Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘birth’

20101201

In aphorism, haiku, poetry, proverb, rumination on 20101201 at 12:23

It is not enough for anger to be bridled; it must be broken so that a bridle is not needed.

《the sun》
first crack of dawn, final setting of the sun
an everyday affair, seen always
as if the first and the last time.

《On Writing》
The joy of writing is the culmination of experience, the surprise birth of thoughts onto a world of paper; -watching, in hindsight, how the words flow, without warning. To be ready as the paper, willing as the pen.

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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.

20080905

In aphorism, proverb on 20080905 at 01:22

Politics is a balloon upon which promises are written and inflated.

We need tolerance most precisely when we don’t have it.

A walk away from birth, a walk towards death.

The exotic only exists to those who have not exited.

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.