i don’t want to be
just a strand of dna
passing through time
or an echo of a face
repeated down the line
just another leaf falling
from the family tree
a bloodline that someday
ends with the end of me —
i want to be the sky
or an eternal poem
wildflowers growing
wherever seeds roam
i want to be the wind
or wandering clouds
or the rain that drifts
or a free soaring bird
or starshine at night —
eternity’s glowing
ethereal light
Our bodies let go when it’s time to let go — it’s called death. We ought to let go of the little burdensome things each day — that’s called living.
it’s not that the people
with nice shiny attitudes
haven’t been banged up —
but they buff out their
dings and scratches with
gratitude and positivity
perspective and grace
resilience and courage
with purpose and faith
Chase down your passion like it’s the last bus of the night.
Age is a foreign land I can’t get used to. I want to go back home.
If you have not a bird inside you,
You have no reason to sing.
But if a pent bird chide you,
A beak and a bleeding wing,
Then you have reason to sing.
If merely you are clever
With thoughts and rhymes and words,
Then always your poems sever
The veins of our singing-birds,
With blades of glinting words.
Yet if a Song, without ending,
Inside you choke for breath,
And a beak, devouring, rending,
Tear through your lungs for breath,
Sing—or you bleed to death.
—Louis Golding (1895–1958), “The Prisoner,” Sorrow of War, 1919
Do not take anything for granted — not one smile or one person or one rainbow or one breath, or one night in your cozy bed.
once you’ve forgiven yourself
do not un-forgive yourself on
each anniversary of the guilt
Success is a shell — don’t let it harden around your ego.
Failure is a shell — don’t let it harden around your determination.
“The desert was quiet. The coyotes were not howling yet. I was my own howling coyote. Outwardly a comfortable-looking man in an
—J. B. Priestley (1894–1984), Midnight on the Desert: A Chapter of Autobiography, 1917
suddenly my life feels
like the air before a storm
silent, searching, charged
an imminent disaster
with destructive beauty
bright sun here and now
dark clouds at my horizon
electrified waiting
a whirlwind of stillness
it’s building, billowing
but to i know not where
and possibly to nothing
no body to forecast
whether or whether not
my future lies ahead
feeling ghosts in the wind
restlessness & anticipation
i dread this storm
but somehow
more than that
i welcome it, ache for it
oh i sorely need to become
sodden, grounded
struggle bedraggled
so i can revive
regrow vibrant —
dead branches torn away
old beliefs ripped from roots
worry whipped to shreds
powerful bolts striking
stronger than anything
i can create myself
blind me — enflame my entire sky
i want to look at the world anew
and that starts
with my own vision
i’m ready
for a new version
my being has become torrential
yet minimal — nearly imperceptible
not yet in a crisis, still
i’m bordering one, circling it
crying out for that flash point
beckoning it, to break —
to shatter my former self
and my current nothingness
into a mended calm
risen from the storm
rain, gales, hail —
i don’t care
just let it come
i need to be reborn
from the wild remains
of my inner tempests —
no, i do not want to die
but only to live again
Frustration is nothing more than letting your own mind bully you.
Driving down the wrong road and knowing it,
The fork years behind, how many have thought
To pull up on the shoulder and leave the car
Empty, strike out across the fields; and how many
Are still mazed among dock and thistle,
Seeking the road they should have taken?
—Damon Knight (1922–2002), The Man in the Tree, 1984