Blog-Like Thing

One day, we all must die, but for now, we can be heroes — just for one day.

The words below were written by a friend of mine, Ryan Gagne — a very talented and charming man.

Memento Mori

My candle has been lit
(Memento Mori)
I hope it has a long wick
(Memento Mori)
For some, the flame burns hot and bright
(Memento Mori)
Yet for others, it sheds little light
(Memento Mori)
Many candles burn slow; they last
(Memento Mori)
Countless others burn far too fast
(Memento Mori)
I watch the wax drip to the plate
(Memento Mori)
While I ponder things like fate
(Memento Mori)
The fire flickers white, blue, and red
(Memento Mori)
As the taper melts, I feel no dread
(Memento Mori)
I am happy, and I am at peace
(Memento Mori)
I know not when the flame will cease
(Memento Mori)
I will live life in the now
(Memento Mori)
Before I take my final bow
(Memento Mori)
And when my candle is snuffed out
(Memento Mori)
Let it be said I did not pout

Memento Mori
Memento Mori
Memento Mori

By Ryan Gagne. All copyrights to the words above belong solely to Ryan Gagne, and to no one else.

–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.

 Japan - Ghosts: Play in Popup

Misplaced

– Written by my good friend, David Eadington. One day, I will beat him at Scrabble just one more time…

How the smell of burnt pop tart
opens a door you can’t believe ever closed,
or how a shapeless cloud skating
through a boundless blue sky
strums some chord bundled deep
within you. Your eyes suddenly
aflood before you sense the tang
of what you must have known, once.

Lives are built by patchwork;
a humdrum yesterday tar-papers
over the $40 cognac savored alone
at the Algonquin reading Dorothy Parker,
which in turn pasted over something else:
the way Chris’ hand clutched your hip,
how your father couldn’t look you in the eye.

Beneath the silt of days,
Handfuls of memory harden as you lean
on them, crystallizing into waypoints
that map how you came to who you are:
the New York with port butter, the final word
in that spelling bee. How she tasted
of vanilla and sugar, and you never looked back.

But still, three chords from a forgotten lover’s
favorite song call forth the scent of winter sunlight,
faded lace, and a loss that courses
beyond the farthest tip of your essence.

- by David Eadington — copyrights and all that jazz belong solely to him.

–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.

 Echo & The Bunnymen - Bring On The Dancing Horses [4:01m]: Play in Popup

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Here is another one of my favorite poems:
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

From Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage.

–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.

 This Mortal Coil - Song To The Siren [3:31m]: Play in Popup

(Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant, my own personal god, does a great cover of this song. I still can’t decide which version I prefer.)

I have no thoughts to share today and absolutely no desire to write. But since I’ve lost so many things lately, I’d like to share one of my all-time favorite poems, written by Elizabeth Bishop. If you stumble onto this page, do read the poem, and think about it for a while.

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

– Elizabeth Bishop

–All original content in this post is by(c)BluHarmony with all rights reserved.