Words

Peacocks and ostriches, and chickens. We personify this and that to create allegories and allusions.

We move between being actor and spectator.

We talk of the natural world and organic food. We talk of spirituality.

We talk separation while wanting to be connected.

And someone reminds us about goodness, kindness, holiness.



Shall we have charity, humility, and obedience as guides in our lives? Shall we be prolific writers?



We are more than our slang and syntax, more than our anecdotes and allusions. We are always searching. We are always lurking here and there. Different things unsettle us. We seek that which is beautiful. We want our lives to resonate.

Repetition

A repetition, a songsheet echo of the some distant Freshman Year event of stromboli and french fries.

Our lives are filled with campaigns, promises, and memories.



We echo are friends, our families.



We talk about handkerchiefs and elections and typographical errors and movie messages and newspaper headlines. We want success, victory. We talk about the weather, hope, and love.



Life is repetition. Life is an echo.



Life is an unwritten elegy. Life is filled with half-imagined eulogies for lost love, lost friends, lost keys. We allow ourselves to collect and save books, clothes, wine, art. We are required to remember Tippecanoe and the hypotenuse angle.

We seek understanding. We find another echo, another repetition.

echoes and other Prayers

Motion is more than movement, motion is a time of anxiety, a time of anticipation, a time that is all sensibility, all prejudice. Motion snaps and distorts. Motion creates a strange touch on exposed skin.



There is a soft, lilting echo which waits, which relates and which creates this and that, hope and love.



Sleepiness sometimes accompanies thinking about tomorrow.

We often talk goodness and kindness. We all want to share love.

GK

Details. Tiles. Light. Darkness. Doors. Silence. Wanting. Asking. Thinking. Contemplating. Reflecting. Leaves. Windows. Half-heard.
Half-seen.



Our memories create a marvelous gate of wood and iron and gold for the hemisphere of yesterday, the present is remote
, tomorrow is alive and local with sounds and smells of August encouraging our approach, gently, kindly.



Voices heard and unheard. We approach the hemisphere of yesterday with marvelous sentences about nothing, marvelous prayers for those whom we love.



Twigs snap. We talk about our lives, we talk about goodness and kindness. We talk about prayers and believing and forgiving and letting go.

Search

Monogamous memories retain half-heard anecdote about something important.



There is an eternal search for grace, goodness, kindness. The search is both private and public.



There is poise and confidence in the silence. We must allow ourselves time for service, study, silence.



We stood here in the silence of half remembered college newspaper stories. 
Remembering our innocence, remembering our laughter and then someone said something about the weather. Truth rustles, honor bustles, hope rustles in the silence.

We create and delete files, create and delete hope in ourselves and in others.

floating rippled

Look in the shadows, look in the shadows.

Someone says something about the Whiskey Rebellion, someone remembers a story about the Battle of Fallen Timbers.

We relate, somehow we wait.



We linger here in the silence of half remembered college newspaper stories. Of memories of van rides and staplers and interviews and headlines and articles on student government and concerts and drinking and sorority dances and fraternity keg parties and moonlight walks from academic buildings to residence hall. 
We linger in thoughts of pizza and music and this and that. I remember wanting to somehow become a
 split-second saint sacrificing myself to save all those who I love and all those who I profess to love with the gentle gracefulness of a floating rippled nimbus cloud.



And all the ladies ordered grilled salmon on spinach while the men recited Washington's Farewell Address.



Sigh and sink down in groups of chattering, polished teeth talking of celebrities, talking of politics, searching for something to believe, searching for something to hold on to.

Finding momentary interest in the mystery of a stranger, in the mystery of a chocolate covered strawberry on a random street corner.

Remains

I remember wanting to somehow become a
 split-second saint sacrificing myself to save all those who I love and all those who I profess to love with the gentle gracefulness of a floating rippled nimbus cloud.

Budweiser and Yahoo and Panasonic and other words confront me, taunt me, haunt my imagination with a directness, with a shadiness expected yet foreign.

Everything remains noisy, crowded. So much is seen yet unseen.



Open in the window, open in the window.

Remember Freshman Year and the Whiskey Rebellion, remember the Quakers and that story about the Battle of Fallen Timbers.

We relate, somehow we wait.