Love is a verb (repost)
As I was walking down the street the other day, I noticed the following sentence written on the sidewalk in big white block letters:
LOVE IS A VERB.
That made me smile and think yes, yes it is.
Yes, it is also a noun: deep affection. But, for that phrase to actually have more substance than the breath you expel upon saying I love you, there must be actions to give it weight. To give it meaning. Love cannot live in words alone if they are not to fade away to nothingness, or worse, twist and rot in the absence of actions or in the face of actions that put lie to the words.
What those actions might be, that demonstrate that love, are myriad and multitudinous...and quite personal to each individual.
For me, it is bear hugs. It's the words said every day, multiple times a day. It is standing on the porch waving as a loved one drives away. It's baking someone's favorite dessert, preparing homecooked meals. It's listening, accepting those you love as they are while encouraging them, supporting them to be their best selves. It's compromising. It's remembering things that are important to your loved one. Doing things for and with your loved one.
Sometimes it's sacrificing - time, energy, money, sleep for your loved one.
Nurtured, it will grow and strengthen. Blossom. Evolve.
Limited to words belied by actions - or inaction, it ceases to be love.
clover
weeds pulled and the dirt fed
i let the clover grow
and the vine it crushes the overlap
where the brush meets things man-made
the end of the green meets the beginning of blue
or brown
or dark of night
so, i let the clover grow
i let the clover grow, and the field does not suffer for it
the grass does not pay a price
and the sun shines down with plenty --
where i let the clover grow
@r2
Adrift
I am drifting again,
Floating in the back of my mind-
Lost.
I struggle to come to the surface,
But it's a losing battle-
A speck of sand
Fighting against the flow
Of the pounding waves.
It drowns me in emptiness,
And leaves me hollow.
I'm trapped in a prison of flesh and bone,
The only respite when I bleed razor red.
I want to break free,
Want to feel again.
But the tide is ignorant of my cries-
It goes on and on,
Crushing.
Suffocating.
Killing me slowly.
The Blank
clutching the heart
you say it is
plain
as vodka day
that the hole
is big
and dark
flocked
gapping black
a mouth crimson
lining
burning lack,
a dying sound...
But no
I counter
no, no, looky here
slapping the paper,
an infant, metaphorically
the hole, as it were
strictly speaking
is off white,
a smoking gun
07.23.2024
The biggest hole in my life... challenge @dctezcan
Evensong
There is a whispering wood...
At a breakneck speed,
I am...
Weaving through stacks
Of trees, and tracking
An enigma that can
Not be seen...
...It's calling...
"Are you there?...O, can you hear?...
...For so long I felt your presence
From the back vaults
Of my eyes..."
Now on the hunt
I cannot seem
To upend or to capsize
The ponderous stone
That is
Your dwelling
In this hinterland
Of half-light...
Leave me with a chip or shred!...
Something I'll
Take home to bed...
Saturate me to the bone...
Heed my plea, so I can strive...
7/22/24
Bunny Villaire
The Hollow King Of Make Believe
The hollow king of make believe
Preaches slow burn proverbs
And existential puffery
To his hardwired flock,
Fleecing their shallow pockets
By sleight of bony hand,
His third eye heaven
A telescopic watchtower.
The black robed moth
With pooling mercury mouth,
Garments his lizard skin
As the flat lined saints
Come marching in,
A clustering ambush
Of coma addled buyers,
And the shag carpeted pews
Are an inferno of huddled friction.
The hollow king of make believe
Devours glitter gold souls,
Held hostage
By dint
Of blood rust hooks
Punching through jaws,
Both atrophied and awed.
The hollow king of make believe
Sells vacant ideologues
And barters hope
For currency,
In the stained glass carnival sanctuary
Of fantastical delirium.
When the mewling notes
Begin to sour and float
From Sister Agnes’s ramshackle organ,
The shyster ruffles through his Armani suit
For a swollen cigar,
Behind the satanic curtain.
God is not dead
But nor is the devil,
As the ugly sainthood of mammon
Stabs a worshipful eye
With wolverine smile
That sniffs out spoils
And levels worlds.
Salvation costs only a monthly donation.
Cancel anytime.
Lost in the Wild
Why did I agree to go?
The question taunts me with each uncertain step I take through waist-high weeds in a sprawling field. Thick woods lie ahead. The foreboding sea of conifers and evergreens stretches to the horizon. Gone is the azure firmament and noonday sun, replaced by dark skies and ominous black clouds.
I am alone somewhere in Michigan’s eastern Upper Peninsula.
My cellphone is dead.
And I am lost.
Why did I agree to go? Why did I let my friend convince me, a certified urban adult, into taking part in an orienteering meet for his Cub Scouts? I had never heard of orienteering. Mark, the troop leader, told me, “You’ll have fun. It’s a scavenger hunt, only you’re looking for topographical clues like depressions, elevations, that kind of thing.”
“Of course,” I lied to Mark when he asked if I knew how to read a topographical map and a compass.
At this moment, I’m sure those two things are sneering at me from inside the pocket of my cargo shorts, along with the list of topographical clues I was supposed to hunt for.
Now, I am tired and hungry and desperately hunting for a way out.
It seems like hours since I last saw one of Mark’s Cub Scouts. We all began the meet together, but one by one they vanished into the woods, each searching for different clues.
I trip over an old log. The bark skins my shins, but I arise, limping through the weeds and into the darkness of the woods.
Why did I agree to go? I had a chance to speak up when Mark told the kids and me at the outset: “If you get lost, follow your compass west and wait by the railroad tracks; someone will come by in a pickup.” But which way is west? Is north the black half of the compass needle or the silver half?
I break off twigs to get past dense trees and cut my hands on the sharp ends. I am bleeding as I finally leave the woods and enter another field of deep weeds. A green valley lies between two large hills.
The wind is picking up. A thunderclap jolts me. I hear creaking.
There is something in the left side of that gap amid the weeds and trees. It is not moving, but I approach with caution. I see it clearly now. An old screen door with torn metallic webbing is standing upright, flapping in the wind. A crash startles. The screen slams into a thick, moss-covered wooden door.
I reach out and touch the screen door. I stop it from flapping.
But I cannot bring myself to touch the dirty doorknob on the other door.
I peek behind and see a wall of dense trees and weeds. I let the screen slip out of my hand, leaving a bloody palm print.
“Is anyone here?” I summon a yell.
The only response is the creaking screen door flapping again in the wind.
Heavy rain begins to fall and a dazzling lightning bolt strikes the door with a monstrous crash.
When I come to, the screen door and its wooden companion are still there. But there is a deep black streak and smoke is rising. The wooden door seems to be ajar; brightness emanates from the crack. I approach cautiously, pull back the screen, and try to peer into the fissure. I cannot see a thing, other than light. So, I push the wooden door open.
I step inside and find myself in an open field under calm, blue skies. I can see the sun and feel the warmth on my skin. And directly ahead I see a thick yellow arrow resting on the weeds. A hallucination? I take a few steps in the direction the arrow is pointing in. I am no longer limping. My hands are not bleeding.
I see railroad tracks and break into a run. I fall on my knees on gravel and kiss the rail.
“Hey!”
It’s Mark’s voice! I look up and see a pickup truck heading toward me. It stops and Mark jumps out.
He grasps my right hand with both of his and says, “My buddy, we thought you were lost!”
I laugh and reply, “Me? Lost? You’re kidding, right?”
A void dance
Fill the void
so I do not feel
What is wrong
or what is real.
Dancing around
the endless gap
My feet grow tired
my mind is trapped.
A holes a hole
but to what extent?
Why had I
been so distant?
Should I want
or need or care?
My hole's a burden
Why don't I share?
I cannot be
my best self here.
I've been dancing
lead by fear.
Staying, clasping
trying to hold on.
I could let go,
but then I'd move on.
There is a place
I want to go.
But I'd leave here
with nothing to show.
Departing here
is my biggest void.
Arriving there
I'll be employed.
My job's a burden
but I should see.
This job is just
not right for me.