she awoke early
and sent him out
for bread and milk
and the morning glory
of larks just opening their eyes
on the evening star's retreat.
the bed would stay unmade
she said
let the cat forage
for sunshine under the pillows
and curl up
on the windowsill
marking time
with its tail till noon.
we'll sip earl grey tea
and discover just how sweetly
day breaks
over easy.
He wanted to be an architect of time.
He wanted to arrange lives perfectly
and put god on a schedule.
He wanted to order the universe
so there were no surprises left,
and no one would over-sleep
or be late for birthday parties.
He wanted to orchestrate
The music of the planets
and have the trains all run on time.
But he didn't count on you,
with your nursery rhyme mouth
and the bandaids on your knees.
He didn't count on the riddles you ask,
or the way you hide pennies in shoes
and only eat vanilla ice-cream.
He never saw you coming or realized
you were the perfect piece of chaos
to bring order to his world.
The other children said
he had crazy eyes
and made fun
of how his mother dressed him
and refused to understand
why he liked strange colors
and would not play
with his toys.
They could not get used to
the voices he heard,
or how he traced their faces
with his fingers
and pronounced them good
and were scared
of the way his hands made music
from plain air.
They misread his language
and thought he conjured demons
in the quiet glade
where no birds sang.
But the boy only shrugged
and smiled quietly to himself
at their puzzles.
You see,
he knew the gift of imperfection
its fierce magic
and how to catch beauty
and turn bad
The boy took out a silver hook
and fastened it to a cobweb
and cast it across the summer night,
hoping for a prize
that he could tuck into his pocket
and put under his pillow
to dream upon.
He wanted to hear ghost stories
and taste wild strawberries
and swim in water so cold and clear
it would dapple his skin blue and make him shiver.
He wanted to catch starfish
and dig for stone crabs under the pier
and eat snow cones until he burst,
painting the night cherry red
with firecrackers.
He wanted to know the colors of an August moon
and touch the sharp edges of stars
and just for one night
to own the sky...
Love walked alone. The party was nearly all
such parties ever are faces, voices, open arms.
But she had stepped outside without a word
or sign, then left the building for the street.
There she bent down, undid her shoes and stood
on the sidewalk in bare feet. She knew the city well,
had traced many paths through it, heard many times
the same hearts beat, the same voices, the same
silences and sighs. She could hear them now.
But every walk brought surprise, and tonight
there was singing somewhere, how far away
she was not sure, but a great many voices rose.
She went in what seemed the right direction,
following the grid of streets as
Blues for Two Old Greeks by RichardLeach, literature
Literature
Blues for Two Old Greeks
Heraclitus had a river
that he stepped in just one time.
Heraclitus had a river
that he stepped in just one time.
Some people didn't understand him,
but he was a friend of mine.
He said he would come to dinner
if I made that pie again.
He said he would come to dinner
if I made that pie again.
I said, "How can I do that?"
and then he began to grin.
My pal Plato had a cave,
full of shadows on the wall.
My pal Plato had a cave,
full of shadows on the wall.
He'd go in and sit for hours
and he'd never hear me call.
But his nose would get the message
when I made that pie just right.
Yes, his nose would get the message
when I ma
Sometimes we grow up like this:
gyroscopic, like sunflowers, our faces turning
towards the sun. And the sun is more than a ball
of burning gas. The sun is warm and bright
and alive. And we are warm and bright and alive.
I am no bloom. Wings do not rely
on the kindness of strangers. But sometimes they will tell you
that people arent things you can own.
They will tend to the flowers, they will lean into the garden,
prune dead leaves and reshape
innocent bushes. Their sweat will drip into
your faces, my glittering lilies, my lonely and cynical roses,
and they will tell you how to
come into your own. They will say the wo
The road kill
of your thoughts
trips you up,
and spills you out
on hot asphalt
and bright pins,
and shards of black glass,
dug deep under your nails.
you spin and weave trouble
like spiders in jars,
where legs tangle
and eyes grow beady
in the tight air
with wasted time
run amok
like a twisted clock
the black threads of your lies
pulled taut
with your sharp white teeth
hanging like old news
in the corner,
as withered as your heart
spat out like demon seed
in someone else's head.
Even when
they said it was over
it did not stop you
from getting off
on that revolution stuff.
maybe you just loved
the smell of change -
the way the wind
tore down the streets
and shook leaves
from her hair
and how her smile
capsized your world
or how
she got you high
on promises
and pipe dreams
when all the world
just wanted to fight.
maybe it was
how she loved
the clash of history
sweeping under your feet
and dressing you
like her hero
in rags and patches
and making you realize
there was more to life
than just saving the world...