13 years old.
by Sara Meincke Tubbs
This is so beautiful…
A poem falls short; I’d like, instead
to draw a single line from me to you
and watch it curl into a word
so beautiful it’s still unsaid –
or press paper to the window pane
so that the day might saturate
a note that brightly warms your hands,
spills birdsong from imagined trees
and buzzes like fat bumblebees,
but I am bound by language, love; I can’t.
An inadequate poem by ephemera
Who Is We
by Todd Hudzinski, (January 1984)
This plight we share
In all it consists of humanity, it’s ignorance
It’s belonging, it’s peace of mind and body
We need time for reflection and dreams
A life separate, alone to contemplate
The course of deliverance
Too many times we are caught up in ourselves
And thus, we forget our plight
There is a space in our life where we need nothing
Except time which always is, never was
But then there is remorse, for we are behind
Too young to manifest the reality thus conceptualized
And who is we but me
Somewhere and somehow attainment be not denied
Attainment acheived through releasement
Expect nothing and be not disillusioned
For it is all too simple to be misconstrued by complexity
Which leads inevitably to false starts and hopes
To be humbled is blissful and serene
And intelligence gained through it will not be
Misrepresentation of true knowledge.
Tossing and turning
Eyes are wide and aware
The digital numbers on the clock change slowly
Each minute taking an eternity to pass
There are no dreams here
Only harsh confrontation with reality
Too tired to sleep
Too tired to dream
Not awake, not asleep, lost in the infinite middle
The zone of awareness without motivation
Thirsts remain unquenched, hungers unsated
The mind drifts leaving the body behind
These become two separate existing forces
When will sleep reunite them?
Sanity has lost definition
Another endless night is closing
Reality will soon be reinforced by consequences
Rationalization dismisses the afterthoughts they possess
And I press the snooze button
Insomnia by Jennifer Hogenson
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave bereft
I am not there. I have not left.
Author: Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932)
Barren of events,
Rich in pretensions
My earthly life.
My real name.
Wholly unto myself
I wrap no soul
In my embrace.
No mentor worthy
Of my calibre
I am all alone
I am the red thread
Excerpt from “My Flute” by Sri Chinmoy
Copyright © Sri Chinmoy 1974