Anita | CC BY-NC-ND 2.0


Return to belief, clay sculpture with a spark burning like an eternal lamp,
Return swift as a swallow;
Cease to disregard the magic mirage in the mirror of your inner soul as one of many —
Recognize it as the surface of images.
Remove those rose-tinted glasses through which you see miracles performed with perplexity,
Discover things to be taken for granted;
Let not dreams of purple eyes of a she from Montevideo darken your doorways to dreams
And cold corridors of thought;
Discard the shackles of kinds of progress and their illusions of advancement
For the content you seek.
Remember a milky ring circling the moon when you see a viper chasing its tail round a lotus
Enshrined on pads on waters of your mind;
Remember, too, the cat on a chair by the fire does not grin cynically
Or know about your opinions of gods and worshipers;
It does not wish to ingratiate itself to you because you could not wish it:
It has its own life to lead.
The wolf howling to the moon shining down has not read volumes that do their subjects no justice;
Has not thought about origins; or
Sat in a furrowed-brow contemplation with ink-well and quill close at hand.
Thrust aside the blizzard of feathers that floats in your crystal-ball of learning
And embrace the trees that sway in unison round an unquestioning fellow felled by lightning.
The spirit warbling on a branch seemingly free of care praises only himself;
Has gratitude for the morning;
And no hint of sorrow or a plea for good times in his song:
He is not an absurdity.




In the beginning was the word. And I got paid for it.

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Tyrone Graham

Tyrone Graham

In the beginning was the word. And I got paid for it.

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