A Jar of Marmalade
Thoughts felt like freckles
  • o23

    In how many soils must I tangle my roots before I germinate? 

    Succoring new nutrients 

     reaping the minutes sown into the loves crop, 

    what is said to be the crop of all seasons endless green.

    How can I squander a water of unknown reason,

    I wonder,

    a faceless source to me.

    And yet that bee finds his purpose pollen from the flower,

    who finds endless feasts in the sun.

    Perhaps, indeed, the pursuit is not to live untangled 

    but to find the tangle worth untangling past times’ end

    in an unseen photosynthesis sort of love. 

    To root so deep that all soils shift 

    seeping to where souls meet.

    • 1
  • o22

    I felt the flesh of the dream craving to manage through the hardship of what was now and what was real. 

    I need, no, desire to be a person of persons— not one that is correct, right, composed well or lovely due to pursuit. Trees are romantic to me. When they sway I feel I understand the youthful heart, adrift in a dance with something much too large to grasp, and captivating in it’s winding down to stillness’ clarity. In motionless standing, one can see the leafy feathers that cloak, clothe, protect the tree from the bare realization that beneath the skin are but spindling spires of bones. The train I sit in splutters, shaking me side to side, and I marvel at displaced gravity and the lazy metaphors that seek companionship. This train I sit upon is a bough of a tree and everything is so profound that I wish it wouldn’t be at all.

    • 5
  • o21

    puncture something sweet

    in the mutterings of a collective sigh for the return of a regular day.

    the next following the anticipated

    slowly sifting in the gush of the grains of sand 

    immeasurable to all but felt by endings. 

    the grainy dregs of coffee caught cold 

    please nobody (including the cup) 

    for forgotten potential squanders man’s efficiency

    craving a caffeinated desire. 

    bone dry disheartenment 

    brittles the bones of a man with far seeking eyes 

    stonily kept on shape shifting desire. 

    and so disintegrating to dust flustered by the wind 

    carried to nether’s unsettlement

    fostered by exhilarations promise of feast.

  • o20

    i. (a girl to the universe)

    oh wallflower hope 

    good to taste and easy eyed 

    fabrication’s fabric

    lying

    with lips bound in repetition 

    and likenesses surpassing visions mend. 

    in bodily furloughs

    these inept arms would reach to you 

    thumbing soundless discords of neither

    here nor there

    and not the melodious steam trail of sunday mornings in the kitchen

    and not the nightly clatter of china. 

    in waxing whispers the proclamation “God” wanes

    amiss in the repetition of seeming similarity. 

     

    • 1
    • 2087
    • 2087
  • Suddenly this defeat.
    This rain.
    The blues gone gray
    And the browns gone gray
    And yellow
    A terrible amber.
    In the cold streets
    Your warm body.
    In whatever room
    Your warm body.
    Among all the people
    Your absence
    The people who are always
    Not you.


    I have been easy with trees
    Too long.
    Too familiar with mountains.
    Joy has been a habit.
    Now
    Suddenly
    This rain.

    -Jack Gilbert

    • 5
  • "After a while you learn the subtle difference
    Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

    And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
    And company doesn’t mean security.

    And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
    And presents aren’t promises,

    And you begin to accept your defeats
    With your head up and your eyes open
    With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

    And you learn to build all your roads on today
    Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
    And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

    After a while you learn…
    That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

    So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
    Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers."
    Jorge Luis Borges, You Learn  (via rawkiss)

    (Source: hellanne, via newyorktoparis)

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