Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘sure’

20160731

In aphorism, bon mot, proverb on 20160731 at 23:55

The moment you decide that you deserve better is the moment that you know better—and already in this moment, you are better off.

The fool wears chains to the tune of gold—grounded in insecurity, weighted by vanity, and convinced they are better off decorated than liberated.

As if the limits of mortality were not damning enough, the fool boasts of his own. 

If a fool looks for dirt in the cleanest of waters, he is sure to succeed—if only in finding his reflection.

The fool dismisses a dozen opportunities before asking for a second chance.

Regret is the currency of the fool and the agency of the wise.

Waking up is hard to do, but it’s the only way to welcome in a new day.

What is the difference between mail and email? a LETTER

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20101022

In aphorism, proverb on 20101022 at 23:49

Judge intentions, forgive actions.

A proud lion makes for a lying pride.

What anger cannot rein in, patience is sure to break.

20081015

In aphorism, proverb on 20081015 at 19:25

Stars were meant to fall.

Don’t let a conversation stopper stop the thinking.

Each must play his own cards.

Remaining at a dead end is not commitment, it is stupidity.

A fool is afraid of the water’s surface, fearing its depth.

The fool learn not to swim for fear of drowning.

A water’s depth is not given away by its surface.

Who walks not the talk, is as if to look aside – quick to trip and sure to fall.

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.