Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘into’

20120129

In aphorism, poetry, proverb, tale on 20120129 at 19:09

It took more than the kiss of a princess to turn a frog into a prince. It took a fairy tale.

Be who you want to be -not only for that it might make a difference to others, but for that it will make a difference in you.

One can live a fairy tale, but never shall one die in the same fairy tale.

《if you will》
from life, is derived experience.
from experience, is derived wisdom.
from wisdom, is derived life.

The only thing worse than being shat on is realizing that it’s of your own doing.

Relationships are like energy: once established, they cannot disappear, only change form.

Methinks myself exempt / methinks myself a fool.

Life is too short to be held back by: others, fear, fear of others, others’ fear.

One of the best rewards of teaching is learning.

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20110811

In aphorism, proverb on 20110811 at 14:20

Action follows values,
values follow desire,
desire follows choice.

Values are the mold into which desire is poured and action is set.

20110404

In aphorism, proverb on 20110404 at 20:03

A bug faces into the wind.

A man with nothing has at least his name.

《home》
the man had no home
just mags with hags and even
his very own name.

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.