For Every Stroke Towards The Sea
You go to bed tired, and you wake up
with your head full of water.
Every day begins with the sun
changing the dates on the year,
and sometimes you’re knee deep in it,
sometimes you’re breathing ash.
Other days, Time would envy
to be even in the shadow of you:
you magnificent sea God,
you disquiet hurricane.
Kiss someone in the middle of July,
on a day when it’s sunny at noon
and raining its own private sea at 1p.m.
Leave trails of hands along the dust that cakes
the outside of your house. Pay homage
to all that it has held,
all that it’s protected you from.
Climb a mountain, hill, or any other natural
formation you’ve never been to before.
Call out to nature, forgive her.
Tell her she’s beautiful,
tell her she’s loved.
Learn how to play an instrument that isn’t
Forget them all. Find new people.
Go to Japan. Find the place where the sun
melts into the horizon, and pray for peace.
Dare yourself and eat some eel.
Stop trying to find God in the sky.
Instead, look for starlings, and wagtails.
Look for airplanes and kites
and clouds that look like the face of someone
you once knew, and forget them too.
Go to Paris.
Find the oldest copy of love
poems by Desbordes-Valmore,
and read it out to strangers passing in the street.
Love someone with the passion
of a dying sun. A sombre, last-breath,
lungs-afire kind of love.
Grow old like sandstone buildings,
be happy like the ocean breeze hitting the skin.
Spell love on your fingers
and watch someone’s face light up with joy
when they read what you had to say.
Bottle this light, and save it for a rainy day.
Fall in love with people who teach you new things,
like how to say the color blue in Norwegian,
or laughter in German, or how to fish in the Fontenelle Creek.
Forgive yourself in a language only you know.
Heal yourself the only way you know how.
Find your heart.
Love will come when it comes
but you’ll always feel homesick if you think
your heart is always someplace else.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
You can tell his hands have worked to the bone,
dirty fingernails tracing art in the dark of the room.
Dust scattered on the floor, the desk, the lamps.
He hasn't been here in a long time: seven years
to be exact. What he left behind was a book
filled with love and somewhere two weeks after
he dies, a twelve year old girl will find it.
And read it cover to cover until she became
a love story in herself.
You can ask the sky
how many times she's sighed at the passing
of someone she's never met, and feels she knows
Love means never being forgotten
You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.
And in the end we're always more lost than ever found. But isn't that what life is all about? Finding your way back to yourself.
Happy new year everyone.
I hope joy gets your address right this time.
The night unravelling,
caught in the moment of the earth's
dance on its tilt
when it's just as day
as it is the night; like light
appearing behind shut eyelids
who am I to trust
when the earth turns and dreams
turn into daytime reveries
will I wake up and forget
or will your elbow slide off the table
and break the spell?
This time is a perfidious lover,
so tell me,
whose side is it on
Why do you take beautiful things
and turn them into instruments
I become an answering machine
of unread messages.
Why does it take so long
for me to remember that
the other side of the bed has been colder
This sadness will last forever.