Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘neglect’

20140320

In aphorism, proverb, tale on 20140320 at 13:01

【How to Keep an Auto, Mobile】

One can pause to appreciate all that is wonderful about a most luxurious auto -its good looks, its comfort, its atmosphere, its engineered design, even the way the engine roars.

Yet, the most luxurious automobile is anything but mobile, if without replenished fuel or properly inflated tires. Without pausing to address a draining tank or deflating tire, the auto is mobile no more.

With sustenance no more and as with lungs collapsed, all that remains of the auto is a model, a shell of a substitute.

That, and a question: how to keep an auto, mobile?

One might appreciate its beauty, which surpasses that of any other. Alas, this will not keep the auto, mobile.

One might describe the comfort of the cabin, which none other has the ability to so please. But this will not keep the auto, mobile.

One might ascertain the degree to which one is rejuvenated while seated inside, as none other has the power to realize. Neither will this keep the auto, mobile.

One might detail the marvels of its engineering feats, surpassing all other models that dare to rival its arrival. Nor will this keep the auto, mobile.

One might confirm the strong rumble of the engine’s firing, still like the best and better than most. But even this will not keep the auto, mobile.

Alternately, if an auto should leave its owner waylaid on the side of the road, what is the best way to get mobile again?

Now then, a waning tank or flattened tire could have been avoided with proper and timely maintenance, certainly not with knowing avoidance of these responsibilities.

Even in times of the accidental roadside nail, it is only with patch or replacement that the auto can return to full glory.

The wise relish in the opportunity to refuel or to fix the flat and so are gifted with powers of healing, not to mention a return to the auto, mobile again. The fool ignore signs of warning and fixate instead on times of yore, unwilling to admit the present fault, and are left only to bemoan or disregard the auto, mobile no more.

For in times of disrepair, it behooves even the best of the best to pause and assess, to admit and duly address a manner of repair.

Indeed, a reality of disrepair is done no favors in finding praise and recalling the nostalgia of the good ol’ days of mobile, which is not to posit the futility of praise and nostalgia.

Wisdom lies not in the simple possession of knowledge, but in the timely wielding of said knowledge.

To ever appreciate goodness in times of advantage, also to prevent or so minimize misfortune during those times of advantage, and not in the least, to be quick to resolve conflict arisen in times of disadvantage.

To cherish the auto at one’s dispense, to maintain properly the air, oil, and fuel when levels hint of faltering, to fill the tank or fix the flat when it befalls even the diligent.

Never with neglect, neither with excuse, nor with retaliative cursing, and ever with appropriate appreciation, attention, and action.

That is how one keeps an auto, mobile.

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.