Principle #8

photography, poetry November 26, 2011

I want to be principled
there holding on to the ledge
as the bridge called my life
presents me with falls
and depths i couldn’t fathom
before today.
Falling while not being labeled the fallen
is easy for me
and yet the color of rain
appears in my eyes.
Whispering I’ve got nothing to worry about
I wander and wonder
like those before me
but realize my fall has gifted me
with powers beyond my wildest dreams.
Now translating the scrolls
of the living seas
I see waters that are bound
by beaches that were made
when solids were broken.
Grinding down matter matters
and produces futures
that were tucked away in lines of flight
when we refuse to embrace fright
for what it is:
unreasonable reasoning.

I want to be principled
there holding on to the ledge
as my love of words has been replaced
by my love of translation:
providing bonds with another.
Sounding out these written thoughts
will appear thoughtless
to those in sound proof isolations,
but I forget to forget that forgetfullness is bliss.
Vergeetachtig in het land van geheugenverlies
herkennen we de wereld niet meer.
Being able to remember that memory
is nothing but that which resists to be forgotten.
I see the signs and read the world
beyond today’s page;
connect the dots as they move along
the tree trunk of life
as the little ants that could.
They say, and I translate:
Yes, we.
Yes we can.
Yes we can change.
Yes we can change culture.
Yes we can change nature.
Yes we can change.
Yes we can.
Yes, we.

I want to be principled
there holding on to the ledge
but there is a point when an error of fact
shades off into personal opinion,
when a train of thought rushes past
drowning out the sound of lungs meeting air
and silences accompanying moonlight.
Evening time is reading time
and I’ve read the future
because the present will always be the past
beyond this moment.
Realizing that the future is already here
we must not allow it to be caught up
in the uptight fabric
of words and expressions
like passer sous silence vos avenir d’amour.
Words of a bygone era
that do not reflect where our flight is taking us.
The present ferries us from the dock
to the tollbooth gardens
where fairy tales live and become reality.
Like Coraline we return from beyond the wall
happy with what we have
and our translation becomes
the thoughts we thought that could not be thought
but thoughtfully revealed
that time turns boulders into sand.