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Sunday, August 16, 2009

Loss and Happiness in Life


Life makes me
write about love again,
in an ode to happiness
and loss, and pain,

in a deep-blue room
where fertile things swim,
fresh with the scent
of a salty, sour perfume;

it whispers to me
as I nurse my bruised verbs,
and fish new nouns
from its forceful sea,

I grimace -- but take a dip
into its mysterious bedding,
like a boy to become a man,
I take my medicine.


Life makes me
write about living again,
a raindrop blending
in the glimmering rain,

it shakes me again
to seize the day,
a pull to push
through dark terrain,

it tells me
Life is my country,
and the heart a torch
that needs no battery

to light my way
through its night,
and shamelessly glow
with love's light.


Life makes me
write about being again,
born in a music of longing,
repeated in a refrain,

poured out in Life's choir,
like a little boy
could understand before
he truly knows desire,

Life sings to me
to be everything
a whole life dreaming
in a drowse can be,

for in the end,
it's not the years
lived but the life
lived in these years

that let's Life furrow
on through human soil,
giving the living a chance
for the soul to grow.

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