Wyndham

Mar. 3rd, 2004 08:28 am
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It was dark the night they saw the lion.
"Nonsense," Wyndham would tell them,
smirking around his meerschaum,
"there are no lions in London!"
But children dream of stranger things
than lions.

It was raining the day they saw the dragon.
"Nonsense," Wyndham would exclaim,
a comfortable haze drifting from his pipe,
"there is no such thing as dragons!"
But children dream of stranger things
than dragons.

It was snowing the day they saw the fairy.
"Nonsense," Wyndham would state,
smoke drifting from his nose,
"there are simply no such things as fairies!"
But children dream of stranger things
than fairies.

It was warm outside, the day they saw the Wyndham.
"Nonsense," Wyndham would explain,
his pipe clenched firmly betwixt his teeth,
"I have never believed in Wyndham."
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When first to write,
one sits with pen.
You put out the half from your words

When first to read,
one sits with book.
Out take that half of words.

When first to recite,
one stands with book.
Do not might one's understand to speak.

When first to listen,
one sits with nothing.
To hear understood words one to speak.
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Some days I wonder:
Will I be discovered
when I'm gone?
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Where once there was ink,
there is a bubble in my pen.
Do I write too much?
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A dream forgotten
can sometimes be remembered.
Landscapes in Springtime.
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This year is now gone ...
Where does tomorrow come from?
Deep ice-covered lakes?
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I can no longer hide myself
Locked behind my own front door
Or else concealed within my self.
Vacant hearts my words explore -
Even truths I'd like to hide
Seem to slip into the light.
The truths I tell - I haven't lied -
Ever push me towards the night.
Perhaps I was not meant to know
How deep the scars I bear within.
And now I've found I should not go -
Nor shall I hide myself again.
I bear a truth within my heart -
Every line contains a part.
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Truly forgotten:
The mighty of yesterday.
Ozymandias
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Where has the time gone?
Beauty makes its passage swift.
Sudden thunderstorms.
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How old and frail have grown
the ones who were
the idols of our youth.

The spring has gone
the snow has come
I have no dreams to share.
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Wake up! the kitten insists, Listen to this! It's important!

I stumble blearily to my feet, and realize that I'm not at home.

After a few minutes of searching for her, I remember that she is not with me.

"Aren't you at home, kitten?"

She laughs quietly in my mind.

Distance doesn't matter, she tells me softly, when our hearts are involved. Do you understand?

"I think," say I, "that I begin to."
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Far too often dreams
Hide in secret containers.
Cocooned butterflies.
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Wake up! the kitten insists, Follow me! It's important!

And so I rise, and follow her into the bathroom, where she waits by the sink.

Turn the water on! She looks imploringly at me, and I reach to do so.

Thank you, she says as she drinks. Remember the lesson about the water?

"Yes I do," I tell her, "why are you going over it again?"

Not everyone, she replies, Learns their lessons the first time. Do you understand?

"I think," say I, "that I begin to."
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My life continues
Driven by forces unseen.
Autumn's wind-blown leaves.
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My dreams are too big:
I cannot carry them all
In my toy wagon.
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The ancient oak tree:
It does not bend to strong winds.
I am simply me.
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Wake up! the kitten insists, Listen to this! It's important!

I sit up and look around the room, failing to see her.

A moment later, I brush her with my foot - very nearly stepping on her.

"There you are! I thought you were hiding, again."

She laughs and rolls over to accept my hand and the love it demonstrates.

The truth, she tells me, doesn't need to be hidden to be overlooked. Do you understand?

"I think," say I, "that I begin to."
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Eternity waits.
If there is one truth, it's this:
Pain is forever.
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I was reminded recently of a newspaper article that I read a long time ago.

You see, during World War II, a small island in the Mediterranean fell to the Nazis. Well, that's not quite true - a lot of small islands in the Mediterranean fell to the Nazis, but only one of them is important to the tale.

The commander of the occupying force demanded from the local priest a list of all the "undesirable" people on the island - Jews, Gypsies, and the like. The priest was given a few days to complete the list.

I have no doubt that for those three days, the priest locked himself away and prayed. And I very much doubt that he was the only one on the island who was praying.

I wonder what prayer looks like to God. If prayer looks like a light, I'm sure that little island shone like a beacon to the Almighty. A glistening gem in a dark place.

I wonder if the priest in his seclusion cried tears of blood, as did Christ in the Garden. I wonder how many angels were there to comfort him. I wonder if he sensed their presence.

I can only imagine what it would have been like to have been a Jew on the island on the morning when the list was due.

History records that the priest walked alone for his meeting with the commander, but I wonder how many pairs of eyes followed him up the street. And I wonder how he had written the list - was it on paper and sealed in a manila envelope? Was it written in a thick tome?

I suspect that he walked slowly, his shoulders bowed under the weight of the burden which he bore. I wonder at the number of angels which walked with him, lightening his load as he walked into the stronghold of the enemy.

I can only imagine the face of the Nazi commander as he received the priest into his office. Did he look with glee at the list as it was handed to him? Was this just another duty to him?

But most of all, I wonder at the face of the man who first opened the list to read the names of those who were to die. I wonder at the expression found on his face when he saw that the priest had written but one name.

His own.

Some old friends and I were discussing heros the other day - which brought this tale to mind. I don't even know the name of my hero. As a priest, his role was to emulate Christ. All I know for sure is that this man was willing to die so that others may live. In my book, he passed the test.
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I went out last night, to watch dreams fall from the sky.

Fifteen years ago, I was in Montana, and my grandmother - my truest ally and staunchest supporter - had just left us a few days before. Needing time alone, I walked outside, intending to go for a long walk. I got three steps out the door, when I saw that it wasn't dark out at all. The northern sky was ablaze with a cold glow that danced and flickered in time to music unheard.

How long I watched the Northern Lights, I could not say. But I do know that, as I watched, the meteor shower began - its warmth a stark contrast to the dance that had gone before - and which continued, heedless of the flames which flew across it.

And then I looked up - straight up - and became so dizzy that I had to sit. The endless vault of stars towered above me.

And still they continued to fall, and the lights danced in the North.

It was as though the Dream had decided to ignore the boundary that blocked its entry to my waking world, and waltzed quietly into full view of everyone.

The morning sun found me there still - entranced by the both dances and the dancers, and dreaming of both.
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