Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘yet’

20150815

In aphorism, proverb on 20150815 at 23:55

A bat will never see the light.

The fool has much desire to speak and offers little to say.

Until we make efforts for peace, we will make excuses for war. 

The fool argue sides, the wise argue issues.

Who explains without end has yet begun to understand. 

Who points a finger in blame has nary another point to offer. 

Advertisements

20150113

In aphorism on 20150113 at 23:55

Lo, what end awaits the airtight if not a burst or a leak? Rather to be like the sieve, made of steel and yet capable of letting even mountains pass through.

The atheist has a responsibility to forgive that which even a god does not will and so ever condemns. 

20110206

In aphorism, chinese, proverb on 20110206 at 11:57

Tis better to let go than to lose. 扔不如送。

The scab that bleeds has yet to heal.

Fear bears preconceptions, breeds misunderstanding.

To only eat and sleep is more tiresome than to exercise. 光吃光睡比锻炼还要累。

20101211

In aphorism, haiku, poetry, proverb on 20101211 at 12:49

The fool’s idea of freedom is a world without rules and the fool’s idea of power is to rule the world.

A world without enforcement is but a world without rules.

Freedom must reach all, if it is to touch even one.

The fool love a home without leaving it; the wise love a home by returning to it.

《rainbow》
Lofty and crooked,
united yet divided –
rainbow in the sky.

《wind》
The wind never stops
pausing only to enjoy
the beauty of stillness.

20101123

In aphorism, proverb, rumination, tale on 20101123 at 11:23

Apathy is fear, incognito.
Anger is fear, unleashed.
Action is fear, confronted.

With folded hands and closed eyes, we choose to be the fool, the dead, or the wise.

《Learning to BE》
The child asks the elder, “How to BE?”

The elder utters, “Child, close your eyes and fold your hands. And you will find the wisdom to BE”.

The child scans the earth and rebuts, “It is the fool that fold their hands idly and close their eyes tightly. I do not wish to be a fool, I simply wish to BE.”

Again the elder says, “Child, close your eyes and fold your hands. And the wisdom to BE, you will find.”

Hands raised to the sky, again the child refutes, “It is the dead that rest infinitely with eyes aclosed and hands afolded. I do not wish to be dead, I simply wish to BE!”

One last time, the elder states, “Child, your able hands are raised upwards, yet you fail to grasp; your eyes are opened wide, yet you fail to see. -That if all you wish for, is simply to BE, it is but with folded hands and closed eyes, that you shall understand -you already ARE.”

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.