – Basho
― Robert Jordan, The Eye of the World
“Heroes take journeys, confront dragons, and discover the treasure of their true selves.”
― Gina Marie G.
“To learn through listening, practice it naively and actively. Naively means that you listen openly, ready to learn something, as opposed to listening defensively, ready to rebut. Listening actively means you acknowledge what you heard and act accordingly.”
— Betsy Sanders
Former Senior Vice President & General Manager Nordstrom
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
“And so, onwards… along a path of wisdom, with a hearty tread, a hearty confidence.. however you may be, be your own source of experience. Throw off your discontent about your nature. Forgive yourself your own self. You have it in your power to merge everything you have lived through- false starts, errors, delusions, passions, your loves and your hopes- into your goal, with nothing left over.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human
― Lemony Snicket
On Home Beaches
Back, in my fifties, fatter than I was then,
I step on the sand, belch down slight horror to walk
a wincing pit edge, waiting for the pistol shot
laughter. Long greening waves cash themselves, foam change
sliding into Ocean’s pocket. She turns: ridicule looks down,
strappy, with faces averted, or is glare and families.
The great hawk of the beach is outstretched, point to point,
quivering and hunting. Cars are the stuff at its back.
You peer, at this age, but it’s still there, ridicule,
the pistol that kills women, that gets them killed, crippling men
on the towel-spattered sand. Equality is dressed, neatly,
with mouth still shut. Bared body is not equal ever.
Some are smiled to each other. Many surf, swim, play ball:
like that red boy, holding his wet T shirt off his breasts.
Subhuman Redneck Poems, 1996