I sit here in painted marble,
with moon nowhere to be seen.
All sun, but the sun is hiding.
He knows people blame him.
He’s trying to be more like the moon
– loved by all. Her mystical ways,
they enchant. Enduring enchantress,
what strength is in your sanctuary.
Marble is my defence, perhaps a plea.
It won’t leave me. Like stone,
I am safety. Like moonrock, my
enchantress, painted by the passing
of time. Sitting in the grey light of day,
rain has withered and hollowed me.
With my stone, sculptured through years,
we change to new shapes. My paint, too,
sometimes matching. We don’t want to
be sun, but to be moon: flowing
arias of hidden depths; no startling
blaze, shadowing all in sparkle.
Perhaps a rock wants to be sparks too.
Maybe sun is the moon; the moon is the sun.
Perhaps all is all, but we’re standing in statue,
all forgotten in twin confusion.
“I was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows”.
– E.M. Forster
If it happens to me
it happens to you.
Nothing is true –
all is in essence.
Wield and all will yield.
Yield and you will see:
the knowing is becoming.
“You are blaming yourself for events, making it impossible to move forward into more positive circumstances. You are too caught up in guilt and self-reproach to see your way out of the problem. Don’t use up your energy on a situation you can’t change. Instead, focus on finding your way out.”
Where are you? Can you just tell me that you’re okay?
Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me.
– Jesus Christ
For to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart.
– Maggie Nelson, Bluets
“He who, seeking his own happiness, torments with the rod creatures that are desirous of happiness, shall not obtain happiness hereafter.”
“All beings, who are my mother and father, wander in samsara,
And so with unbearable longing, I cultivate the unbearable longing to become a Buddha.”
Towels are towels not only because we call them such, but also because we make them such.