one to know when
end of love should be?
Some might say,
How then, ought
one to know when
love is true? (If emblazoned flame dims to mere dulled glow can she then be reassigned?
imagination, existing only in the substance of
the actual, whatever that is, does she die with death or answer Hamlet in elements
strong and stunning?)
I know not. I know only this:
that she whispers relent-
lessly, (must we treat her as
virus, kill her with starvation,
cure ourselves with lust instead? Abuse her in her
redemption, her assumption,
her persistence, harbor
malice toward her tender grace? Deny pursuit for fear
Gloss illusions, hoarding piteous imitation, bargain legalities of-
disadvantaged humans that we are.
Social dances, we empty purse of sentiments pinched,
garnering interest as we go, shush her when she comes to supper, call her bluff, her fluff. It makes us blush.
She's blunt and eager, sighing
and we have work to do.
Reduce her to a grudge, shelve her,
we of sober mind find solace in naked,
She is for the young, the stupid, the uninformed. What might she say
if we should listen?)
seeks now to give, requiting less a need than once, twice,
She is truer than
bluer, baser pining, tall and ever guiding, honest in submission, if less so in admission. (She won't be rushed so we snub her
healing, sooth marrow with alleviating whim) She speaks
in silence and in words
in souls, in hearts, creation.
Loudest often in her absence
and quiet when observed.
when sought by self.
Perhaps, nature, her purer form
She weaves with
sings with swallows, dares to dwell in dust
and in these places, I admit, I've often overlooked
Alone, I hear her
say I'm not and
secrets I can not
and though I'd like to pluck her from the heart (for
what can the
heart know?) and place her somewhere nobler - the soul is safer, the spirit wiser-
I fear she'd just return.
And so the question haunting; (the
scandalous revery, composed of perfect view) this I find, I can return,
to where love was born or made, discovered or existent all along.
In drops, I understand her mystery, exchange musings for her maker.
to love, be loved, to wonder
and releasing, I will give
and receiving, I will
"Where there is love there is life."
She is true as beauty, beautiful
for she possesses no beginning.
She circles life and subject, inviting, not expecting,
hand held out or
I've grabbed her,
entered now her orbit, retraction
no more a choice than day and night, embodied within a spectrum,
light's glory shining bright
and encompassed but extended, my own hand travels out; an invitation lacking only expectation,
love never ends.
Carry On Tuesday
The Music In It