Justin's Discovery

Justin Oldroyd, one of the greatest individuals of all time, had a remarkable discovery this morning.  He was searching for himself on Google and he discovered that he had created a blog years ago that he had completely forgotten about.  The title of the blog is "I Love Life."  When he shared that with me, it was no longer his remarkable discovery only, but mine as well.  Listening to younger Justin was a great experience.  He only wrote a few small entries, yet they were filled with richness.  I recommend that all listen to younger Justin.  The link is here: Click.

I just realized that I can do all sorts of things in this blog, like put links that go to my email.  Want to send me an email?  Click.  That makes it so easy for you.  Plus, I love receiving emails.  I also love receiving letters.  Click.  Blogs make everything so much easier, and better.

I love life.

Impassive of Time

Sheltered strong on eighth sixteenth note
Kept high on black mid-arching
Eyes scan breathless wastelessly marching
Fingers still feeling uncertain the fret

Stretching over leaping to violet bliss
Surfing under and over grey surface
Breathing of sandy and whitening purpose
Long and absolving more conquering mist

On land taking steps as giant as manstrides
And skipping concise as footprints
Ground caving in as gravel been put since
Fleshing out burrows and forming a couch

To Any Who Have Watched for a Son's Returning

He watched his son gather all the goods that were his lot,
anxious to be gone from tending flocks,
the dullness of the fields.
He stood by the olive tree gate long
after the caravan disappeared
where the road climbs the hills
on the far side of the valley,
into infinity.

Through changing seasons he spent the light
in a great chair, facing the far country,
and that speck of road on the horizon.
Mocking friends: "He will not come."
Whispering servants: "The old man
has lost his senses."
A chiding son: "You should not have let him go."
A grieving wife: "You need rest and sleep."
She covered his drooping shoulders,
his callused knees, when east winds blew chill, until that day . . .

A form familiar, even at infinity,
in shreds, alone, stumbling over pebbles.
"When he was a great way off,
His father saw him,
and had compassion, and ran,
and fell on his neck, and kissed him."

- Mary Lyman Henrie

What To Never Leave Me

What to never leave me
To what I will remain
The letters white and blue in white
Beneath the picture frame

Sincere the face of whispers
It speaks both day and night
Painted in my bedroom
Untouched by natural light

Words untouched by thinking
Thoughts untouched by sight
Cheerful silence kept in motion
Like hummingbird's still flight

But time—it came a'thieving
Pounding at the door
I came outside not knowing what
Would turn to nevermore

The sun—it came out staring
On me its truthful gaze
It burns my eyes, and browns my skin
And dries me in its rays

Mists of blackness follow
Like vultures take their share
My lighted steps becoming scarce
Slipping unaware

But what to never leave me
Those words of white and blue
I left the letters sitting by
The candle in my room

And what to never leave me
Remaining from the start
Sincere your silent whisper
Is framed within my heart

Earth's now toning brown
The sky—it shades to grey
But still to never leave me
A blue and simple day

Discovery

In the world of writing, there are two basic classes of people:  those who write, and those who say yes or no.  Society needs its organization for everything, and writers are no exception.  If it were not so, all would be chaos.  So if you choose the world of writing, you must also choose which is worse to you:  the possibility of being said no to, or the certainty of eventually saying no to many.  Or which is more gratifying:  giving the yes or receiving the yes?  To you, how many no's is a single yes worth?

Noticed

I showed her my painting the other day
The one with the purples that blend with the grays
And the boy in the corner that was writing a book
And the kites in the sky
And the bikes going by
And the pond with a bench
And the boys and the men
And the girls on the grass
And the horses gone past

But in spite of all this
The part I liked most
Was the tiniest stroke
A small silver curve
By the girls on the lawn
On the bench of the pond
By the boy with his book
A small fishless hook

I've shown it to many
And allowed them to look
And they liked the sky
And the boy with the book
And the girls on the lawn
And the bench by the pond
And the bikes racing past
And horses and grass

But not once did they spot
As long as they looked
Beside the small boy
The unbaited hook

But once I showed her
She gave it a look
Past purples and grays
And boy and his book
Her eye didn't waver
Her finger she took
Right to the spot
To my silver small hook

Your Silence Stings Deeper Than Daggers

Your silence stings deeper than daggers
Your look colder than dry stones


There's a storm in my mind
I send lightning from my hands
But all of Jupiter's fiercest arrows
Could not make move these dry stones

Your silence is cutting like daggers
Its slashes grow deep without cutting the surface
Leaving the inside mangled
Without a single drop of blood
Or a wince to show for the pain

My anger is growing like bruises
It wants to come out but stays in
Ignites a cursed fuse
That grows longer, not shorter
And woodpeckers hide my chagrin


Your absence is like a dried flower
Its frozen and won't grow or die
And though my soul listens
For a sigh or a whisper
My eyes long to weep
For my face is too dry


Give me a reassuring whisper
Give me a satisfying sigh
Make me to weep
I, too, wish to sleep
My face is too dry
Its too dry
Its too dry