Perfection

So in my various wanderings through the UK and the rest of Europe, I was inspired by so many different things. In the countryside of the UK and then in the hearts of the ancient cities of Italy, I saw so many beautiful rocks (granite and marble especially) covered with greenery but they looked like they were struggling so hard to pierce through their covers to be seen. Huge slabs of unformed rock just waiting. This is what came of those thoughts. A poem of sorts...?

I am white, cool, rugged and supple. I glisten and spark, day and night, rain and shine.

I am steadfastly stuck in a space apart from my brothers since the first chisel chipped away the ruin to see my light. The unworthy stone was discarded and I remained, unworthy to be broken or sliced or carved. 

My brothers are shown to be exceptional, beautiful and are shaped into their true selves. The shape, the movement, the creature that has been captive within a rectangular prism of icicle dust and will be brought to light by caring, cutting, cooling hands. 

Not I. 

Too many have passed me over. Too many have examined me from every angle and decided that I was too good to be good enough. I give light rather then reflect it. Wouldn't I make a spectacular Pieta? Wouldn't I make an astonishing Kiss? Wouldn't I shine to create a work glorious and joyous in it's silent stoic presence? 

But no. 

I feel no hint of a chisel. I feel no wisps of breath from an anxious sculptor. Closed. Obstructed. Unsure. 

I will not be seen because they all see too much. Can I break into a new, stupefying, miraculous . . . something? I need someone to see something other than perfection. I need someone to see my captive self. I need someone to break me from my prison of light, white, ice. I am apprehended by the beauty they see and by the potential I do not meet. I can't do more.

There is no enjoyment in this unformed stasis. 

I am one of the most enduring of substances but I cannot be relied upon to be patient. Patience is waiting with hope. What hope have I? I stay and everything changes. Will there be no change for me? Time changes. I wait. Time weathers. I corrode. Time breaks. I disintegrate. 

I am white and cool. I glisten, I spark. 

I am dust. 

And dust,                                   

                          blows,                      

                                                 away.   

Which is mine?

Which is mine?

I stand on the brink

Between left or right

Night or day

Friend or foe

Love or hate

Joys or woes

Which is mine?

I fall paralyzed 

Between northeast and northwest

Dawn or twilight

Acquaintance or opponent

Tolerance or aversion

Comforts or burdens

Which is mine?

 I flip, spinning round

Two sides of the coin

One heads

One tails

50/50

Which is better?

Which is worse?

Which is black?

Which is white?

Which is mine?

I stare at the crossroads

The hardest path to find

Each difficult

Each rewarding

50/50

Which happiness?

Which struggle?

Which goodness?

Which sorrows?

Which life?

Which is mine?

The choice is mine.

Not My Own

This my friends, I give this to you. To new and old, some leaving, some coming, I give you my gratitude and my love."

Not My Own

I wasn't whole until I broke apart.
I didn't break apart until I was opened.
When scattered lines of experience
Sealed in memory and laughter and tears
Seared into my skin,
Melted through,
Reducing me to corners and edges.

I could suddenly cut.
I could cause damage,
I could hurt.

Then sandpaper.

Rough and shocking
Reprimanded. Rebuked.
Reproved. Redirected.
Smoothing and defining.
Reassured. Reassessed.
Recovered. Remade.

Honed by vulnerability
Chastened by kindness
Encouraged by weakness
Strengthened by fragility

I am newly formed.
I am wholly changed.
I am a sum of parts.
Revived and redesigned.

Restored by pure love.
By concern, by curiosity,
By compassion, by constancy.
I am their work.

My refiners. My stabilizers.
My rescuers. My guardian angels.
Myself is not my own.
I am theirs.



"God make me worthy of my friends."