Tuesday, November 24, 2015
ye, and he...
|Gerry Butler at his best. Showing his big as Texas heart. I love this man. Really love him.|
|Gerry Butler being the man I adore and respect who knows more than most his age about most others have no idea about.|
Posted by Kathy at 10:20 AM
A shout comes out of my room
where I've been cooped up.
After all my lust and dead living
I can still live with you.
You want me to.
You fix and bring me food.
You forget the way I've been.
The ocean moves and surges in the heat
of the middle of the day,
in the heat of this thought I'm having.
Why aren't all human resistances
burning up with this thought?
It is a drum and arms waving.
It is a bonfire at midnight on the top edge of a hill,
this meeting again with you.
Monday, November 23, 2015
For sixty years I have been forgetful,
every minute, but not for a second
has this flowing toward me stopped or slowed.
I deserve nothing. Today I recognize
that I am the guest the mystics talk about.
I play this living music for my host.
Everything today is for the host.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all.
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for what comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Posted by Kathy at 5:00 AM
Saturday, November 21, 2015
War Path, by Alfred Jacob Miller
I have no vocation but this,
and no need to touch every rose and thornpoint.
You are seeing through my eyes
and tasting with my tongue.
Why sell bitterness? Why do anything?
When you breakfast at the king's table,
there is no appetite for lunch.
I do not complain or brag about ascetic practices.
I would explain, but words will not help,
how there is nothing to grieve.
If you have no trace of this recklessness,
tell me your state.
I have forgotten how to say how I am.
The sun has already shone today.
Why should I describe the moon
coming up over sleeping quarters?
Posted by Kathy at 7:19 PM
Posted by Kathy at 7:00 PM
Friday, November 20, 2015
Posted by Kathy at 7:02 AM
Without a net, I catch a falcon
and release it to the sky,
This wine I drink today
was never held in a clay jar.
I love this world,
even as I hear the great wind
of leaving it rising,
for there is a grainy taste I prefer
to every idea of heaven:
Thursday, November 19, 2015
I see my beauty in you,
I become a mirror
that cannot close its eyes to your longing.
My eyes wet with yours in the early light.
My mind every moment giving birth,
always conceiving, always in the ninth month,
always the come-point.
How do I stand this?
We become these words we say,
a wailing sound moving out into the air.
These thousands of worlds that rise from nowhere,
how does your face contain them?
I am a fly in your honey, then closer,
a moth caught in the flame's allure,
then empty sky stretched out in homage.
Posted by Kathy at 6:31 AM
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Some Hindus have an elephant to show.
No one here has ever seen an elephant.
They bring it at night to a dark room.
One by one, we go in the dark and come out
saying how we experience the animal.
One of us happens to touch the trunk.
A water-pipe kind of creature.
Another, the ear. A very strong, always moving
back and forth, fan-animal. Another, the leg.
I find it still, like a column on a temple.
Another touches the curved back.
A leathery throne. Another the cleverest,
feels the tusk. A rounded sword made of porcelain.
He is proud of his description.
Each of us touches one place
and understands the whole that way.
The palm and the fingers feeling in the dark
are how the senses explore the reality of the elephant.
If each of us held a candle there,
and if we went in together, we could see it.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Collier Decoded: 19 Thing... by Edwaert Collier
Posted by Kathy at 2:39 PM
Posted by Kathy at 7:09 AM
[no image for this one?]
You are the living marrow. The rest is hay.
Dead grass does not nourish a human being.
When you are not here, this desire we feel
has no traveling companion.
When the sun is gone, the soul's clarity fades.
There is nothing but idiocy and mistakes.
We are half-dead, inanimate, exhausted.
The way minds most want to be
is an ocean with a soul swimming in it.
No one can describe that.
My soul, you are a master, a Moses, a Jesus.
Why do I stay blind in your presence?
You are Joseph at the bottom of his well.
Constantly working, but you do not get paid,
because what you do seems trivial, like play.
Now silence. Unless these words fill
with nourishment from the unseen, they will stay empty.
Why would I serve my friends bowls
with no food in them?
First Posters for Alex Proyas’ ‘Gods of Egypt’ Were Apparently Designed by Lisa Frank
London Has Fallen Trailer
Gods of Egypt trailer
London Has Fallen Trailer
Gods of Egypt trailer
|Not sure this is Butler BUT.. I have that same scarf. Same one.|
Monday, November 16, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Posted by Kathy at 10:02 AM
A dervish lover was told to turn
toward his own face,
and he did, saying, Lord, lord, for years
with no answer, no message back,
yet he was always there turning in silence,
with no music supporting him,
no tambourine rhythm.
A pigeon knows which roof to haunt.
Even if you drive it off,
it will circle and stay near.
This is the critical moment
when a swell of ocean turns
its edge to foam.
Every dervish has two mouths,
a crafted reed opening
and the lips of the flute player.
Lord, don't speak from there.
Posted by Kathy at 8:09 AM