Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘flow’

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.

20100119

In aphorism, proverb on 20100119 at 01:32

The swiftest stallion eats the greenest grass.

Free speech does not beg of the fool to speak, though it permits, for the words of the fool run weakly and will run out. May we freely speak, that the waters of wisdom may flow, freely and forever.

20090518

In aphorism, proverb on 20090518 at 09:01

Oppression of a right is simply the acknowledgment of its very existence, coupled with the denial of that acknowledgment and a contentedness with that denial.

Recipes are edible gold.

No blood is shed when the brain is washed, but neither does the blood flow that giveth forth life.

Maintain control through peaceful cooperation; seize it not by pernicious coercion.

Creativity is simply the manifestation of another idea via inspiration.

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.