role reversal?

Seems that it is possible to change places without changing roles

إن شاء الله

the splash of liquid diamonds in the night sky

the commas, pause for breath, 'midst poetry

fresh dewdrops awakening, perched atop the grass

light rain of tears rebounding up unheard from dust and puddles

the scratch of drumming surfaces that beat a rhythm

flightpath of birds on their way to the throne room

hoofprints of Pitzeem's mare

the dirt in the field flying out behind Badger's hind claws

the wink of gleaming stardust settling behind rocky peaks in a yellowing dawn

The Globe Theater was ringed by lamps with reflective shades that cast the light upon the stage.

Do you see good things in the world?  Since everything is a mirror, the goodness you see around you is a reflection of yourself.  The light also comes from you, and is projected outward onto stage by the reflective panels behind you. Find your inner lightbulb, and twist the panels it to aim the light back onto yourself until you also feel the warmth.

crawling out of bed

It occurs to me in words that one of the most important abilities of a victim is first, to know when one is being victimized and when one isn't; and second, to know the source of the threat.

 If one is being victimized without knowing, this descends into an awful twilight swamp of partial humanity. If one is not being victimized, but feels otherwise, this brings that nightmare into waking life.

If one can identify the source of the threat, then one knows whether or not the swamp comes from oneself. Try to find that door and shut it. Anticipated, unverified threats from others have no place in one's internal world.

 Since the reality is that all humans should be able to expect to be treated with dignity and respect, to live knowing otherwise is a kind of nightmare. Even if conscious, it is a world that isn't real.
 This ... Dream.

morning sun rises

people are actually pretty cool

most of them are really interesting,
and are actually not trying to impose on me, get something from me, or judge/criticize/shame me.

I feel like I just woke up from an unsettling nightmare
It's morning and the sun is shining

The people outside are familiar in a normal way.

I shall practice again expecting commonly expectable things
when did I start dreaming?
 

I would like to remember this feeling of waking up twice.

And, not to return to that dream.

Longing and Patience and a dialogue in definitions

Longing:

The centrifugal rise of your heart in your chest every time you come around to check for no new news.

The upreached compass arm
not willing to release
the fix'd foot

'round which it paces

Patience:

The even space between my breaths
that is the same as every other space

Longing:

The heart of the Earth for the Sun

Patience:

The constant speed with which it pursues - rotating so that each face in turn may have a glimpse

The tide awaits the moon.

Longing:

The ocean swell which keeps its face upturned

Following even onto land
until the strength

(though not the will)

is broken by the rocks

Patience?

The Sun sees his reflection in the Moon

which the Moon shares with Earth in his apparent absence

The same day as lights the other side of Earth
is painted gently on our own night sky

The buildings are not interested - their light clamors too loud

But mountains, trees, and old stones still await the news

and someday the buildings will die down.

كلام معك ~ انا بحب مصر

Sometimes I'm not sure if it's you
or if it's the dry sun I feel the heat of through your words.  The dust, the carts,
donkeys on strong, tiny ankles
the hot dust quenched by thick and cool and maybe sour orange mango juice -

the bakeries with their tiny breads - ~ the yellow cardstock rectangle from Ramses Station, the heavy, knotted rope slamming courtyard playground floor,
the light gleaming off of Leonardo's guitar

the cool dark of that tomb among the pyramids, the giant blocks, the men with camels and cameras,

the sunset on the Nile and football...

I wonder if it's you, or this flap of silver-white and teal

wings of the bird of time that I want so much to glimpse again
and to tell me
flitting above desert streams
that it's ok

to forget

Though I know

We all must lift each other up by sharing what we know

At any rate,
if you do come,
I'll find mint for tea

and ask you how many spoonfulls of sugar?  two? or three?

freewriting -

Is writing time always going to be

10 - 11 - 12 - too late?

Will it always wait for that
liminal state
between day and
delayed desire for morning?

dawn
the farthest from my eyes
my tired mind and I
gaze into darkened pooling of the
night gathering
therin we glimpse reflection
of the day
and paint with ink.

painted in ink -
an ink that comes from between the stars

and
above the lands where day is clearest

spreads the whole sun across the sky

The lunar glow is not from one radiant source

It reminds us to share
there is no glare in her light

We breathe with borrowed breath
our hands
on loan from ashes

Eyes gently receiving the light that
from one source
funds us only after first touching others

The moon reminds us of this by her example

/remember you are not the true source/

And her beauty is not diminished
And in the gathered-cloak night sky
I see the kaleidoscopic gleam
still painted with the broad-brush silver river of their time snaked 'cross the sky
of a billion distant

ancient days

soon to be eclipsed by our own

When Helios closes the door of day behind him

He opens the Sky to the hall of his brothers'

The moon
unblinded by her own
reflects it all
a luminescent cool silk sheet

upon the face of Earth