The aurora bleeds across the frozen sky,
a ghostly tide that watches as we lie.
The stars burn slow above the sleeping shore,
and winter wraps the world in something more.
We keep the vigil through the endless night,
no sun to break the spell, no dawn in sight.
The cold becomes a hymn, the dark a throne,
and in the quiet, we are not alone.

Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892 – 1950 source link

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour, And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripéd bag, or a jack-knife, And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails, And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion With fleas that one never knew were there, Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know, Trekking off into the living world. You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small, because she won't curl up now: So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep. But you do not wake up a month from then, two months A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God! Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters, —mothers and fathers don't die.

And if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be kissing a person?" Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with your thimble!" Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having fun, Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry, mother."

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak; Who do not drink their tea, though they always said Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries; they are not tempted. Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason; They are not taken in. Shout at them, get red in the face, rise, Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake them and yell at them; They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide back into their chairs.

Your tea is cold now. You drink it standing up, And leave the house.

57

Use justice to rule a country.

Use surprise to wage war.

Use non-action to govern the world.


How do I know it is so?

As for the world,

The more restrictions and prohibitions there are,

The poorer the people will be.

The more sharp weapons people have in a country,

The bigger the disorder will be.

The more clever and cunning people are,

The stranger the events will be.

The more laws and commands there are,

The more thieves and robbers there will be.


Therefore the sage says:

I do not act,

And people become reformed by themselves.

I am at peace,

And people become fair by themselves.

I do not interfere,

And people become rich by themselves.

I have no desire to desire,

And people become like the uncarved wood by themselves.

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/51874976

TL;DR- poem's at the bottom.

Backstory: driving through California's Central valley. Pistachio trees and corn fields on either side of the road. It's late, and the Sun is just about done for the day.

Then while driving past one of the corn fields, a white blur dashing in and out of the corn? That's the wrong color for anything around these parts. So we slowed down and saw a little dog.

There's nothing out here except farmland. This one is too sweet to last long out here alone. Come here girl. I was expecting her to be like the others and run away. She didn't.

She approached cautiously. After I'd given her a pat on the head, I realized for some reason she trusted me. So I asked her to walk to the car where my wife was waiting. And yes, at this point I did play in my life a bit because I knew the dog was ours if we chose, by the way she was behaving.

As I approached the car with the dog shortly behind me, I asked my wife "if I can catch her, can we keep her?" By that time, the dog had caught up to me, circled around behind me and stopped so she was staring at my wife, one ear in the air and one down, as if asking her the same question. My wife didn't have a choice, she said yes.

Then as if she'd always been mine, I told the dog to get in the car and she hopped into my wife's lap. We drove home and the rest is history, at least as told by the poem that follows...

---

I cried
when I saw you running through that field alone,
all skin and bones, no place to call your own,
Sweet little one, just a blur against the sky,
and something in me broke—I didn’t know why.

I cried
when I called, expecting you to run away,
but you came right up like you were meant to stay,
you trusted me without a reason why,
then climbed in the car like you were ready to try.

I cried
when I saw just how bad things had been,
every scrape and bite on your fragile skin,
I couldn’t fix your past, no matter how I tried,
but I promised right then you’d never be denied.

I cried
at the vet, waiting quiet while they scanned,
holding on tight, just hoping I’d understand,
if someone would claim you, or if you’d be free,
those were the hardest tears for me. 😭

I cried
when they said there was no chip, no name,
no one was coming, no one to claim,
and the tears came down like pouring rain—🥹
because now you were safe, and out of pain.

Bonnie Tyler,
you don’t have to run anymore,
you’re not lost like you were before,
and I don’t know what you’ve been through—
but I know this much:
I’m not letting go of you. 🤗

Marriage takes patience. It takes love, that is true.
But I've picked up a couple husbanding shortcuts too.

I know when she's hungry before she's aware.
I know where we're going from one little stare.

I know when “That's fine” isn't fine in the least.
I know when she wants me to order the feast.

I know when she's cold. I know when she's hot.
I know when she wants something she says she does not.

I know when to follow. I know when to lead.
I know what she's thinking before there's a need.

Twenty years teaches you plenty, you see.

Although lately...

She's been staring suspiciously at me.

So there you all have it—our secret divine:

I have a happy wife (because I learned to read her mind.) 🤫

"When nothing else has worked", you wrote,
and left those words beside the road.
White paint on rust, beneath the sun—
as if you’d tried out everyone.

But everyone? You haven’t yet.
There are hands you haven’t gotten to meet I'll bet,
voices that haven’t said your name,
doors you don’t know that lead to someplace changed.

There’s someone still a stranger now
who’ll make you laugh—you don’t know how.
Some ordinary, unplanned day
may put that one missing piece in play.

And maybe nothing works alone.
Maybe it’s things you haven’t known
to put together, two or three—
a different place, with new company,

a song, a job, a midnight drive,
a person glad that you’re alive,
some tiny shift, some stubborn chance,
some strange set of circumstance.

You cannot test what hasn’t come.
You cannot count what’s not begun.
You cannot know, from where you stand,
every road or every hand.

So if you meant those words you drew,
here’s one more thought I leave for you:
When nothing else has worked so far,
“so far” is not the end of who you are.

This rusted steel will meet more rain.
The sun will bleach these words away.
And you may meet, before they fade,
the people you were meant to meet someday.

So stay to see what finds you here.
Stay for the unimagined year.
Stay long enough to prove this true:

There’s always something you haven’t tried—
because the world has not yet finished meeting you.

I Know What Kills Monsters

(Based on a true story)

It was hot—the kind of miserable day
That makes you wish you'd bought solar stocks right away.
Okay, maybe the heat hadn't gone quite that far,
But close enough when you're walking out to the car.

I'd finished a project, and just like before,
I'd bought enough Fix-It supplies to build four more
So Marilyn looked at the extras I'd grown
And sent me to Lowe's to return what we owned.

I walked through the doors to the returns by the wall,
And technically speaking, there wasn't a line at all.
One man at the counter, then several steps back—me.
A beautiful system of efficiency.

Except for one thing.

The young man at the till
Had somehow perfected the art of standing still.
Whatever that customer needed returned,
Civilizations could rise and fall before we learned.

So I waited.

And watched.

That's what I tend to do.
Not just one person—the whole world in view.

That's when a gentleman came through the door,
Looking like he'd had enough of today and then some more.

The heat was still clinging all over his clothes,
His hair matted down from his head to his nose.
His uniform carried a long working day,
And his face said he's got nothing more left to give away.

He paced near the entrance.

Back and then forth.

Looking for something.

Not knowing of course.

And something about him made one thing quite clear:

Pay a little attention to this gentleman here.

He finally stopped just behind where I stood,
And called toward the counter as loudly as he could:

“Where's the return line?”

The employee replied.

And whatever he said...

Something changed in the guy.

It wasn't obscene.

It wasn't a threat.

It was simply uncaring—and that's sometimes the worse bet.

Because when someone's exhausted and cooked by the sun,
Dismissal can light what the heat has begun.

My tired friend then vanished.

Right there where he stood.

And something replaced him that wasn't feeling good.

His shoulders went rigid.

His face rearranged.

His energy sharpened.

The whole man changed.

A monster stood there now, ready to fight,
And that Lowe's employee was about to learn right
Then and there that perhaps when a customer calls,
A little more kindness costs nothing at all.

Well, hell.

This was really going to screw up my day.

I had stuff to return and wanted to get away.

Back home to Marilyn—that's where I should be,
Not ringside at Lowe's for Round One through Round Three.

So I turned toward the monster and quietly said,

“It's loud in here. Maybe he didn't hear what you said.”

The monster looked back.

And I knew from his stare
He wasn't quite finished.

The fight was still there.

He wanted some resistance.

Something to shove.

Another hard answer.

And he'd deliver the glove.

Anger does that when you've let it run free—
It searches the room for any enemy.

And now he had me.

Or so he believed.

But monsters are funny when they're not well received.

Because I know something about monsters, you see:

Sometimes what kills them is a simple courtesy.

“You look like you're in more of a hurry than me.
Why don't you take my spot? You'll be next—and then you'll be free.”

And there it was.

Nothing to fight.

No insult returned.

Nothing challenged.

No slight.

The monster came ready to push and to shove,
And instead ran headfirst into something like love.

Not grandiose love.

Let's not get carried away.

Just one stranger giving another his place for the day.

But his face changed first.

Then his shoulders came down.

The anger went searching.

And nothing it found.

It had come for a battle.

I'd offered to care.

And suddenly anger had nothing left to do there.

Then the monster was gone.

And the man reappeared.

The same tired fellow who'd first entered here.

He smiled.

Put his hand on my shoulder.

And thanked me instead.

Then politely declined with a shake of his head.

“It's okay,” he told me, his temper now tossed.

“My time's on the boss's budget.”

Well played, boss.

About then my marathon waiting was through,
And finally I had my own returning to do.

Receipt was ready.

Items were ready.

Everything just right.

I wasn't spending another damn minute tonight.

My return took seconds.

I turned toward the door.

Then I glanced at the gentleman once more.

He looked back at me.

Nothing needed be said.

Just one little nod from each man's head.

No sermon.

No hero.

No grand curtain call.

Most people there probably noticed nothing at all.

Just two tired strangers on one scorching day,
Who crossed paths for a moment, then went on their way.

I walked through the doors, back into the sun.

My return was complete.

My errand was done.

And somewhere behind me, with nothing to mend,
A monster had died—

and a man stood again.

"A Throw of the Dice Will Never Abolish Chance"

Kline translation

I love cooking and botany,

But I don't raise no dang chia,

So much pesto on my mind,

Call it basil ganglia.

The mist embraces the dewy pine leaves.
A lone orange leaf, half covered in frost.
For the long days of light, a lost squirrel grieves,
No nuts on the trees, this squirrel is lost.

Changing, shifting, like the seasons of the year
Forever fluid, to never still, I fear
And for past days, past yous, shed no tear
All that's real is now and here.

Two spirits or more within my mind
Every time I look, there's more to find
Someone careless, someone kind
The river of mes does onward wind

None steps in the same river twice
But if you take my strong advice
Make your river somewhat nice
Or you may roll 'one' on life's dice

I don new clothes every day
Wish I could shapeshift the same way
Don't hold me to what I say,
If I said it yesterday
It was not me then anyway.

This whole time I speak of flux
Who is this 'I'?
Someone surely speaks of change
Someone needs to break my chains.

And if you close your eyes, you won't see the monsters
And if you close the door, the banging is just the pipes
Close your mind, never mind what might be out there
Just close your eyes, for me, my lamb.

It's gone, don't worry,
In fact, it was never there.
Your pain, my hurry
You can never say I don't care

I care for you
I love for you
I love you

You are the reason the monsters stay away
Those monsters that plague me in my mind
Those monsters, I'll make sure they never trouble you
I'll hold you in my mouth tonight

I'll hold you in my arms tonight
I hold you in the arms of a monster tonight

Hi y'all, I know I'm posting a bunch of my own poems here with no additional text or commentary in the poems themselves, and also some are quite metaphorical or surreal. If there's a problem with any of it, or I'm spamming the community, please feel free to tell me a better place to put them, or remove my posts with warnings.

I intentionally don't provide commentary to avoid guiding your thoughts before you read them, if you want to hear my thoughts or explanations for anything, please don't hesitate to ask me in the comments here or the appropriate post :3

I know why you have to go,
and it's not because you hate me so,
but even so,
you should know,
here you'll find friend,
there wherever you go,
you'll find only foe,
until the end

Why oh why do good folk die
And the wicked wither away
Fore they see the light of day?

What's the reason for passing of season
When winter kills summer and autumn does rain
What's the point of the muck and the pain
When all of it's sure to happen again?

What is the purpose of this awful world
Where pain does flourish, and suffering unfurl?

What can we do to destroy this foul place?
What can we do, not just in my mind pace
And think and ponder and suffer and moan
But still in the end, still useless and alone

I stare upon the phone
The words on the screen, like a horrible dream,
Telling me things that I don't want to know
I want to know truth, but the truth is so bare
News makes one believe that good folk are rare
And even if not, if one suffering is there
It still means that our universe isn't fair
And for some stupid reason, I felt bound to care
Rather than just escape to the air

I have to do something, but that something is what?
What can I do that will make pain not?
I can't make the universe cold if it's hot
I can't make it clean when it's covered in rot
I fear that my true goal will never be got

Little Miss Moffet
Sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey
When down came a spider
It sat down beside her
It looked like a beautiful day
The spider it saw her
And it did implore her
To share of her curds and whey
She gave some with pleasure
They sat down in leisure
Eating their curds and whey

The bones gallery
Covered in every direction by earth
Under the sea
Above bedrock
That will eventually subduct and consume it all

A dozen pieces escaped, surrounded by nothing,
Still, while Earth moves away from it at breakneck speed.

It is near noon of night but I have no fear
Although dark conquers light, they are here
With their anvils and hammers and people called Larry
They'll make noise through the night, until the light and dark marry

The symphonies play of color and sound
The moonlight shines, the loud bangs abound
The scuttling noises of tiny insects
Unsettle the mind for what happens next

Until suddenly laughter tears asunder the sky
The union of lovers, the pleasure of brine
The happiness shattered, the cold on its way
But nobody cared, once they heard her say:

"Oh, you ugly people, the trouble you make
Thinking your choices are made for you by fate
When the only real thing I can now know
Is how much you'll suffer in the fiery glow."

They turned to their fellows, and said with a smile
"If the cause of my actions is truly myself,
Then I decide to be in the utmost of health.

The greatest of houses, the tastiest of foods,
The wildest of lovers, the happiest mood.
And even that Satanic realm that you imply -
Why, I decide to simply pass my way by."

"In fact," they continued, getting carried away
"I'd free those of who old Lucifer holds sway.
They can of course join my lifetime of sin
Of pleasure and happiness - come on, join in!"

But tragedy struck, as late was the hour.
And not a pumpkin was seen, but a small orange flower.
Alas, that's become of those who Metatron defy
They have to, of course, protect their great lie.

Oh, the man, the woman and boy
None of them knew how to get the great joy
Sunset came, and sunrise rose
But for all of their days, no song was composed

Swiftly
Softly
Slowly creeping
Stab - crack!
No one is weeping

Those who would cry at the death of their lord
Blew away into dust as their thoughtless minds soared

"Nevermind," the old man said, sitting in the bench in the park.
He slowly bent down to feed the birds - a pigeon, a dove and a lark
The grey Oxford sky over his head, the harbinger of impending rain.
He wrote his last word with the pen in his hand,
And far away where, a girl's name was planned
For the last time, her name was uttered
While in sadness, the old man muttered.

God save our feeble king
God save our noble king
God save the king

Send him far over us
Where he lords over us
Up in his palaces
God save the king

Send him to your own land
So he is out our hands
Up in those fabled gates
God save the king

Oh say can't you see
By the moon's sterile light
How the people all lay,
As their stab wounds lay gleaming

Oh say can't you see
What this country is truly
The land of the few
And the home of the pained

A crescent moon
A silver slice of lunar rock
Glowing in the night
Pinpricks of light everywhere except the dark side of the moon
True blackness
False emptiness
Uncertain perception

I heard a word
I meant it in my brain
Another word sounded absurd
Everyone thought she was insane

The second word in truth they said
Was 'I', but it was never known
What speech the word, what tongue the talk
What power has the telephone

And in the end when words are null
And all is but an inky black
The power of the word is clear
The word's power is only here

"Ok!" I cried, amire in misery,
"Never take this choice from me!"
"Aha," he said, his voice harsh with fire,
"You never had which you desired!"

"Avast!" he cried, "Let's man the sails!
Your life's not over, you haven't failed,
Just because you have no child,
It only means you can be more wild
Live your years, a myriad await,
waste it not on what you call fate!"

"One verse at a time, just live your days,
I promise nothing you do can faze!"
"But," she said in a shaky sigh,
"All I want is to finally die."

"What did you mean?" a small voice said,
"When you said you made the choice to be dead?
What other option did you think you could allow,
If there is none, you have no choice even now."

"I don't care if it's choice, I don't care if it's free!"
At this point the small girl shook on her knee.
"I don't care for a thing, and that's what I need.
Oblivion will fix my need to be freed."

"Forget all that, emotions are dumb!"
The great sailor cried,
"All I need to know is that one equals one!"

"Do you think that'll convince me?"
The girl snorted, despite herself.
"I am a dwarf, you are an elf.
Emotions come to me as facts come to you,
How do you know one does not equal two?"

The sailor and dwarf sailed under the moon,
That night two became one as they passed on the waves,
As when he returned, only the sailor remained.

Someone once wrote a word.
I read it in my mind.
Someone once wrote a word.
It I never did find.

Somebody once did sing a song,
At once, I begun to sing along.
Somebody once wrote a song.
It never left their mind.

Somebody once did scream in fear,
I gasped, I cared, I felt so near.
Somebody did once cry in pain.
Alone, they wept, their tears like rain.

A person wrote a poem to me.
'A word,' I said, 'well, now I see.'

Say the silence, be the rain, patter against their windows
Don't play their game

The conversation has just begun
But the talk has continued for centuries
Only one will be just one
But drops of water make the seas

Poems fight against the dark
But nothing will come to us all
The greatest word, the brightest spark
Will fade before the final fall

Sadness is a useless state
Happiness will come too late
None can control their own desire
As much as we try to light the fire
If we mope we cannot grope
For joy which is simply absent
But when it arrives, like a mystic surprise
Seize the deceitful gift to cope

And no one who ever said their piece
Felt glad to be done, at peace with their call
But let people digest, let them feast
Lest they be overwhelmed and lose it all

Good intentions fall onto the floor
As misguided carers harm their care
Always the ones who have the means
Are never the ones who have the will
To help, selflessly.

It shifts with the changing of the days,
Melancholy gives way to hope,
Calm becomes fatigue
Joy fades when empathy alerts to the world