poem for the great of heart

maybe
you are afraid to be mighty

maybe 

there is ease in the smallness

in the pang of the

overlooking

the dismissal

that touches like a blanket

of embarrassment 

worn thin 

with sparest spots of

wholeness at the edges

too old to remove a gray cast

earned from years of
holding tightly

these expectations 

of casual disregard

for your heart of hearts

even so, though, 

warm from the dryer

a familiar discomfort

still contains comfort

the blank gaze

the closed mouth

the turned head

*****************

but, oh, my friend

oh, my friend

you are mighty

you are you are you are

you are mighty

Goad

there is a force
in me not mine
propelling on
when I would stay

in my briar patch
the surrounding
pricks confirming
this is home

where I belong
is what I feel
what I know
except here I am

up and away
forwarding when

I would remain
not thinking of

this barren and
this bright
unknown

Turn Up That Radio!

(a holiday denouement)

Homeward turning now
  current signals scattering
  reforming to remembered
rhythms, structures to always
  keep, hold, repeat, ad infinitum

The dial seeks the station
  always there on a dark highway
  one thinks, hardly thinks
to just hone in is all - crumbling
 husks of time, distance, difference

A red needle wavers, searches one
  notch over, one notch back, somewhere
  between the notches
a change is in these voices telling
  stories not ours together

Intersections, supported themes, assumptions
  disintegrate to static shuffles
  unclear murmurs, moody fragments,
puzzling the listener expecting ease
  who, what, where, ungainly reacquainting

Straining hard for tones expected
  an infantile rage embarrasses
  angered at the ragged sounds
through wires and air contorting
  familial language never thought to fade

To the Inmost Parts

Shot Glass

I'll never forget the day, this beautiful woman
right out in the office said I was "sneaky":

I didn't know I was sneaky: I didn't feel
sneaky: but there are mechanisms below our

mechanisms, so I assume the lady was right:
living with that has not helped my progress

in the world, if there is any such thing,
progress, I mean: also it has hurt my image

of myself: I have used up so much fellow-
feeling on the general --- all of which I have

forgotten specifically about, as have the
fellows --- no offices, no clear images or

demonstrations --- I don't understand why that
one remark holds its place ungivingly in me:

and now to talk about it, admit to the world
(my reading public, as it happens) that I am

scarred by an old, old wound about to heal and
about to bleed: this may do confessional good

but I will no longer appear perfect to others:
conceivably, that could be a good thing:

others may be scarred, too, but who wants to
be like them: one should: perhaps I really

do, because lonely splendor is devastatingly
shiny but basically hard and cold, marble

walls and glistening floors: one comfort,
which I am reluctant to relish, is that the

lady is now dead --- surely, I am sorry about that,
she was a person of intelligence and

discernment, which is one reason she hurt me
so bad --- well, but I mean, she won't hurt

anybody else: she probably did enough good
in her life that the Lord will forgive her:

I am trying to forgive her myself: after all
she left me some room for improvement and

a sense of what to work on...

- A.R. Ammons

The Nature Of

I see that, that life comes once--and it's quite short--and you have to appreciate what's good in it....


Life goes all around, and there are millions of other living creatures who have to find their paths as well.

Neil, 49 Up
.

On My Mind of Late

The heart asks pleasure first

And then, excuse from pain-

And then, those little anodynes

That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;

And then, if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor,

The liberty to die.



emily dickenson



mark penxa: http://mpenxa.typepad.com/


.

Conversations on Being Worthwhile

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

John Milton