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what cannot be said









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West Wind #2

You are young.  So you know everything.  You leap
into the boat and begin rowing.  But listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul.  Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to
me.  There is life without love.  It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe.  It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied.  When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable
pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life
toward it.

~ Mary Oliver ~




“There is life without love.”


Perhaps some of us may have no choices

to live this way


(yes and no…

you won’t die

but ________________)


Indeed, we could survive

more or less

but we weren’t created

to be



 “It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe.”



I think I may disagree…

I do think

it is worth

“a bent penny, a scuffed shoe…”


When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable
pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life
toward it.


And here

I agree…

When you hear rushing waters,

twirling, churning up ahead,

row toward them



when i was very young

i was scared

of this truth-

someone could love me?


don’t settle

i’d tell my

younger self


but i didn’t know…

my life, background…

all added up–

to this



i tried

to avoid


yet it came after me

like a nightmare



if, though, if… you find ______

if you find_____

then, it’s worth the risk


it’s worth two scuffed shoes

and a bag full of bent pennies



if life gives me

another chance–




i have died

many different kinds




many kinds

of deaths


how many deaths

can a person die?



i tell you,






february 19, 2018

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Our truest response to the irrationality of the world is to paint or sing or write, for only then do we find truth. ― Madeleine L’Engle



… irrationality … 


I choke on dust

wreckage of world

and my crushed

bones of existence


painful agonies

of lifting


day after day


i trust God

to hold me






little dreams

of insignificance

-i am insignificant- 

cause a torrent

of tears?


i know,

oh, i know

of impossibilities


i live and breathe


on sorrows

and impossibilities




you speak of joy,

and yes,

i understand


but there is joy

in not being alone,

is there not?


sharing joys- doubled

sharing sorrows- halved


and what if

no one is there?


// easier said

than done //



swimming upstream

gasping for air


in tears


even friends

are busy

halving and doubling

with one another


all are busy


i’m not seeking many numbers






loneliness is its

own lonely



perhaps all of my life

i have misunderstood

so much

of everything



i have misunderstood you?


(beautiful you)

you are


i don’t understand

many hidden meanings…


i’ve already said

what I think


yes, i wish i were in the inner ring

yes, i wish i factored in your equation


and i can’t explain it

the when, how, why….?


i suppose

i need it told to me plainly

whatever it is….


why did i think-

didn’t you-

weren’t you-

i’m sorry, i thought…


i surely have never known

many things


each day

i walk






i surely have not known

this joy







// yes, i know i’m not unique //

// yes, i’m not the only one in this world to say this //

// yes, i know i’m not the first nor will be the last //


— that doesn’t change the pain —

— those of us — we walk in that path of pain —

— all who have come before —

— and all who will come after —



doubled over

with pains

and sorrows


and there is nowhere

to go




you realize

you’re dealing with

life on a level

you never imagined



and why does it hurt so much?


i never predicted

or thought

of this






redeemable humanity



“Marius… who cares about your lonely soul? Now we strive toward a larger goal… Our little lives don’t count at all…” – Les Miserables


Are we meant to not count at all? Insignificant, ignorant creatures?


we are

redeemable dust





february 16, 2018




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poems by…

Poems by Sara Teasdale….



My Heart is Heavy

My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,
But I can never give you one –
My songs do not belong to me.

Yet in the evening, in the dusk
When moths go to and fro,
In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen,
Take it, no one will know.

Nights Without Sleep

Nights without sleep and days
That burn like smoldering fire,
Nerves with the ceaseless cry
Of wind in a tight-drawn wire —

Years of this leaving me nothing
But a handful of songs like these,
That people think were happily written
In an hour of ease.


Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,
And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;
Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;
Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Of so much majesty.


I should be glad of loneliness
And hours that go on broken wings,
A thirsty body, a tired heart
And the unchanging ache of things,

If I could make a single song
As lovely and as full of light,
As hushed and brief as a falling star
On a winter night.

Old Tunes

As the waves of perfume, heliotrope, rose,
Float in the garden when no wind blows,
Come to us, go from us, whence no one knows;

So the old tunes float in my mind,
And go from me leaving no trace behind,
Like fragrance borne on the hush of the wind.

But in the instant the airs remain
I know the laughter and the pain
Of times that will not come again.

I try to catch at many a tune
Like petals of light fallen from the moon,
Broken and bright on a dark lagoon,

But they float away — for who can hold
Youth, or perfume or the moon’s gold?

Lost Things

Oh, I could let the world go by,
Its loud new wonders and its wars,
But how will I give up the sky
When winter dusk is set with stars?

And I could let the cities go,
Their changing customs and their creeds, —
But oh, the summer rains that blow
In silver on the jewel-weeds!

The Broken Field

My soul is a dark ploughed field
In the cold rain;
My soul is a broken field
Ploughed by pain.

Where grass and bending flowers
Were growing,
The field lies broken now
For another sowing.

Great Sower when you tread
My field again,
Scatter the furrows there
With better grain.

A Prayer

When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
And I tried to take their stings
With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul’s full depth and length,
Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
Loving life for its own sake.




february 2018



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You are asleep now

I dream awake

of you




january 9, 2018



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I am a human. And I am stupid, like a lost sheep. I am insanely stupid, in need of a God.

Yet God also has given humans something of his likeness- as we are created in His image. We have the capability of worship, and connecting with God on a spiritual level. We have the capability of only a finite limit of intelligence while here on earth, where we see only in part and through a screen, through our own dusty eyes and distorted views of reality.


I am human.
Humans are stupid.
Therefore, I am stupid.


I am human.
Humans need God.
Therefore, I need God.


Logical syllogisms


Spiritual truths


Stupid people, in need of God… have the hope of knowing and being with God… infinite wisdom.



february 5, 2018




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the dreams that devour


the dreams that devour




“To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have- to want and want- how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!”
― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse


“To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know any thing so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing — the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one’s hair is all but to feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again.”

― Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping


It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them.”

― George Eliot


“We look before and after,

And pine for what is not;

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell

Of saddest thought.”

― Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Complete Poems


“There is a space between man’s imagination and man’s attainment that may only be traversed by his longing.”

― Kahlil Gibran, Sand and Foam


The Portuguese call it saudade: a longing for something so indefinite as to be indefinable. Love affairs, miseries of life, the way things were, people already dead, those who left and the ocean that tossed them on the shores of a different land — all things born of the soul that can only be felt.”

― Anthony De Sa, Barnacle Love


“Sufre mas el que espera siempre

que aquel que nunca espero a nadie?

Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone?”

― Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions


“I am inhabited by a cry.

Nightly it flaps out

Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.”

― Sylvia Plath, Ariel


“You can miss a person you’ve never known.”

― Jodi Picoult, Handle with Care


“But I said that you could still want something that is very unlikely to happen.”

― Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time


“The beauty of a fragment is that it still supports the hope of brilliant completeness.”

― Tobias Wolff, Old School











february 2, 2018

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