Daily Archives: June 2, 2018
The sky is behind dark clouds,
And the moon
Still pulls away somehow
Lighting the night
In a shade of different blue.
I stand beneath the view,
And nothing matters more
Than what it is I do explore.
Can heaven ever stay this way?
Yes, nothing matters more
Than what it is I do explore
When feelings rush right in,
And hindrance rushes through.
I think of you sometimes,
And the thoughts I have
Are sweet purified delight.
My heart is overcome
When you’re not even here.
The sky calls out,
Calls out your name,
And I hear the voice echo.
Believe me when I say
How I can make it through the day
It’s the night that causes pain,
And familiar intercourse shattered.
I’m just a clone of the smallest spore.
Can I ever close this wretched door
To feelings that I chance explore
On the sweetest one I know?
The night is a shade of different blue.
I will not vanquish any though of you
For every moment is a tender gift
As a pirates cove built up with treasures.
O’ how the night is uncommonly blue!
More From David Barger, HERE!
Judith smiled across at Thomas. She didn’t say anything when he stroked her thigh up and down in the car. Up and down. Up and down. Until she felt an internal bliss rising up within her. At first, she felt afraid of this sensation. She had never felt this way before. Alone and afraid, overwhelmed irrevocably by city life, she changed. She changed over the months. She no longer felt anything for the past. She felt loved in the arms of power. Never before had she felt a love so great. Worshiped. Adored. She behaved like an actress. She flirted and in return she was caressed by men. She hovered near European males, found this exciting. Thought that she had a gift for it. For eating her dinners in a fancy restaurant. Thought that now she had economic freedom.
Judith was a coloured girl from an Eastern Cape farming community. She knew her place. She also knew she was lucky. She had got good marks in matric. That was why she go the office job in Johannesburg. She didn’t know what to call the attention then. The inappropriate comments. She only knew this. That she was attracted to power. The emotional and financial security a powerful man could give her. She knew that one day, that day would ultimately come when she would marry and have children and forget about Johannesburg. Her winters there. The family who had rejected her because she was not white enough for them. She knew she would forget about her depression there. Most of all her nervous breakdown. She knew when (not if now anymore).
When she would marry she would leave home never to return to that asphalt jungle. She could
forgive her father then, even her mother. Feel no animosity towards her mother only grief, but she knew in time that would also change. There were times when she secretly despised herself.
She watches the flame bright and studious from where she is sitting. The candles that she has lit are enough to burn the flat down. She thinks to herself that she is a camera seeing not feeling. An electric soul on fire swimming towards the man. Her instinct is honest. A barefoot paradise.
They dance to a tape that she has put on. Joy Division then Lionel Richie fills the room. They are slow dancing. She’s tired of this game. He kisses her forehead and leads her to the bedroom.
All week Judith was missing him but she didn’t telephone him at home. Thomas had been angry when she had done that in the past. There had been arguments. Thomas didn’t hit her but he had raised his hand once. She had burst into tears then. Ran sobbing into the next room while he ran after her and tried to placate her. They had ended up making love. Thomas had apologised for being a bully. Told her that he loved her but he knew in his heart of hearts that he didn’t mean it and he hoped that she knew that he had only said it in the moment. He had found her at a jazz club one Friday evening. She was drinking alone at the bar. She was young.
Gamine and beautiful. She had beautiful eyes. She danced with energy. Listened to his stories.
Judith was way too young for him but she was looking for a man to go home with and she decided early on in the evening that it was Thomas that she was going to go home with. Instead he took her to a hotel in notorious Hillbrow, Johannesburg. All day after that Judith spent hours writing in her journal. How beautiful Thomas had said she looked over and over again. She told him about this older woman in the office who had become infatuated with her and had tried to kiss her one evening in a club they had both gone to after work for drinks. She had misunderstood the signals. The woman had said how pretty Judith looked. She had warned her about the married men in the office. She had asked Judith if she still looked attractive.
For more HERE!
I am ok and will continue to be ok. I am not the center of the universe. Reality is peopled and diverse. But I am center of a circle of acts of beauty and cosmic awareness, and consequence.
How blessed I am to be one of the articulate; neither oppressed or intimidated into silence. I am gifted with a voice.
You are ok and you will continue to be ok. You too are not center of the universe. Reality is peopled and diverse. But you are the center of a circle of acts of beauty and cosmic awareness, and consequence.
How do our circles interconnect?
For us, we who have journeyed the paths of healing, love has already engraved its calligraphy inside our souls: we know what is to be done. We foot the slope to the valley below. Our eyes follow the valley water.
The Dove of Now is a lighthouse bird
Look out toward everyone. Pay attention here please. Listen. Care is part of our emergency. That is as sure as indifference fuels destruction.
Earth is in torment, confusion and rage! Brewing to category 5: to intemperate rage. To critical mass. This torment of Earth is aligned with the multiples of our angst. Our anguish is crucifixion in the body of God. And you are startled, wondering, “What and where, in the name of the 21st century, is the body of God?”
Today is the day. Another day and yet the day. Right now is the hour. Another hour and yet the hour. What are we doing? Why are we here?
How do our circles interconnect?
Time if not something like inexorable fate has brought us together. We persist
acting as if strangers. Only we are not. Not strangers after all. We shallow lies; are terrifyingly forgetful. Life is betrayed.
Why are we like this? Why all like this? And how long? I wouldn’t hold my breath, holding out for an answer. Anymore than you should stop breathing about the perplexity of the body of God.
Now listen: I am determined to tell you civilization’s secret, the most denied, the one that survives and somehow remains most holy. The haunting remains of holy: deathless images.
The Dove of Now is a lighthouse bird.
Somewhere on this troubled planet, somehow, someone passionate, I am compelled to tell you, found a spade and dug up a cask of buried scripture. And shook out from that dust of time and this storm of history—look—a miracle of wings!
Check David Sparenberg’s NEW BOOK
THE GREEN TROUBADOUR A Source Book of Performance Ecosophy
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!
David Sparenberg has also 2 more Books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“Life in the Age of Extinctions volume 2 – Threshold”
Download for FREE HERE!
In New York long ago
When nickel coffee reigned,
Above Third Avenue
On bulky structures, stained
Rusty orange like old teeth,
The rumbled roar of the el
Flattened conversation down beneath,
An iron demon out of Hell.
Southeast a street of tranquility
Where the literary sensibility
Could graze on weathered books,
Fondle dog-eared pages,
Inhale their musty smell.
Fourth Avenue below Union Square
Was inhabited by small shops
Barricaded by long boxes on legs
Stocked with multitudes of old tomes,
Jumbled display of outcast dregs
Of private collections, printed ruminations
From obscure minds to be bought
For a mere few cents.
Dickens sat with Einstein alongside
Obscure statistics on the shape of bones
Of cretaceous creatures
That had stalked these very streets
Emitting snorts and grunts and moans.
This terminal moraine of thought
To be excavated for nuggets –
Antique volumes, odd British comic publications,
Gold stamped leather bound collections
Of men, pith helmeted, in deep explorations
Carefully depicted with fine-lined steel engravings
Plus a plethora of forgotten PhD dissertations.
Today this archipelago of print is long gone,
Eroded down to one last Strand
Where still the studious flip pages
With a searching eye, an anxious hand
Fondly recalling one of New York’s finer ages.
More from Jan Sand HERE!