Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘long’

20160829

In haiku, poetry, rumination on 20160829 at 23:55

Beware sunsets’ lure—
shadows at their longest warn,
darkness soon follows.

Advertisements

20110403

In haiku, poetry on 20110403 at 16:26

Reflections are real.

《northern damsel》
curvy and long-legged
gorgeous and dangerous, go slowly-
white-out on US-41.

20101227

In tale on 20101227 at 15:33

《Flawed in the Eye of a Bumptious Camel》

In a land where the sun shone without reprieve, there once was a Camel so proud, that he would spit at the sight of another animal. For in his eyes, the others -they were all flawed.

A Little Bird, ever observant, came to rest on the head of the Camel. “Who are you spitting at today, dear Camel?”

The bumptious Camel responded with a huff, “Ha! Who does that Elephant think she is?” With a spit in the Elephant’s direction, he continued. “What a silly nose, it nearly hangs on the ground!”

The Little Bird smirked with wisdom unknown to the Camel, and responded, “Dear Camel, that long silly nose of the Elephant is quite a useful tool, don’t you see? She gathers water like a hose. And when no water there is, like a trumpet, she bellows!”

The bumptious Camel hesitated in concession but for a moment, turning next to the Lion. “Look at that scruff! Can’t a Lion tame his own mane?” And the Camel spit.

The Little Bird with a smirk, followed, “Dear Camel, that mangy mane not only makes it look kingly above all the other animals, but can you fancy it with a bob cut?”

The bumptious Camel could not disagree and chuckled at the thought of a better-groomed Lion.

But he quickly straightened his face and forced another spit, saying, “But what about the Giraffe? Such a long, gangling neck –what is a head doing so far from its feet?”

The Little Bird explained, “Dear Camel, when the rains visit no more, and food is scarce –only the Giraffe can reach those yet green leaves, so high up in the sky.”

Once more, the Camel scrambled to save the last of his all-knowing pride, and said, “The Rhino –what can be said of that sore-looking horn, smack in the middle of its mug!”

But the Little Bird was no shorter of words than she was of wisdom. “Dear Camel, that unsightly adornment of a horn might be nothing to look at, but it serves her well when intruders threaten with presence.”

Conceding at last, the Camel asked the Little Bird, “And what about you? What is your forte that feigns a flaw?”

The Little Bird asked, “Who me?” and with tilted head, paused in thought before responding, “Why… these scrawny legs of mine, I suppose. They aren’t much to look at, either -are they!”

The Camel timorously chuckled in agreement.

“But, when I fly…” the Little Bird expounded, “… ’tis as if I fly without the weight of any legs, -free to soar where’er the wind dares me!”

And with these words, the Little Bird set out for a spin, spreading her wings and tucking those scrawny legs right out of sight. This talent pleased the Camel, causing him to look down at his own not-so-scrawny legs.

But before the Camel could sputter a word, the Little Bird interjected, “Oh Camel, your legs are just fine, strong as the quadruped that you are! Your forte feigning flaw is not your knock knees, but only what you yourself cannot see.”

The Little Bird landed once again on the Camel’s forehead, this time facing backwards, her own tail dangling just in view of the Camel’s eyes.

At this, the Camel was instantly flummoxed, but equally intrigued.

With eyebrows now disheveled, he goaded the Little Bird, “Alright, Legs. Enough with empty accusations; Enlighten me, if you think you may!”

The Little Bird peered backwards over the Camel and said, “Have you ever wondered why you cannot roll around and scratch your back on the grasses of these barren plains, like the other quadrupeds?”

The Camel was dumbstruck, for the Little Bird had spoken the truth –though he had never paused to reason why.

“Look at this back of yours, Camel. It’s got a big bump on it, like you’ve been stuffed with a pillow!” The Little Bird bounced up and down on the noticeable bump.

The Camel spit in denial, then dropped his jaw with waning disbelief. He craned his neck to the side in search, as he realized that he’d never ever even seen this so-called bump. And he found his neck to be just long enough to catch a glimpse of what was indeed a most un-smooth bump. The Camel’s eyebrows settled into a heap of newfound shame.

The Little Bird flew up to this bump and said, “Dear Camel –this bump of a hump of yours, this flaw –is your forte.”

The Camel perked up a bit with hope enough to relieve his mounting shame. “Do enlighten me, Little Bird!”

“This hump of yours explains why you alone can brave the desert sands, without hint of oasis, for days on end. This bulky bump of a hump is but a reservoir, with water enough to endure time itself in light of the blazing sun!”

And this time, the Camel smiled a –no longer bumptious– smile and said, “Hey, Legs- so wise are you! Now, I see… the only flaw of mine, was in the sight of my eyes!”

20101208

In aphorism, proverb, rumination on 20101208 at 19:30

How sweet is longing, how bitter is regret!

20101207

In aphorism, haiku, poetry, proverb on 20101207 at 23:36

Judge only those with whom you can empathize.

Tomorrow will not feed the hunger of today.

Worry only of today’s hunger, and tomorrow will feed itself.

If one follows their gut, they will always have guts.

When information is framed, only education is tied, only knowledge sentenced, only wisdom slain.

Excuse befits the guilty; truth befits the innocent.

Hold a man to his capacity to err, and he will fail; hold the same man to his level of ability, and he will succeed.

When the Future quarrels with the Present, only the Past has the last word.

Complaining differs from venting, in that, it is with ability and without action to resolve the matter.

To be a friend, one must not lend a shoulder to lighten the burden, only lend an ear to lessen the brooding.

An omelette is not made by wishing for eggs.

Brilliant words only after brilliant eyes and brilliant ears.

《the night》
the night is a fickle lover
longing and lingering and
leaving me to morn.

《couth》
If one articulates
In triplets, would you say
one is high couth?

20101117

In aphorism, proverb, rumination on 20101117 at 10:18

Short words are always long on feeling.

The art of accepting a compliment is humble denial.

A fool lavishes flattery, the wise bestow compliments.

One’s words are like stones, to be thrown at another or used to build another up.

One’s energy blows like the wind, destructively against a wall or constructively against a windmill.

A windmill rolls with the wind, not against it, and so exploits false opposition to gain true momentum.

Only with friction, does anything gain traction.

《on walls》
May any border, any wall constructed, be made with deliberation and great skill, such that when at last we soften to the wisdom of history and realize the foolishness that is cemented with each mortaring of every brick, we may retain and also preserve a symbol of foolishness overcome, to remind us that a wall should not divide two peoples, but span the divide -so as to join them.

20100914

In aphorism, chinese, proverb on 20100914 at 15:44

真正的财富不佩带金黄冠。
Real wealth wears no crown.

The short leg reaches the ground, same as the long leg.

20090621

In rumination on 20090621 at 10:49

[on relationships]

In every relationship, we are bound by invisible strings to the other. Some strings tug, others are lax. The longer or more intimate a relationship, perhaps the more strings there are. There are strings that we pull with purpose, and others that we pull without our knowing. Still others ,we pull in knowing, but without intention of pulling. It is this tension and laxity of invisible strings that allows us to stay connected, and feel connected. A lessening in tension is the first step towards actually leaving a person, being disconnected from a person. For it is only when all the strings are lax and there is no pulling on either side that we may lose awareness of the existence of the other person. It is in this way that we are able to busy ourselves in daily life, interacting with various people and moving from one social setting to another. Interaction is simply the orchestrating, the puppeteering of these strings, as if they were to become electrified. Strings can find themselves under tension almost instantly, as when we are surprised, and they can go lax equally as quickly, as the sudden tension of another string releases, or rather rechannels the tension that we originally feel.

20071014

In question, rumination on 20071014 at 13:52

With every utterance of control, there is an ego born of pride, of false knowing and incomplete understanding.

For as much as we control, so are we controlled by that which is around us. As much as we analyze this process, even more so do we become a part of it.

It is sheer ignorance, if the naiveté of humanity, that permits even us to step outside of that which consumes us, that which is a part of the whole, and is the whole itself. That we might suggest that our will is not its will, that our error is not its error.

It is another arrogance to say that our error is but its error, to deny our actions on its behalf.

For all that began with nature will again end with nature – that is, entertaining the contrived concept of a beginning and an end. All that meets the eye is but a piece of the whole, the whole being a cycle of which there is no witness of a beginning and without certainty of an ending.

Our eyes see with limited sight. Our minds breathe with limited life. It is this inability to conceive of that which endures all, that which is all – that defines our being a part of the process – and not outside of, beyond, or above all.

How closely tied is our instinct to our adeptness. For it is our instinct to learn, to grow, to adapt. And so, mankind has, and will, continue in a way that always will.

Why does the sun differ from the moon? For the same reason, or lack thereof, that we are not mere beasts. We are no different, though our tongue speaks not the same.

However superb we elevate our humanity about the robin, still we know not its thoughts.

Might we entertain that its thought leaves ours behind, that it lives in a world to which we are but a busy simplicity, ever concerned with fabrications of an imagination cultivated? But we do not know what the robin thinks or even wills.

If there comes a day when we do see eye to eye with the skirting robin – will we be prepared for such complexity, as we now understand not?

Is it possible that we, too, may evolve in a parallel way, and as such, these two days may never coincide as one? So the robin and man, ever in watch, ever to question, never to know.

It is this longing and lacking that drives the cycle and leads us only to tomorrow.

We are never a farther step from today.

Note: Access to WordPress  is still blocked within China. Without access to a much appreciated VPN (proxy), I would be unable to publish to my blog from within mainland China. Thus, I am blessed and grateful to be sharing. With every post, I hereby protest the oppressive nature of the Chinese government blocking access to any part of the web.

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.