Too Many Lines From the End
I am not enough…
I am not enough
in my cycling mind.
I, in my revolving door of
understanding my surroundings.
I am in. I am out.
I am frugal. I am lavish.
I am basic. I am stifling.
I am so much, so many,
but I am missing parts.
I am not enough.
I am missing my Enough.
The part that makes complex
smooth and filling and satiating.
I do not find Enough in my analysis,
my misperceptions,
my cock-eyed conceptions,
my dandy sensibilities,
Or my Watching too closely of my world.
I do not find Enough, so heavy and matter-ing
like the sea, easily. Not quickly.
Not in carousel rides
or roller coaster thrills–so free-ing.
No. Not in writing. Nor reading. Nor anything I seek. And though I do not know exactly
where Enough dwells. I believe
I start to find Enough in my ears. Simply there at the sides of me.
In the listening to waves, breaths, bee buzzes,
and sometimes somebody’s distant guitar picking.
Oh burrow into my ears, Enough.
This is not a time to fidget…
This is not a time to fidget.
Legs crossed, arms on chair arms,
Back rested heavily on wing-backed
Plush velvet-rosed chair.
Sunset light, twilight mint green,
Two-story ceiling high windows curve
Into the river outside.
Clittering clatterful children run with
Giggles in their pockets and anticipation in their eyes,
“What story will we hear tonight?”
Beep, beep and humming computers
Free the mind for learning, exploring, navigating, other world-ing.
Free me to sit still
Reading my book in the library.
On Age and Agelessness
PROLOGUE
Numbers are no one’s age. It is true
I was born on July 22nd in eighteen
hundred and eighty-one, but that
is nowhere near how old I am.Numbers are not
how old anyone is. Since that day,
I have married and traveled and married again
and had children and friends and grandchildren,
even a lover or so . . .la la
. . . and once,
at Covent Garden, Mr. Swinburne
bowed to me, or to my sister, and
we both curtsied back and that
is exactly how old I am.Before
this century began, I made
some faërie stories Mr. Lang
thought well of and the men
who printed them and sold them and the children
who drifted asleep with those books in their arms
are all, nearly all, worm farms now,
or stripped too bare to be maggots’ meat.And all those absences and bones
are how old I am.I have tried to survive
and keep track of my life, I have tried to deal
with each year as it came over me,
and have failed . . . and all those names
and faces have become my age.And everyone
I used to know has gone into the darkness
and my hands quiver with the grief of their
departures, my lovers and my friends no more.
For a very long time now, from when
I was a little child, I have been
dying, and that is exactly how old I am.-David Dwyer
“Ariana Olisvos: Her Last Works and Days“
University of Massachusetts Press (c) 1976
In the Meantime
freshman year, Wheaton College, still applies
Yet another huge year for me was 2001. I dove into Wheaton College not knowing what I was getting myself into. I came from a small town without much background in studying hard or studying the challenging issues. I just wanted to be smart and well-educated and I figured Wheaton could help me out.
But then I arrived to find my classmates already studied up and opinionated. I thought, “I am doomed. If I must say something let it be along the lines of a hmm.” And while I struggled with my head, heart, focus, and desires (like most other 19 year olds), all I truly sought was peace and steadfastness.
We don’t always see peace coming, but it comes. Mine arrived little moment by little song. I began to hear God’s voice singing quietly and gently over my bed at night. This was a welcomed contrast to the singing, jumping, spinning and dancing God I learned as a teenager (Zephania 3:17). I didn’t relate to that God. No, I needed God in lullaby form and He knew it. And in His great love and enjoyment, God sat with me, delivering me peaceful notes.
The handwriting that you can’t read at the bottom is the following verse from God Moves In A Mysterious Way, a hymn that quickly became a favorite in 2001 and hasn’t moved from such a place in my heart:
His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour.
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.
I have a whole new set of struggles these days, ten years later. I have a whole new understanding of seeking peace. And although I never know exactly what is in store for me next, I know that God reveals his purposes in good and appropriate time. I have seen it again and again. When bitterness touches my tongue, I know that sweetness will eventually rise in all my senses. And in the meantime, Can I call you Father?
I did record this song with R.M. and some lovely, patient Wheaton guys that year. We ended the piece with the hymn.
Sometimes the day…
Sometimes the day is less about your personality and more about towing the line.
Sometimes the day is about an honest tear.
Sometimes the day is about not saying what’s expected.
Sometimes the day is about sticking up for yourself–firmly.
Sometimes the day is about being okay with running late.
Sometimes the day is about buying it anyway.
Or all of these or none of these.
To Do With You
dance to a country song
go to an ice bar
walk along the sea
lay on some grass
hold hands at a coffee house
play checkers
sit on a bench in paris
talk about our fears
lose ourselves in the presence of Mumford and Sons, or some other group of enthusiastic and qualified players,
or simply record ourselves losing it,
or simply just lose it
Untitled and Borrowed
San Fransisco, California (c) 2011 JEH
When I am undone, untitle me–
deline me, borrow me from another
idea of me. Paint me the colors
you see me. Draw me the shapes I move
through. Any fabric that covers
or uncovers is fine and will
work out in the end for I
am undone and need to be bent–
to some other form of me–
the still untitled me.
Come Out
Come out, oh words
buried and struggling for
surface
space
air.
Come out. Stop writhing
upsetting my stomach
heart
mind
peace.
Come out and be spoken.
Come live outside of me.
Come show me what you’re made of.
What you’ve got.
Purposeful?
Powerful?
Emotional?
Harvesting a crop of movement?
Come out, oh words, come out.
I am sick when you rumble within me.
Naphtalia 