I am feeling a sense of loss. I wish I could blow this off, but it is very hard when you are left to wonder. I also have a friend who has opened up to me, I still have not responded to her. I am kind of at a loss of words, and feeling awkward because we have not seen each other or spoken for a while. It’s times like these that I wish I understood how to handle these situations. I really wish I understood how to move on, and not get fixated on the “why’s” of situations. Or at least understood when to stop asking why. I am pretty sure I may be saying that for the rest of my life. 
The Rosebush & The Cloud
The downcast rosebush,
tired and feeling frail from her masters pruning,
looked up to the sky, and said to the wise old cloud,
“I guess I have to be pruned some more, really?”
Wise cloud looked down with a fluffy soft smile,
no words for her today,
she stared at him waiting for a reply with hopeful eyes.
He tried to comfort her in silence,
feeling abandoned she sadly looked down,
“How much pruning can one take?”
Pondering a little while longer,
she mustered up some strength, trying to be hopeful,
“As much as they are willing to take to blossom, I presume.”
Wise cloud looked down with reassuring eyes, in a breeze he spoke,
“Blossom sweet rosebush, focus on the blossom, and do not get lost in the pruning.”
Poetry and clouds, I smile. That is all.
Quotes from one of my Top 5 books of all time “Franny and Zooey” by J.D. Salinger
“Maybe there’s a trapdoor under my chair, and I’ll just disappear.”
- J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey
“I feel so funny. I think I’m going crazy. Maybe I’m already crazy.”
- J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey
“An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.”
- J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey
“We’re the tattooed lady, and we’re never going to have a minute’s peace, the rest of our lives, until everybody else is tattooed, too.”
- J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey
Excerpt from THE DRY SALVAGES (No. 3 of “Four Quartets”) by T.S. Eliot
Lying awake, calculating the future,
trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
and piece together the past and the future
between midnight and dawn, when the past is
all deception, the future, futureless…
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond by E. E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
Excerpt from To You by Walt Whitman
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear.
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
O I have been dilatory and dumb,
I should have made my way straight to you long ago,
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing
but you.
I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself,
None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you,
None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent
to subordinate you,
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God,
beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.
Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-figure of all,
From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light,
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus
of gold-color’d light,
From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams,
effulgently flowing forever.
O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are, you have slumber’d upon yourself
all your life,
Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,
What you have done returns already in mockeries,
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in
mockeries, what is their return?)
The mockeries are not you,
Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,
I pursue you where none else has pursued you,
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the
accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others or from
yourself, they do not conceal you from me,
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these
balk others they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed,
premature death, all these I part aside.
Insert happy clouds here, a mailbox for trees, and a moonbow from Iceland.
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