The Artist

 

She pictures an open door
the Sun when its spent
She pictures the corridor
now vacant with lament

She pictures the empty shelf
no leaves upon the tree
She draws me outside myself
but never pictures me

in matters of life

 

she asked
“Are the gods silent
or is it me?”

the gods are not silent
even in this moment

there is no silence

life is thick, thunderous marching boots
on crazed dictators
stamping across a tin roof

life is a wining dog at the door

life is the roar of a river eating its own banks

and yet
the gods. . .
they are quiet, but not silent

life is a whisper in a hurricane
life is a fragile bloom
even though last spring the frost killed the other bloom
life is a gentle second in a year of bedlam

in matters of life
if we are wise
we appreciate it when we have it

 

 

the possession of all that you own

“I might not be able to buy happiness with that much money, but I could make a down-payment.”
“Hon, obsession with money blinds you to the art and texture of your life. You become the possession of all that you own.”
“That much money. . . I’d be satisfied.”
“There is no lasting satisfaction this side of the grave.”
~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro

When you’ve played the game with Death

“When you’ve played the game with Death as many times as I have, you come to realize that you can’t win, you can only postpone defeat.”
~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro

When you drink from the Well of First Things

“When you drink from the Well of First Things
the Rush is. . . well, it’s beyond all expectation.
You see your creation take life and cavort in the Temple
and oh how they shiver, quiver and frisson.
Like motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight
falling through a darkened room.”

“Yes,
your creations. . .
but then you come to know
that for every angel you create
a demon must be dealt with.
This is how Logic and Proportion are maintained.
This shows more than anything else
that Balance is the life’s blood of the Universe.”

~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro