have a ridiculous beginning. Great works
are often born on a street corner or in
a restaurant’s revolving door.
— Albert Camus” —
tentative on bamboo twigs,
seeming a promise,
cling for an eternity
all their own and then are gone.
shining in the flowing stream,
one among many.
The current passes over,
enhanced by, enhancing each.
fat roof-top dog, sweatered,
basking in the sun.
For the first time in too long,
I find that I am smiling.
It begins again,
then stops short, mid-crescendo,
beyond my window…
a city bird has somehow
managed to forget its song.
Early on Sundays,
drag themselves toward home,
seeming as if they too are
trying to recall their song.
Reduced to the space
of an urban balcony,
this garden of mine—
a few bamboo, an orchid—
can still fill my heart with joy.
On a crowded bus,
flattened and gasping for breath,
I briefly recall
the soap-scented office girls
who rode the trains in Japan.
The old monk I saw,
absent, fallen ill they say.
I find I miss him
and wonder if a prayer
of my faith might be helpful.
These things I cherish:
the moment between glances;
stillness beneath sound;
the voice of the unuttered;
the darkness behind the light.
What’s in store for me in the direction I don’t take?
— Jack Kerouac” —
You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.
—Charles Bukowski” —
You ask my thoughts
through the long night?
I spent it listening
to the heavy rain
beating against the windows.
let it enfold you”
— Charles Bukowski” —
With two thousand years of Christianity behind him… a man can’t see a regiment of soldiers march past without going off the deep end. It starts off far too many ideas in his head.
—Louis-Ferdinand Celine” —
“The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.
“You’re not at all like my rose,” he said.
“As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one.
You’re like my fox when I first knew him.
He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.
But I have made a friend, and now he’s unique in all the world.”
And the roses were very much embarrassed.
“You’re beautiful, but you’re empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you.
To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you
–the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she’s more important
than all the hundreds of you other roses:
because it is she that I have watered;
because it is she that I have put under the glass globe;
because it is for her that I’ve killed the caterpillars
(except the two or three we saved to become butterflies);
because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled,
or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing.
Because she is MY rose.
— Antoine de St. Exupery” —