"Thou are not false, but thou art fickle," by Lord Byron

This is another great, favorite Byron poem:
                                                                - Manda

Thou are not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st --- too soon thou leavest.

The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, ---
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our Fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.

What must they feel whom no false Vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;
As if a dream alone had charm'd ?
Ah! sure such Grief is Fancy's scheming.
And all thy Change can be but dreaming!

-- Lord Byron

The broken laborer

In the morning, the sun rises
      and shines through his broken, dusty window,
             waking him from his intermittent sleep,
      and beckoning him to the wearisome toil of the day.  

He runs his worn fingers
      through his otherwise unkempt hair
            and rinses his face in the cold water
      from the damaged, rusty basin.

And while looking in the mirror,
     he sighs…
       looking into the eyes
                  that ask him why? and when? and how?

He finds his tattered shoes next to his tattered mattress,
     and finds his way out to the alley below,
          and onto the streets beyond.

Perhaps he will eat today.  
     Perhaps he will find the money to
          replace those tattered shoes
               that rest nightly by his tattered mattress–
          his lonesome resting spot on the floor.
               Perhaps he’ll pass on,
                    finally leaving his long-worn troubles behind.

But instead, he finds his way to a dock
     in hopes that someone will spot him
          and see that he can work…
               see that he is hungry…
          see that he has barely held on
               to what shallow hope he has,
                                                           if any.

And somebody does spot him,
     and does give him work,
          thus adding one more day to his life,
     and something to abate his unending hunger.

And when he gets home,
     to his damaged, rusty basin,
          his broken, dusty mirror,
     and puts his tattered shoes next to his tattered bed,
          attempting to forget the alley below,
               and the streets beyond,
          he wonders where things went wrong.  

And in the morning, the sun will rise
      and wake him through his broken, dusty window.
He will run his fingers through his otherwise unkempt hair,
      and rinse his face with the cold water from the damaged, rusty basin.

And while looking in the mirror,
      he will sigh, and look into those eyes
            that always show their sorrowful queries,
      never quite finding the answers,
            but hopeful still
                  to leave their long-worn troubles behind.

Life's truest beauty

To some, my goal might seem futile:
         To prove to those whom might listen that
the things they lament the most -
        those imperfections that they can’t change,
                    but deeply wish they could –
              are but deep facets of their limitless beauty.

Does the Earth apologize for her majesty?
        For her graceful fields,
      touched by soft, blowing winds?
    For her deep forests
       yet left untouched by mortal hand?

Does she regret her barren deserts -
          wastelands without life?
      Does she regret a wild mountain’s plume
             rewriting her subtle, beautiful landscapes?

But she does not!
      Nor should we!

Do we not stand in awe of her majesty?
        Do we cast shame on her unrestricted whims?

Does the worn fisherman not find
       the ocean’s outpouring on frightful tempestuous waters
               as stunning as her scent in the peaceful morning,
           as he recalls maiden voyage yet again?

Why then must our imperfections hold us back?
         Why then should our thoughts
     convince us that we are undeserving of anything?

For it is our imperfections that tell us who we are,
       that tell us where we’ve been,
            and remind us what we’ve been through!

They are but short stories in the grander chronicle of our lives!

Such a beautiful story is it –
       each man’s voyage to here and now,
           and on to the uninhibited potential that lies in wait.  

See you not Earth’s vast glory in all her endeavors?
      Why then hide your own?

Who has told you that any such limitation
       should ever hold you back?

Why do you wait?
           What do you wait for?
       Why are you still here?

Find yourself!
              Know yourself!         
      Even if you don’t know the way!
For you will find that it
       is what your heart knows above all else,
            and has known since you found yourself here,
                    since your body was given a heart with which to beat!

Wait not for your imperfections to fade!
         For on that day, will you have no stories left to tell,
     no goals left to pursue,
              and no love left to give.

Embrace them, know them, and love them,
         and you will find they are your greatest friends,
                 and Life’s true inspiration.
                                - end -

        - March 8, 2006    

Life's Restless River

Lying helpless on this raft,
            Rushing down Life’s rocky river,
      Am I but tossed about.

                  The unforgiving torrents rush me about,
            Never quite stopping long enough to catch my breath.

Though some days might I find myself
            floating on the calmest of creeks,
      all the time in the world,
            But no peace by which to enjoy it.

Where does this river stop?
                  When are its questions answered?
            When will I be able to sit and appreciate
      the river’s constant, subtle flow?

Surely there is a time,
            though it may seem distant.
Surely such a time has been set for me.

So I tie myself down,
            Grasping the ropes of a shaky vessel,
      Biding my time,
            That I might see the day
                  On which I might find rest.

So take me dear river.
      Lead me on,
            Through your twists and turns,
                  Your stillness and anxiety.

I await the day you deliver me to my destination,
      Having been primed by your consistent blows,
            And ready to take on the world.
                                - end -

        - March 6, 2006

"No greater creatures..."

No greater creatures,
      Fantastic as they:
This heart's greatest teachers,
      Affection portray.

With strength and with courage,
      Will this heart endure.
Their beauty encourage,
      And solace assure.

With comfort and gladness,
      this heart grow more bold.
That no realm of sadness,
      in this heart foretold.
                                - end -

        - March 6, 2006

It was a good night.

Between the fire,
      The friends
            And the jovial conversations...

It was a good night.