The Door

One day you'll see:
you've been knocking on a door
without a house.

You've been waiting, shivering, yelling
words of daring and hope.
One day you'll see:
there is no one on the other side
except as ever, the jubilant ocean
that won't shatter ceramically like a dream
when you and I shatter.

But not yet. Now
you wait outside, watching
the blue arches of mornings
that will break
but are now perfect.

Underneath on tiptoe
pass the faces, speaking to you,
saying 'you', 'you', 'you',
smiling, waving, arriving
in unfailing chronology.

One day you'll doubt your movements,
you will shudder
at the accuracy of your sudden age.

You will ache for slow beauty
to save you from your quick, quick life.
But not yet. Hope
fills the yawn of time.

Blue surrounds you. Now let's say
you see a door and knock,
and wait for someone to hear.


KAPKA KASSABOVA

are you going to make it?

We are like roses that have never bothered to

bloom when we should have bloomed and

it is as if

the sun has become disgusted with

waiting 

Charles Bukowski

thought flood

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,

The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors.

I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.

Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping

I must most perfectly resemble them--

Thoughts gone dim.

It is more natural to me, lying down.

Then the sky and I are in open conversation,

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

― Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems

...I Am Vertical

(But I would rather be horizontal...)

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