Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Feb 19, 2008 14:20:59 GMT -5
Version 3
Directions
Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts, so I can listen to
the slap/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend into a salty stew
for my ingestion, swallowed by the mind
(my heart's too full to pull its wisdom in);
then I recall the adage, “Love is blind,”
and think, “My God, I’m going blind again.”
But sight is overrated when the pace
is like the long, slow ocean billow, beached.
It finds its perfect ending at a place
where a completed wave would want to go:
a place of purpose, where an end is reached
without a map. Somehow, the wave will know.
Version 2
Directions
Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts, and I can listen to
the slap/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend as if a salty stew
for my ingestion, drinking with the mind
(my heart's too full to pull its wisdom in);
then I recall the adage, “Love is blind,”
and then I think, “My God, I’m blind again.”
But sight is overrated when our pace
is like the long, slow ocean billow, beached.
It finds its perfect ending at a place
where a completed wave would want to go—
a place of purpose, where an end is reached—
without a map. Somehow, the wave will know.
Version 1
Directions
Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts, and I can listen to
the slap/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend as if a salty stew
for my ingestion, drinking with my mind
(my heart's too full to take its wisdom in);
and I remember hearing, “Love is blind,”
and then I think, “My God, I’m blind again.”
But sight is overrated when our pace
is like the long, slow oceanic songs,
reaching their perfect endings in a place
that a completed wave would want to go—
a place of purpose, where the end belongs—
without directions. Yes, the waves just know.
Directions
Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts, so I can listen to
the slap/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend into a salty stew
for my ingestion, swallowed by the mind
(my heart's too full to pull its wisdom in);
then I recall the adage, “Love is blind,”
and think, “My God, I’m going blind again.”
But sight is overrated when the pace
is like the long, slow ocean billow, beached.
It finds its perfect ending at a place
where a completed wave would want to go:
a place of purpose, where an end is reached
without a map. Somehow, the wave will know.
Version 2
Directions
Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts, and I can listen to
the slap/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend as if a salty stew
for my ingestion, drinking with the mind
(my heart's too full to pull its wisdom in);
then I recall the adage, “Love is blind,”
and then I think, “My God, I’m blind again.”
But sight is overrated when our pace
is like the long, slow ocean billow, beached.
It finds its perfect ending at a place
where a completed wave would want to go—
a place of purpose, where an end is reached—
without a map. Somehow, the wave will know.
Version 1
Directions
Most of the time I manage to ignore
my little doubts, and I can listen to
the slap/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore,
before they blend as if a salty stew
for my ingestion, drinking with my mind
(my heart's too full to take its wisdom in);
and I remember hearing, “Love is blind,”
and then I think, “My God, I’m blind again.”
But sight is overrated when our pace
is like the long, slow oceanic songs,
reaching their perfect endings in a place
that a completed wave would want to go—
a place of purpose, where the end belongs—
without directions. Yes, the waves just know.
