Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘again’

20140319

In aphorism, proverb on 20140319 at 21:43

How we handle a present failing is more crucial to determining a future success than is the incidence of the failure itself.

Every incidence of failure is given an opportunity for redemption, and that depends on whether we let it stop us or whether we bow to it or allow it to inspire a change within us.

A present failing is often but a perceived failing.

A failing offers but an opportunity to try again with informed experience behind us.

To loosen one’s grip is not necessarily to lose one’s grip.

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20110707

In aphorism, chinese, proverb on 20110707 at 09:03

A postcard is as the moon of the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival, uniting friends afar.

Self be wise; make fool only without truth. [top 8 words from this blog, on this day]

The sun shines on, amidst sweat, tears, and blood.

No sooner does the sun set, does the sun rise again.

20101127

In aphorism, proverb, quote, rumination on 20101127 at 15:54

Men of fear unite; men of courage disband.

One dog smells a fellow dog.

A fool sacrifices tomorrow -a day he does not have, for today -a day he will never have again.

Freedom is like oxygen –most appreciated in its absence.

Development is incremental change in the direction of progress.

Ore must be smelted before metal is poured.

A dirty diner let’s another do his dishes.

Ideas alone cannot realize inspiration; only ideas coupled with action give birth to inspiration.

《On Fear》
It is said that fear can be smelled; I say that fear stinks.

20101123

In aphorism, proverb, rumination, tale on 20101123 at 11:23

Apathy is fear, incognito.
Anger is fear, unleashed.
Action is fear, confronted.

With folded hands and closed eyes, we choose to be the fool, the dead, or the wise.

《Learning to BE》
The child asks the elder, “How to BE?”

The elder utters, “Child, close your eyes and fold your hands. And you will find the wisdom to BE”.

The child scans the earth and rebuts, “It is the fool that fold their hands idly and close their eyes tightly. I do not wish to be a fool, I simply wish to BE.”

Again the elder says, “Child, close your eyes and fold your hands. And the wisdom to BE, you will find.”

Hands raised to the sky, again the child refutes, “It is the dead that rest infinitely with eyes aclosed and hands afolded. I do not wish to be dead, I simply wish to BE!”

One last time, the elder states, “Child, your able hands are raised upwards, yet you fail to grasp; your eyes are opened wide, yet you fail to see. -That if all you wish for, is simply to BE, it is but with folded hands and closed eyes, that you shall understand -you already ARE.”

20091106

In aphorism, proverb on 20091106 at 14:19

Who uses force has already lost control.

The cake that falls before it rises will not rise again.

20090929

In aphorism, proverb on 20090929 at 08:10

The bee that stings never does again.

The wise is aware of his ignorance, but the fool is ignorant even of his awareness.

The smoking hand is an idle hand.

The dreaming mind is a sleeping mind.

Who wears a shoe is never at home.

A lawn seeded is a lawn mowed.

The dry well is a lonely well.

A color is worn in season’s time.

The single ply does not fray.

A ripened fruit falls free from the vine; the immature cling fast.

20060131

In poetry on 20060131 at 23:10

《the sex of poets》

The sex of poets emanates –
flowing as without edges,
contagious as without knowing;
words play
back and forth –
a rhythm, ever changing,
follows whereby one leads
until the pull of the next.
One moment
as without definition,
nor clearly sided with neighbors –
rolling one to the next.
Beckoned without call,
it is from a distance that
one sees deep into the heart
where life seems both
to stop and start, again –
without pause and
with the haste of lovers
kept at bay, unwilled.
The words sear clear,
sharp and pure.
They exist alone,
and yet are fed
by the hunger of ideas
yet tossed,
yet exposed –
as if the virgin ever lived
within the eyes of the soul;
forever waiting,
forever with hunger –
fresh as the moment to follow.

The sex of poets lingers
past the setting sun
into the morning dew,
where one knows not for sure
if the climax be truer
at the final release of
thoughts never felt, – or
perhaps at the time
of response; the
lover’s words, a compliment,
meshing with, as if one.
Almost beyond a reality,
the words live on
to dance without end,
to breed a careful song –
as if in tales of lore,
existence never certain.
Fleeting, though strong;
Skirting, though present –
The moment speaks not
of tangible truths
that speak of tomorrows,
but rather the window
rarely looked into –
it is there
it is waiting,
but cannot be taken with you,
nor fed to the mortal –
only to continue
in the souls of lovers –
perhaps truer than
the love of lovers itself.

The sex of poets preys
upon the passion saved
over years and decades
desires of the flesh
never satisfy the wound
of ages past
of pains neglected
merely masking in mum
the yearning ever mounting
to release with a single
sound
The silence is broken,
fears relinquished;
the rebirth of hopes
fills the air –
thick with the essence of now
and hint of next,
never to be sure.
The bliss lies within,
ever longing.
Separate worlds entwined –
an affair of the id
within…
Never lucid to the searching,
but in control.
When no longer logic bids you
surrender, at last call
with bursting souls;
hungrier still, the eve –
power of the word
has finally come, the time.