Entries by tag: forgiveness
The weak can never forgive.
Forgiveness is the attribute
of the strong.
--Mahatma Gandhi
He that cannot forgive others
breaks the bridge over which
he, himself, must pass.
--Lord Herbert
Nothing that is worth doing
can be achieved in our lifetime;
therefore, we must be saved by hope. ...
Nothing we do, however virtuous,
can be accomplished alone;
therefore, we are saved by love.
No virtuous act is quite as virtuous
from the standpoint of our friend or foe
as it is from our standpoint.
Therefore, we must be saved
by the final form of love,
which is forgiveness.
—Reinhold Niebuhr
Sleep well. A gland in the command
center releases its yellow hornet
to tell you you're missing the point,
the point being that getting smacked
by a board, gored by umbrellas, tongue-
lashed by cardiologists, bush-wacked
by push-up bras is a learning experience.
Sure, you're about learned up. Weren't
we promised the thieves would be punished?
Promised jet-packs and fleshy gardenias
and wine to get the dust out of our mouths?
And endless forgiveness? A floral rot
comes out of the closet, the old teacher's
voice comes out of the ravine, red-wings
in rushes never forget their rusty-hinged
song. Moon-song, dread-song, hardly-a-song
at all song. Let's ignore that call,
let someone else stop Mary from herself
for the 80th time. It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull. Take
my hand, fellow figment. Every spring
we'll meet, definite as swarms of stars,
insects over glazed puddles, your eyes
green even though your driver's license
says otherwise. And yes, mortal knells
in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty
boats against a dock but still the mind
is a meadow, the heart an ocean even though
it burns. As long as there's a sky, someone
will be falling from it. After molting,
eat your own shucked skin for strength,
keep changing the subject in hopes
that the subject will change you.
center releases its yellow hornet
to tell you you're missing the point,
the point being that getting smacked
by a board, gored by umbrellas, tongue-
lashed by cardiologists, bush-wacked
by push-up bras is a learning experience.
Sure, you're about learned up. Weren't
we promised the thieves would be punished?
Promised jet-packs and fleshy gardenias
and wine to get the dust out of our mouths?
And endless forgiveness? A floral rot
comes out of the closet, the old teacher's
voice comes out of the ravine, red-wings
in rushes never forget their rusty-hinged
song. Moon-song, dread-song, hardly-a-song
at all song. Let's ignore that call,
let someone else stop Mary from herself
for the 80th time. It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull. Take
my hand, fellow figment. Every spring
we'll meet, definite as swarms of stars,
insects over glazed puddles, your eyes
green even though your driver's license
says otherwise. And yes, mortal knells
in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty
boats against a dock but still the mind
is a meadow, the heart an ocean even though
it burns. As long as there's a sky, someone
will be falling from it. After molting,
eat your own shucked skin for strength,
keep changing the subject in hopes
that the subject will change you.
I am supposed to be asleep but I haven't been sleeping well the last several nights. My TMJ is acting up such that I can't even put the backs of my teeth together, and I have to be in class at 7:30am tomorrow morning. There is something about the time pressure that makes it even harder to get to bed on time. It doesn't help that tonight I had a class until 8pm, and on Mondays and Wednesdays I'm committed until 9pm. It takes me a few hours to decompress after classes. I can't just go to sleep. I end up getting up at 11 or 12 and puttering around until I start to sag again.
( moreCollapse )
( moreCollapse )
Comments