Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘essence’

20120501

In aphorism, proverb, rumination on 20120501 at 23:39

If there exist the privileged and the underdogs, then also exist the underprivileged and the dogs.

《the real fight》

It is not enough that the underdog fights for the underdog.

Who is not afflicted, who is not oppressed, who is not persecuted -is tasked to support the underdog by assisting their fight for equality by opposing inequality.

For whosoever does not apply their ability, in essence, so gives up their ability. Whosoever has a right, but does nothing to extend and fight for all to have this right, so upholds a wrong.

The privileged condone by overlooking, condemn by standing by. The war of injustice is fueled by disregard, and the fight against injustice begins only when the privileged stand up for -and fight with- the underdog.

So, do not fight for your cause alone. Do not voice only that which concerns you. Do fight the wars that persist, large and small, for one and for all.

Because we are all the privileged, if not in one way, than in another. And we are all the underdog, if not today, then someday.

20101001

In aphorism, proverb, rumination on 20101001 at 14:23

Should a bee desire pollen, pollen is what a bee attaineth; lo, the flower feigns a frail, but fertile, victim.

The sun that sets early is late to rise.

Follow not the directions, draw not the maps; create the terrain and blaze the trail.

《On Names》
A name is an abbreviation of one’s being:
an acronym of metaphysical action,
an eponym of ancestral transcendence,
a simile of theoretical essence,
an interjection of acknowledged existence.

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.