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I can do nothing wrong.
Look at my virtues!
Not a single seed of conceit.
And I gain strength,
Upon strength, upon strength

By my good deeds I accumulate virtuosity.
Beyond compare of men around me.
Others envy my hallowed halls.

No other man can match my serenity.
It is so complete!
I know only the high roads.
I travel only the nobel path before me.
Paladin that I am.

When I am betrayed, so be it.
I am good,
Good beyond measures measure.
I forgive completely and effortlessly!
Because I am so much more than the aspersions of my counterparts

Superiority has nothing to do with my superiority over them!
I am good and they are conniving.
Soulless philanders!
I owe them nothing,
They are the dust under my feet

Hold...
Who is this embargoed self?

I am infected by virtuosity not cured by it...

Strength?
How so?
I am so deeply committed to my own pain that I have becomes its daily companion

Serene?
So wishful!
I am hidden, my guise betrays me.
My feelings dismantle me.

Good?
No!
My grief is helplessly tethered to cold stone like a chained submissive animal

Then Humility whispers,

"examine the roots,"
My roots sustain me.

"are you present?"
I am not present.

"you are enough,"
I am not enough.

"you are loved,"
I must learn how to love myself again.

"you have wisdom,"
Someday I will abandon this faulty Substance of a Man
What is this thing I have built with hands?
Lifting sand instead of mortar
That sifts through my fingers
Rubble
Distant memories
Dry and unrefreshing  

What is this thing I have built with mind?
Heretic thought between my temples
That strays along neurotic paths
Drunkards
Stumbling memories
Distressed and unravelling

What is this thing I have built with soul?
A heavy heart on thin ice
That splits the seams of hope
Graceless
Fading memories
Crumbling and sinking
Philip Salt Nov 24
Spin, Spun, Undone, Me
And the obvious hurts, me
My Hertz of Pain
My thousands of beats per second
My watershed of tears
I tear my skin rather than letting it shed
I let, let me rent a place on a bench
Staring at Banksy's walls
In reaction to the art exhibit
Nov 10 · 67
Bath time
Philip Salt Nov 10
Sea thief
Little daughter
About to disturb water

Joy amongst toys
Astounding smile
As you buoy that blue pearl

Love yourself
Lovely lady
And shelf that smile next to your ducky

Kingdom queen
Bubble crown
Manage those tides between your feet
Nov 9 · 25
Fall Atmosphere
Philip Salt Nov 9
Atmosphere
Leaves blow in a northward wind
Directions of smell
Loud ground effects
Long light cloudy rain
Red orange and meringue
Dancing needles and leaves
Wind that dries the cheeks
Decay and a mingle of vibrancy
Brittle leaves crackle and chatter
Pushed
Why am I in this place?

Why do gusts answer,
Soundless questions only for me,
A conversation
Oct 14 · 35
Lost where you are
Philip Salt Oct 14
Lost where you are
Lost for a long time
Lost for words
Lost for feelings

Come back to me my friend
Come to your place among us
Come here to find what was never lost
Come home

Standing on your skiff
Standing at the edge
Standing tall with sunlight jets
Standing on the precipice of next

Out on open water
Out between drafts of wind
Out amongst woodland hills
Out there hiding on the expanse

Let your tide come in
Let yourself sit down
Let yourself navigate by daylight
Let your discovery happen

The shoreline is sandy and warm
The ***** is gentle and the ground soft
The sounds are rhythmic and calming
The sense of yourself will be strong and sturdy

Here is familiar
Here all your feelings are felt
Here you won't feel forgotten
Here family is waiting
Oct 5 · 49
Steplives
Philip Salt Oct 5
Babe emerges into life
Her intellect springs anew
Looking, looking to learn and do

Child gains speech
His voice resounding outward
Speaking, Speaking no longer just spoken to

Youth embraces rebellion
Her subtlety develops covert tones
Silent, silent outside but so loud within

Adult looks forward
His plans eclipse his dreams
Doing, doing endlessly doing

Mother always busy
Her need to to drown
Working, working through life

Father anchored here
His collar heavy with duty
Lifting, lifting the weight of the earth

Aged passenger on a trip
They have done generations of travel
Born, born again to unravel
Sep 28 · 71
"God"
Philip Salt Sep 28
I am capable of anger
I am capable of compassion
I am white hot rage

Tempered only by the skulls
Skulls beneath my feet
Unworthy feet to touch Golgotha
Unworthy feet to dangle on the tree before me

Cleanse my feet!

Grace of God,
Your example crucified
The indwelling of light on my soul.

I am not capable of forgiveness
My compassion does not endure
Humility and broken humanness collide

I am grounded to shadow
Holy Spirit be my strength
Without it I have no capacity to forgive.

Only to rage on
And it's so ******* hard
Because I am human
Philip Salt Sep 28
Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that's second nature with me,
but don't be fooled,
for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command
and that I need no one,
but don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
and I know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
from my own self-built prison walls,
from the barriers I so painstakingly *****.
It's the only thing that will assure me
of what I can't assure myself,
that I'm really worth something.
But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
will not be followed by love.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me,
that you'll laugh, and your laugh would **** me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing
and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without
and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's really nothing,
and nothing of what's everything,
of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I'm saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,
what I'd like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can't say.

I don't like hiding.
I don't like playing superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
but you've got to help me.
You've got to hold out your hand
even when that's the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes
the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
each time you try to understand because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings--
very small wings,
very feeble wings,
but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling
you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator--
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to.

Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me the blinder I may strike back.
It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man
often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls
with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and I am every woman you meet.

Charles C. Finn
September 1966
Not sure about the copyrights here but I wanted to start to share Poems that amaze me written by the best
Sep 24 · 43
Seven Puddles
Philip Salt Sep 24
Puddles are
Flat, they shine, they reflect the sky.
Morning basins over nadirs of imperfection.
Orange and Blue mirrored coverings,
atop pavement depressions.

Puddles are
Built, ponds become reservoirs,
Reservoirs become lakes.
Their faults are fast filling in a downpour.
They are whats left.
The parts that well up inside.
Pools that fail to drain

Puddles are
Wide, water features.
Pushing their natural boundaries.
Drawing attention to the flaws in the bedrock.
Like blisters over asphalt wounds

Puddles are
Deep, crevasses that force channels to erode.
A trickle unchecked will eventually overfill them.
Floods exceed their capacity to keep pace.
Water flows from them

Puddles are
Empty, outflows carving muddy arroyos.
They become eager chaotic rapids.
Worthwhile destructive attempts to drain away water.
To shrink the footprint of their expanse.
To draw attention away from the defects below.

Puddles are
Remnants, each existing atop its own blemish
The Sun rises and greets them
Gradually offering more and more of it's warmth and care
Heat comes to water and water joins the air
Slowly they fade away

Puddles are
Dry, spots in an alleyway.
They disappear and remain safely hidden.
Until the next rainfall tries to convince them that they are just water coloured damaged road
But the sun continues to shine down on them
Renewal begins
I have not stuck the ending on this one yet
Sep 23 · 34
Tin and gold
Philip Salt Sep 23
A cross of tin
A cross of gold
Both round my neck
Two chains
Around and around
Double forged
Tin and gold
Which to adore?

Crossing loops
At my throat
Known symbols
Through and through
Giving sacrifice
Renewal born
Tin and gold
Which to adore?
.
Two pairs encircled
Manubrium to nape
Black leather strap
Lusterous metal chain
Redundant or inspired
Imagined or required
Tin and gold
Which to adore?

Remove both
Then what remains
Skin and bare chest
Beating breast
Tired body
In need of rest
Tin and gold
Which to adore?

Ringlets removed
Torrid collars
Off my neck
Into bed
Resting head
Tin and gold
Which to adore?
Why did circles
Inspire me so
To write this poem
Before I go
To sleep
Tin and gold
Which to adore?
Sep 23 · 54
Green Apple Colour
Philip Salt Sep 23
Love,
There's an Ace up my sleeve,
But I must leave,
Before even playing that trick.
One more hand will end me,
No stand will mend me,
Time to lay my head down in this crib

Love,
My passionate fire,
You won't understand my desire,
To retire from this crooked game.
'Cause you are the cause,
It was your claws,
That kept me all in each round.

Love,
You threw me in,
Like your ***** little sin,
To be devoured by hungry sharks.
Turn me down,
Slice off my crown,
With your diamond blades so sharp.

Love,
The sharks across from me now,
They don't understand how,
A lady made me so green apple coloured.
I've lost my nerve,
Too scared to reserve,
Even one more cut of the deck.

Love,
I have to heal,
'Cause I can't deal,
I've been dealt one card too many.
Drawn out and flushed,
Straight on a purgatory rush,
'Cause I was paired with you.

Love,
My lady luck,
I'm busted and stuck,
Broken down to my last penny.
Help me to close out the night,
To not put up a fight,
So I can play this final river and run.

Love,
Cash out my heart,
You owe me a repair of that part,
That's been beaten dark by your clubs.
I'm all dressed in suede
Expecting to be buried by your *****,
When I exit this game and leave you.

Fin
Sep 21 · 45
S) EyE (S
Philip Salt Sep 21
Eyes
Closed

Maybe
Eyes
Are
Met
To
Be
Closed

Inside,

Capturing
Eyelid
Canvases
Of
What
Was

Silho­uettes
Shapes
Impressions
Of
Light
Glow
And
Dark

Outside,

Gifts­
Of
Soft
Lashes
Cheeks
Brows

The
Beautiful
Visage
Of
A
Smiling
F­ace

Eyes
Open

Maybe
Eyes
Are
Met
To
Be
Open

Inside,

Windows
To
Fill
With
Bright
Rays
Beams
­Streaks

Lenses
On
Landscapes
Vistas
And
Vanishing
Points

Outsid­e,

Ambassadors
Who
Share
Safire
Blue
Cobalt
Green
And
Chocolate
Brown

Friends
To
Those
Who
Truely
See
Us

Eyes
Closed

Eyes
Ope­n
Philip Salt Sep 20
We demand terminality. Shrouded and surrounded by unending formality

We embrace practicality. Expounded and hounded by constant criticality

We crank up tonality. Dumbfounded and pounded by loud vocality

We obsess over finality. Compounded and confounded by life's constant banality

So

Why choose endings rather than bendings as we eclipse the path before us?

Why select stopping instead of hopping over the obstacles ahead?

Why so rigid and brittle, in the place of agile and nimble, when navigating the way before us?

Why is noise more important than poise when we find a still and silent moment?

Why waste energy, and remain out of synergy with nature's sweet symphony?
This is still a better poem in my head but now it is slightly improved. The juxtaposition was not working
Sep 17 · 35
Hard Bedding
Philip Salt Sep 17
Go the way I want
Throw the distance I choose
Push uphill, don't stop

Proceed, don't you dare ponder
Drive, never wander
Force, hold nothing back

Drag your *** not
Pull up your britches
Take your knocks and count your stitches

Suspend your doubts
Project success
Hold steady, be ready

Relent to your peril
Retreat and be sterile
Withdraw, withdraw, withdraw

Now!

Unfinished...
Philip Salt Sep 15
Greet me Morning

Be there at my awakening with blue sky light

Peer into me, then like through windows stream calming albedo into my eyes

Rouse me, sit me, stand me, fly me,
my circadian companion

Let nothing wither into darkness
my everyday champion

As the Sun rises on its friend the Morning find me over, and over, and over again

Warm me and coax me aloft with the first flight of your song birds

And be my friend eternal, though I may be the least of creatures beneath you in your natural beautiful perfection
Philip Salt Sep 14
This blind ferryman has eyes,
Eyes he remarks to himself are for seeing,
His spaniel sits next to him, at knee height, and barks,
He adjusts his favorite wide brimmed hat,
He drives the setting pole into the shelf of the shoreline. Sometimes there is shallow water there. Tonight only coarse mud.

He is cunning in the ways of this river.
Uncommon currents are familiar to him.
He is the Master of this trip, an expert navigator.
As familiar with this voyage as the creases and folds of his favorite hat.

A deadhead crossing over the river Alastor, back to his ferry slip.

The blind ferryman has arms.
Arms to move his craft.
Strong shoulders and calloused hands provide for engine and grip.

He never slips, never misses his mark.
His feet are sturdy on the buoying deck of this barge.

His spaniel is his only crew. A caring, loyal, spotted creature. A friend at the ready. When his hat is lost to the temperament of the wind, sacrificed to the flow of water, his friend will dive, swim, and retrieve it. A precious possession for them both. Part of the bond between them.

The blind ferryman has worked a long day. Day has become night.
He feels the fatigue that he loves.
Hard work is his satisfaction.
Sore forearms from the rhythm of lift, place, push.
Soft agony and musical tension as his long back muscles are plucked in repetition.

The craft, his crew, and his body are a complete entity. They work as one.
One last time.

Something about the humid air, the temperature of the sweat on his skin, and the bitter taste in his mouth hints that this night is his last. Such a simple crossing will go incomplete this night.

The blind ferryman has dreams,
Dreams that save him from omens of death

He dreams lovingly of his family,
Father, mother, daughters, wife,
Nostalgia, heart and pride in step with the meter of lift, place, and push.

But he knows this is a deceptive image.

An image he chooses to dream instead of that which is more true.
More true, what a strange truth that is,
he remarks to himself almost loud enough to hear.

His memory has feelings that are not nostalgia, heart and pride.
Those good feelings are his light but they are at the center of thickening layers of opacity.

The inner places begin to reflect the outer ones.

He is out in the channel now.
Absorbed in fog with only the light of one lantern, atop a single eight foot mast.  Like that lantern he must cling to the only beacon left in his dreams to ward off the night and the nightmares.

Nightmares full of pain.
An escape to sleep that never brings resolution.
He tries to remind himself that his daily crossing is all he needs to escape the darker parts.
A simple thing for a skilled navigator.
Why then do I bring those parts on this voyage? he asks himself with a whisper.

He has ignored the long hours of service that kept him away from his now empty home.
The excessive **** alight in his pipe.
The pervasive drink stowed between the gunwales and the crates.
The things that have made true escape impossible.

No escaping that on this night.
He is no longer the skilled navigator.

What is incomplete never happens,
And his crossing of the river Alastor is not yet complete.
Life is all around. Present in sound, shape, and smell, but invisible to him.

He is a blind ferryman.
He is close enough to the slip to cast a mooring line but too far to dock.
All that is left is a simple connection
A connection not made

A splash
A favorite hat floating on water
A spaniel retrieving it
Blocked this one out but it got dark
Push off
Favorite item
Dog companion
Pole in hand
Clinging humid air mix with sweat
Callous
Deltoids reach
Forearms sore
Rhythm pattern repeat
Journey
Taste
Light dark
Hunger
Future
Past
Drive to finish
Voyage
Service
Family
Escape memory
Bad habits pipe drink
Routine important
Nostalgia and endurance
Almost there now
Dock docking
Life all around sound shape smell
Simple connections to finish
Routine mundane easy
Effortless
Incomplete never happens
Closer closer and never arrived
A hat floating on water
Dog barking
Sep 13 · 235
Today
Philip Salt Sep 13
I have undone your work
That I see
But I am undone
That I feel
What is to be done?
That I ask
Sep 12 · 57
"Following Me" a song
Philip Salt Sep 12
_(softer) My lonely soul's been following me _following me _following me

(harder) So these lonely thoughts are stuck in my head _stuck in my head _stuck in my head

(louder) And you can't (fingers snapping) outrun what's stuck in your head, (louder) and you can't stomp out (foot stomping) what's stuck in your head;

So I'm stRuck (loud slap) in the head _headed for dead _can't get ahead.

(softer) My lonely soul's keeps following me _keeps following me _keeps following me.

Those lonely thoughts are deadening me _stuck in my head _can't get ahead

I want those thoughts (louder) unstuck from my head _unstuck from my head _unstuck from my head

They scar my soul like I've been stRuck (loud slap now) in the head _headed for dead _can't get ahead.

My lonely soul's creeping up on me _ it's following me _swallowing me.

(softer) My lonely soul's catching up to me _it's following me _swallowing me

(softer still) My lonely soul's got its claws in me _it's following me _swallowing me

(whispers) Can't get ahead _headed for dead

(softest whisper) It's following me

Pause End
Sep 12 · 75
Crimson Dust
Philip Salt Sep 12
The sky is perfectly still
Red earth trembles underfoot
I disintegrate into sand
The smallest grains rise and remain trapped in the air
A brilliant orange shatters the sky
A million particles of dust
Dissolve and fall slow,
Slow enough to be suspended
Sand and scarlet glow
The sky is perfectly still
I am crimson dust
Philip Salt Sep 11
Time to write a simple rhyme
Rather than abandoning poetry time
Even if it's quality is not sublime
Understanding not even I would pay a dime
For its content or for the time...

It takes to read this little set
Of words and phrases put in step
Better to stroope the steel than wait for the fine grit
When it's all caught up in the mix
And needs to be separated bit from bit
Sep 9 · 52
Reaching Back
Philip Salt Sep 9
I found my myself.
Not me now, myself then

My present self knew where to look
My past self knew only the absence it could feel

My memory of the past was searching for its own future. The incomplete journey finally come round

An instinct of then reached out
An instinct of now extended a hand

Both felt incomplete without one another.

Together at last.
Not fully fleshed out trying to capture and experience that I feel with inadequate words. Not poetry yet.
Sep 8 · 59
Take flight
Philip Salt Sep 8
Archangel,
Lend me your wings.
I pray to rise above the waves.

He alone can calm the storm.
We cannot!

We are slaves to waves of passion, error and pain.

We are servants of love, compassion and forgiveness.

I can only rise high enough for my feet to skim the surface of the water.

Maybe with your wings I can lift my heart into the sky.

Maybe with grace and humility I can rise to the foot of the eye of the needle.

Maybe from that lowly place all things are possible

His will be done
Sep 6 · 34
Pure Resentment
Philip Salt Sep 6
I can't do This
            Not correct

In one week, in one month, in one year; ten years from now you will be more you than you are now. This will have passed and the next thing will be the thing you can't do now.

So...

In one, in ten, in twenty minutes you can make a choice to change course, just a little. Then in one, ten, or twenty minutes after that a little course correction again. Then one, ten, twenty more. All those corrections will put you on a new course.

So...

After one week, one month, one year or ten you will be someone else, someone more you than you are now.
Sep 6 · 39
My Crush
Philip Salt Sep 6
The crush is in me, on me

Seen through my eyes, stuck in my memory

It is crushing me, my crushing crush

Upon my heart, stuck in my throat

No one comes to lift it, so I ensure it

I feel hollow, about to crumple

Until one day, I ****** it off
Sep 6 · 45
Blocked and bounded
Philip Salt Sep 6
Blocked and bounded by choice
Retreating into the imprint we have created for ourselves
Retreat then surrender but why?
To live on the sharp edge of dullness
Doubt leading
More and more to doubting
Insecurity becomes reality
Choices become the secure unreality

Sons and Daughters are the real unreality
Feeling scared then needing to see them
They are hope impossible
With them we can stare life down
Giving us the hope we need
All the hope we could ever hope for
Giving them security while we carried anvils
Embracing security with them in our arms
Our little guides to flatten out the hard path
Our hammers to blunt life's sharp blades
For their sake and for ours
Unrealized potential here
Sep 6 · 51
Love with the Sphinx
Philip Salt Sep 6
The Sphinx said: “What goes on four feet in the morning, two feet in midday, and three feet in the evening?”

Oedipus said, “The answer is ‘man’. A man crawls on all fours in the morning of his life, he walks on two feet in the midday of his life, and he uses a cane for extra support when he is old.”

Curious beautiful shinx. Your riddles like needles are strung through my heart. They beat on me yet I seem to depend on them.

Do I answer them until my death?
Do you desire that I wither away in your presence?

I do not know. I will one day. I love you my shinx,

Curious beautiful shinx. My intoxicating mystery. I live and die by your riddles. I am a broken reflexion of the pondering man that started out before you.

I am an echo of an echo of myself. Stuck. Struck by your frozen beauty.
Sep 6 · 47
Sage
Philip Salt Sep 6
Sage prairie breath
Plain wisdom
Golden teeth of grains...

Unfinished
Sep 6 · 40
Forte en bras
Philip Salt Sep 6
Petit homme, petit homme
Forte en bras
Pied Sur Terre
Endessous des ailes
Bien bien bien
Combien de fois faut ils jette votre Couer au Ciel pour etre attrappe par les anges

Petit homme, petit home
Forte en bras
Pied Sur Terre
Endessous des ailes
Bien bien bien
Combien de fois peu tu ascended au Ciel pour attrappe votre propre Couer.

Petit homme, petit homme
Forte en bras, retient votre couer
Pied Sur Terre, rest ici
Endessous des ailes, protege par Les plume
Bien bien bien
Bientot la Ciel viendra vous visite
Philip Salt Sep 6
I will not throw precious cargo into the shallows
I will not try to save my own ship
I will cry tears that might save us all

They will drain my soul
They will fall down from heaven
They will raise the waters

Enough to fill an ocean
Enough to rise all the ships
Enough to save my precious cargo
Philip Salt Sep 6
I am the one that walks through the wreckage and offers a helping hand.

Unfinished...
Philip Salt Sep 5
When I meet him one day ago I know him and he knows me

When I see him one week ago, we stand shoulder to shoulder, at ease

When I recall him one month ago I am happy, we smile

When months ago I reach out my hand and cry, we cry together

When years ago I am alone he is there, and I am lifted up

I am in need and he is there to share my burden

I can remember a lifetime of encounters with myself

I am filled with pride, he is proud of me

We find eachother and embrace, a healing hymn to heal ourselves
Sep 4 · 48
Circle, Eye, Storm
Philip Salt Sep 4
There is a circle there
Bounded by four chairs
Wide cushioned seating
Round that circle
Circling for a safe place to land
A place of comfort that must pass though discomfort

Words, words, words, roll around the circumference of the circle
From one speaker to the next like a wounded bird, it's wings clipped, trying to meet the ground most gently

Each voice adds to the wind that sustains flight. Tales in turn,
Tail winds that nurture the same story
An anthology that softens the landing.

Words of shared tragedy,
Voices edged with tears,
Tales of hurt,
Glimmers of hope.
A crescendo on the breaking line between melodies of relief and the rage of a maelstrom.

The living heart of the storm is full of love but beating in pain
As it gathers pounding momentum, new voices are added, the storm takes shape can the tempest find its own peace?


Right there.
Right there in the center.
The center of that circle.
That circle that holds them all together.
That circle bounded by four chairs.

As the circle breaks they find they can navigate life anew. Released by the storm, not dropped by it. They can laugh again. They can be better than before. Having been part of that turbulent chorus that miraculously heals the soul.
Sep 4 · 45
Mood Mud
Philip Salt Sep 4
Mood, mud, muddled mind
Twist my feelings back together
Molded clay that I am
Heal with mud, water and hand
Forge a fiery peace in my chest
With the heat at the heart of your kiln
Steady my recklessness without hardening my soul
Philip Salt Sep 4
In Saskatchewan

Driving through a pocket of sun

The Stranger Billy Joel next to me

She's always a woman plays on

Stealers Wheel steals the wheel

And I am truely stuck in the middle with you.

— The End —