Thursday, May 30, 2019

Tradescantia (Wandering Jew Plant)

In the window you grow --
Tradescantia
Are you searching for home
Or wandering for mystery

Purple queen dancing above
You have so many sides
You shine like silk, you draw in light
But oh how easily you die

You grow, you rise, you shed, you dry, you break, you root new life.
You grow, you rise, you shed, you dry, you break, you root new life.

Purple queen, you are my heart.
Your leaves are woven into me.
I grow and break alongside you.
I've been wandering my whole life too.

I lift upwards as the sky.
I draw in light as the sun.
I crumble as the earth.
I begin again as the seed.

I grow, I rise, I shed, I dry, I break, I root new life.
I grow, I rise, I shed, I dry, I break, I root new life.

But who is the tender?
And who is the plant?
Which roots are mine?
Which roots are yours?

For we are the forest let the deer rush through us.
We are the fish, swimming through the sea.
We are the sky, let the birds glide through us.
We are the flowers in a field.
We are the meadow, let the water pour through us.
We are the seed becoming more.
We are the earth holding the seed, we are the plant that has grown, we are the plant that has dried.

We grow, we rise, we shed, we dry, we break, we root new life.
We grow, we rise, we shed, we dry, we break, we root new life.

Thursday, May 9, 2019

something else

There is the driver that almost hits the biker, not because he wants to, but because he doesn’t see.


There are the people walking by the vagrant guy who is singing with so much soul,
not because they want to, but because they don’t hear.


There are the thoughts in my mind that keep asking me to look back instead of being here, right here.


And so many couples quarreling about very tiny things,
mostly because they have forgotten something very important.


My piano student who is fighting for his life, everyday,
and that beautiful woman I knew, who gave hers away.


The soil in my garden that is somehow rich and fertile after a long winter
and how everything -- every little seed always remembers where to go.


The friend from out of town that reminds me of the world. Somehow it’s all connected.


And my little mind that is partly in brooklyn, partly in the past, partly in the future, partly in fantasy.


I don’t want to be the same person you thought I was yesterday, and also, I want to be known.


There are the weeds that we pull that become mulch, protecting the seeds.


All this waste that could easily turn into soil, and then back into food.


A simple molecule that could be upcycled into something more complex
(at least that’s what my friend told me).


The blood that leaves my body. The blood, that could pour into the earth, nourishing new life.
It makes me dizzy, my mind fragmented. Today, I am less myself and more of something else.


The purple plant in my window which so often crumples and dries. I break it into pieces,
place the parts into water, watch new roots sprout, plant the new roots into soil.
Again and again. The crumpled leaf is the purple, shiny leaf. Its death exists within its life.


There is this moment. There is that one.


There is the feeling I had with my friend like my world was getting bigger and bigger
just by having him in my garden. I had forgotten about change, about hope.


I want to connect with everyone I know and I also want to hide.

I want to have intimacy, to touch, to feel --
and also I want to be alone in my bed, to feel the stillness, and to sleep.

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