"qualify" poems
My country
a land like no other.
just like my mother
i wouldn't want another
so special to me
in different but in every way
i shall bring forth dignity
not tommorow, but everyday
to developement we shall strive
keeping the momentum alive
we shall qualify,
for everything there to justify.
Sri lanka,
the name that spells my honour,
in the life cirlcle.
Just a small miracle.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 1:40 AM UTC
Maybe you do love me, maybe you're only half lies. Maybe there's a small part of you somewhere that sees me. as more than just a means-to get to the things you think you need. And maybe what little you give is all you have when it comes to love. Maybe, just maybe. But that's not enough.
You made me think that I was not enough- never even worthy of your insufficient love. You made me spend my whole life believing I was faulty, inadequate, broken. With everything you did- actions and words unspoken.
Not good enough, smart enough, not skinny enough, not pretty enough. Not perfect enough to qualify by what was expected of us. And if I wasn't enough for you to love, someone else doing so would be undreamed of. To cut it short, you ****** me up. Now I have no idea who I am because-
You made me think that I was not enough- never even worthy of your insufficient love. You made me spend my whole life believing I should be hidden, stored upon the shelf. With everything you did- all your awful things kept to yourself.
I was the first you made, now I'm a mess you've made. If I believed you could change even now it'd be too late. The damage is done, neither of us has won. I didn't well enough serve your purpose and I'm still being punished for it.
I was promised my freedom for years and it was just a dream. Some constant reminder of my forced dependence you could dangle upon a string. All you wanted was to hold me back and all I wanted was to run free. Well I'm finally doing it without you, despite what you say I'm breaking through. For once in my life I'll be actually happy. Maybe for the rest of my life I'll figure out what it is to be me.
You made me think that I was not enough- never even worthy of your insufficient love. You would still make me think that I am faulty, inadequate, broken. With everything you do- actions and words unspoken.
No longer need I be scared of you, no longer shall I go through things no one should ever have to. You can't ever again make me feel like I'm not enough- because I don't care- I've found another source of comfort and love, and I wouldn't expect you to be there.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I used to feel ashamed to be put in the category of:
Illegal, immigrant, undocumented,
Or simply not a U.S Citizen
I’ve been oppressed and rejected from:
Jobs, schools and programs,
Because I’m not a red-blooded American
But through God I learned that I should
Be proud of who I am and what country I come from
And that makes me free
Because I still have choices
I still have options
As long as I try, I can smile
As long as I have God
My life is worthwhile
Because I’m His child
I can’t contain myself any more
I’m tired of being broke and poor
I’m going to get that full ride
Into a 4 year college
I’m going to get that steady job security with:
A steady paycheck, that’s re-locatable and it’s fun
I’m tired of lying, hiding, and scamming
To get into organizations, staffing agencies and jobs
That would help my life be healthier
I dislike the fact that you have to
Get married to get a green card
I hate using a fake social security number
Or tax ID on applications that ask for it
I don’t like making up excuses about
Why I don’t qualify for financial aid or unemployment
But I’m going to man up and keep moving forward
It doesn’t matter how much:
Pain, anxiety, frustration, bad attitudes,
Disappointment, confusion, heart break
Or put downs I get in life
I’ll keep fighting the good fight with all my heart
And I’m going to be honest even if hurts me
Because I still have choices
I still have options
As long as I try, I can smile
As long as I have my God,
My life is worthwhile
Because I am His child
By Shannon Pollard
© December 2012
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
The complexity of coupling is an exponential increase.
No matter how perturbed life may be, we strive to linearize it,
thank you Laplace. You transform us.
It is integral to simplify life.
Like Da Vinci, Like Thoreau:
“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication”
“Our life is frittered away by detail…simplify, simplify”
Let us not differentiate between the good or the bad
the high or the low.
Life is too brief to quantify, qualify, and compare it to others.
It is yours alone. Embrace the change over time.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
Criticism is validating
Your love is a choke hold
A marriage committed to my compromise
Generic mending
Each strand of bronzed chunk, represented a vow you gave me
The scissors cold and bare, cutting it away from my body
Swept into the nearest waste facility
I was invested until the end
Dying with you was never scary
I now degrade, picking scraps off picture frame edgings
Look at us so happy
Lusted objectifying could qualify as the new I do
Well, we didn't make it to 80 not even 32
Congratulations to your selfish needs buddy
I hope you finally find you
Here take this ring, it doesn't fit me
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:21 AM UTC
You can assume what you want you're probably right
This is a never ending story
A special heart broke apart is the downside of favoritism
To live today with a awfully wedded wife
Can coincide with the upside to fablism
Can you stand up with or aside a revolution
It's still a time of movement
This is the start of a revolution
In the mind of a mover who constantly dreams of destruction
Fail or win
Now that's its over
You can become addicted to the fact that you want it back
Just that very dream or memory
Can leave you so high
That a skydiving crash would feel like a descent towards pillowed daffodils
Now histamines flare up
Now swollen about to pop
You've never been so high
The perfect quality to qualify the high you have
But quantity Is the one thing no one can grasp
Have none to share none
If you don't have it for yourself first
You can't give something you don't have enough for even yourself
This is the blank meaning for inspiration
For inspiring an unborn child
Maybe it's the missing meaning
Blank blank blank
It still means nothing when nothing is there
So why take this walk
Why write lines the continue to feel like nothing
Why scream on top of the mountain of the faintest echo won't reach the mightiest of ears hearing to tell the world of an achievement
That no one fortunately cares about
An empty sentient being
It's more interpersonal than that
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
** Note to self No.1**
You have to qualify your haters, if they aren't on the same level as you - particular on the thing they are criticizing, then they don't even register on my radar. I would be a fool, to listen to someone that isn't better than me opinion(s) -- expecting to get better.
i.e. If someone is giving you"advise" on how to be a better person, and they are a ****** person.
This applies to all aspect of live.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Biology TED talk, Ken Burns WWII
Multiple choice plus open response =
Teacher cares, out there among the English
Mathematics, fractions to imaginary i
Anything can happen any time, I mean
Mass killing--public school, movie theater,
Post office when every mother wears a gun
Yet happiness permeates like CO2 + sunlight
Photosynthesis + electricity = burning bush
Hot tea, hot shower pleasure perfect rest
Early to bed, no more lies, complexity
Poetry about history, i.e. Wolfowitz
As for non-fiction, most things qualify to know
Astrobiology, search for LUCA, FLO
Minerals on Titan, organisms on Enceladus
Divination on Iapetus, peace on Earth and Tethys
Volcanoes and tsunamis, Big Red One and Private Ryan
Don't stay up late, take your vitamins
Sin and crime being nothing more than
Mental malaise, imbalance. Love and compromise
Tolerance, practice worksheets, brilliance
Prejudice and superstition, Tha's a wrap
Nothin doin, ain't gonna happen, freedom's when
Yes is mostly a blessing and No is always an option
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 8:14 AM UTC
1439
How ruthless are the gentle—
How cruel are the kind—
God broke his contract to his Lamb
To qualify the Wind—
3.7k
I've always wanted that transcendent kinda love
I think You and I have that potential
*Only potential?
That doesn't sound very romantic
Do I have to take a test to see if I qualify?*
Sorry, engineer-speak
Physics terminology is seeping in
Scratch potential
You and I are kinematic
What's that mean exactly?
It's in motion
We're in motion?
We're getting closer
Our orbits are intertwined
Unknown forces pull us together
Soon we'll basically (or literally) be on top of each other
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Brothers,
let us stand together.
Sisters,
you can stay sitting.
Let us stand
united
by our inability
to stay out in the sun
too long.
In fact,
would someone mind
erecting a gazebo
for us to stand united
underneath?
Thank you.
Brothers,
having proven
that we cannot demonstrate
our superiority
through sport,
rhetoric,
mathematics,
music,
drama,
art,
science,
business acumen
or military might
Let us instead
prove it beyond all doubt
by gathering in groups
and chanting slogans.
Flags are good, too.
Dagnab it,
just look at the way
we can wave those flags.
If that
doesn't qualify us
as the Master Race,
then I don't know what will.
And thus anointed,
let us expunge the world
of miscegenation.
Let us cleanse public radio
of anything other
than Bavarian folk music.
Let us revel
in boiled beef
and wheat-based foods.
Let us return
the mineral wealth of the world
to the tarnished, coloured nations
from whence it came.
Let us reject
foreign mythologies
apart from that one
about Jesus
obviously.
Let us all return
to the country, town,
street
and house
of our birth.
History is with us, brothers.
If there's one thing
it teaches us
it's that nothing should ever change
and empires
never fall.
Sieg heil!
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
*
This is being referred as qualitative summary of a person’s
spiritual conditions at the final point of a life time,
including his moral values, spiritual liabilities
and the net worth as assets
in his or her Holiness or Godliness.
This is shown at the left column.
The first part of the life’s balance sheet shows
all the sinful deeds or belongings.
The second part shows all
the bountiful gracefulness as liabilities.
This is shown at the right column.
This is also called as the statement of condition
of a person while on his last and
final confiscation or end of life.
Both left and right columns should match
or tally to qualify for a life in the next world.
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsgeorge.com
www.williamsmaveli.com
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
Waves crash over
The coral in the sea
Everyone sees the beauty
But doesn't realize
They're alive
They are the homes of fish
Sometimes fish leave and never
Come back
And sometimes they leave for a
Couple years and come back
In a way people are like fish
They leave forever or vanish for a little while
The coral, the homes,
They are the beautiful people
No, not the models, the cheerleaders, no
The beautiful are the ones hurting
The ones others call weak,
When they're stronger than most
The beautiful are the ones
Who do their best to look like the models
When they don't need to
The beautiful are the ones with
Scars on their thighs, wrists, ankles, stomach
Which one am I?
I'm one of the beautiful
I'm not being prideful or anything
I have proof
And it's not fake believe me
There's things that qualify you
As being a beautiful one
As one of us.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
the weight of the days,
weeks, months, years,
crush me
and all i can see
is the tiresome monotony
sound, speak, repeat
click clack of the keyboard
strum of guitar
whir of the milk i steam
metal pitcher, pull the shot
latte's made
and studying
biology, trigonometry, literature
then off to the real world
a piece of paper, i qualify
to live my life
work forty hours a week
just like before
but a desk,
papers, a phone number,
and pens with my name engraved...
i feel each of these days to come
and i don't want
any of them.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
539
The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art—To save—
Through Skill obtained in Themselves—
The Science of the Grave
No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution—in Himself—
That Man—be qualified
To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new—
Mistake Defeat for Death—Each time—
Till acclimated—to—
3.1k
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
I posted this poem a few days after I joined HP. As is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions. With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked. Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week. So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.
March 2012
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
373
I’m saying every day
“If I should be a Queen, tomorrow”—
I’d do this way—
And so I deck, a little,
If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious—
With “This was she—
Begged in the Market place—
Yesterday.”
Court is a stately place—
I’ve heard men say—
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup—
That not too plain—
Rank—overtake me—
And perch my Tongue
On Twigs of singing—rather high—
But this, might be my brief Term
To qualify—
Put from my simple speech all plain word—
Take other accents, as such I heard
Though but for the Cricket—just,
And but for the Bee—
Not in all the Meadow—
One accost me—
Better to be ready—
Than did next morn
Meet me in Aragon—
My old Gown—on—
And the surprised Air
Rustics—wear—
Summoned—unexpectedly—
To Exeter—
2.7k
It was the end-of-year exam
to qualify for the prestigious
Top Class at school
and with his paper
spoiled brat Tommy
handed in a $100 note
to his teacher and winked with a whisper:
*“A dollar for each point, Sir;
I know all about percentages”*
The next day the teacher returned
the papers to the students
and marked bold on
spoiled brat Tommy’s paper
was: 40%
And the teacher pointed to a $60 note attached
and he said with a wink and whisper:
*“That’s the change, Tommy -
a dollar a point, yeah”*
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 8:45 AM UTC
Some folks hide behind blinders only seeing fantasies instead of truth.
Truth that has stayed before many to witness and not be fooled.
It's the new racism that trickled down from the old.
Oh, to the news , it's like something new.
To those that has dealt with it constantly.
They just never has been asked the question.
Whether it's on the police force.
Or simply from co-workers.
The new racism never fooled many of us.
Some use the blame affirmative action excuse.
Others states, they more qualify than you.
When in truth both aren't always true.
Especially, when you aware that many with college degrees.
And you probably without can do the job better.
And it's has nothing to do with color.
Some feel comfortable around their own.
Then these the same you see in those segregation videos.
Advising others, they should go back home.
When in truth, it's now a choice if you chose too.
Cause in this new racism , many still using tools to defeat you.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Wrong
Wrung
Ring
Ring my doorbell,
Wring my neck,
Rid me of this mortal wretch.
*****
Wrench
Can you fix it?
Get your toolbox
You're ill-equipped
I don't qualify
Quality
Quantity
I am not enough
For this.
Too tough
To kiss.
Rough life I've lived.
Live
Life
Lie
Lay back.
Just take it.
Let it happen.
Swallow
Swallow me up.
Swallow me whole.
Throw me down into a hole.
Wholly
Holy
Even God forgot me.
Oh his drones did try.
Saxophone & sweat
Promised hell when I die.
Choir girls & Inquisition
Tore my words, tried to burn me alive.
Then the good chaplain,
Samaritan?
Charlatan.
Daddy out of the way,
Me on the streets,
Mommy where he wants her
Worship at his feet.
Fret
Bet.
I am not afraid.
My debt is paid.
In blood, in tears.
Lost dreams, lost years.
Country roads, cold beers.
Bare
Bear
Burdens
I am brave.
Strength
Truth
Power
You'll have to cut them from my flesh.
Fresh
Blood
Brooding o'er my funeral,
Don't worry about my death.
I still feel pain,
I still draw breath.
My hearts not cold,
My soul is still old.
I haven't set a thing in stone.
******
Skipping rocks.
Flying planes,
Sail away from the docks.
Shoot me into outer space,
If this is Hell,
Heaven can wait.
I'm dancing with the Devil
& God is always fashionably late.
Create.
Tell
Tales
Tails
I'm not done yet.
Evolving
Incomplete
Completely me.
Pecan pie & sweet tea.
Nature
Treks
Blessed Be.
Naked
Exposed
Second for the money,
First for the show.
This is a test,
No time to be gauche.
Gross
Shocking grace.
There's still sand in my grave.
This cannibal inside
Still has a taste.
Human body beneath my tongue,
It's essence still fills my lungs.
Chest
Heart
Beats against this cage.
I'm too young to feel this age,
So don't you dare save the date.
Once the wolf works with the mirror
It's finally free.
Then I promise,
You'll be seeing me.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that only the heartbreak is good enough
to qualify as poetry.
all the roller-coaster rush
and the picnics on the hill
and the first time your hands brush together
on your first date and they take yours
to fill the gaps between their finger,
and the aimless walks looking for
somewhere to eat
and the first time they said i love you
but it wasn’t perfect
so they’d written you a poem
because that seemed closer
to perfect
than those three words —
somehow, at some point,
all of these gets overlooked
like words in a history book
he wouldn’t read even if he was stuck with it in a dream.
the thing with falling in love with a poet
is that it is falling in love with a stranger
who writes poetry at 8 am or 10 pm, hoping
to find his lover back in front of him
when he reaches the last word and raises up his head.
it is falling in love
with someone whose walls seem to echo
the first time they said i love you
three years ago,
it is falling in love with someone
who could still be writing about the love of his life
and sometimes, the consonants
in her name
look like the
vowel in yours
but it’s not you, honey,
sometimes,
it’s just
not you.
he said i shouldn’t mistake
falling in love with his words
for falling in love with him,
so i thought
how could that be, when his words
were the words i wanted to kiss?
how could that be, when he was
the poetry i wanted to read?
one time,
i asked him if he would write me a poem
if he ever fell out of love.
and he said he would never fall out of love.
and he did.
without any warning —
without any melancholic farewell,
or messy kisses on the kitchen floor,
or desperate pleads for us to stay.
he fell out of love with me —
without writing any heartbreak poem;
but then again, maybe it was because
all heartbreak poems, even if it was us falling apart,
would still be written for you.
the night he left,
he forgot to take his poetry collection
all written in the tattered pages
of that black notebook i got him,
and it was full of pages folded in halves
and it was full of your name in lazy scribbles
and it was full of his words
wanting you back.
it was the night we broke up
yet it was still you, breaking his heart —
it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
he loved me.
it was the night he decided he could no longer pretend
i was you.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 9:08 PM UTC
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number me this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify,
limitless.
March 2012
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
in dreams i met the fox again
this time i asked him to use words
grabbing sandcastle fistfuls of his fur
until the tide swept in
and i howled.
i asked him for the essence
secret ingredient
that made him a fox
as if it could be answered
= fur. paws. snout.
so we built a den of bricks
and i seal it over and over in vines
-just hold this together-
in thin flora we both know he could tear down
(if he wanted to)
the fox and his mystery mortar.
one day, the fox opened his mouth and said:
"wait".
do i ask for his appraisal
or do i riddle me for mine?
tearing down the wall to qualify
my own little bits of stone
twist my silver hair
because maybe i'm not half as scared of knowing the fox
as i am of knowing
the wolf.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 10:25 AM UTC