SISYPHUS

After awhile, I no longer remembered
why I was being punished, and after that
I was not sure it was punishment at all. There was enough
to do with checking the weather each morning,
selecting the right clothing—waterproof for rain,
my slatted sun hat for bright afternoons, a heavy shawl
pinned round my shoulders on frosty mornings. Then a bite
to eat, choices there too, oat cakes or bread, honey
or marmalade, so many decisions
before starting the work of the day. And each day
was different. There were small blue flowers
breaking through the cracks when the weather warmed,
huge dusty turtles I had to swerve to avoid,
the occasional passerby, too far for conversation,
but close enough to study the new styles
of hat and jacket, each one’s way of walking,
a shuffling gait, a jaunty step. And then
the rock itself was never the same. My fingers
would penetrate encrustations, caress
slopes worn smooth as powdered skin,
its touch remembered these many years,
dimly remembered, like morning rain
find sparking grains that embedded themselves
in tiny dimples. But always, behind the flux,
keeping confusion in check, that constant cycle,
that slow plod upward, that weight against my chest,
measuring my muscles, my soul, inevitably followed
by a wild mad dash to the bottom, the moment
of joy, of mad release. I was often overwhelmed
by the complexity of it all, and only rarely
had a recollection of something
I had meant to do, a time when I had said
When I reach the top, then…but I could not find
anywhere, in my mind, what I had intended.

- by Judy Barisonzi

Chasing Rainbows and Tilting Windmills

I'm always chasing rainbows
Watching clouds drifting by
My schemes are just like all my dreams
Ending in the sky
Some fellows look and find the sunshine
I always look and find the rain
Some fellows make a winning sometimes
I never even make a gain
Believe me, I'm always chasing rainbows
Waiting to find a little bluebird in vain

- I’m Always Chasing Rainbows; music by Harry Carroll, adapted from Fantaisie-Impromptu by Frédéric Chopin; lyrics by Joseph McCarthy; published in 1917; introduced in the Broadway show Oh, Look!, March, 1918

e.e. cummings - somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

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 will easily 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

Crazy Faith

I lit my love and watched it burn;
asking nothing in return
except the lessons I would learn
holding crazy faith.

I've been touched by that bright fire
down to the root of my desire,
while the smoke it rises higher
on crazy faith.

'Am I a fool for hanging on?'
'Would I be a fool to be long gone?'
'When is daylight gone to dawn
on my crazy faith?'

The questions will not let me sleep;
The answer's buried way too deep
at the bottom of a lovers' leap
made by crazy faith.

Love your losing; lose your love.
Let the hawk fly from the glove
and do not search the skies above;
search your crazy faith.

Love is lightning; love is ice.
It only strikes the lucky twice:
once, so you will know the price;
and once for crazy faith.

You're not asking if I love this man...
I know you don't; you don't believe you can.
Yet I've seen love open like a dancer's fan.
It's crazy I know;
but my faith says so-
it tells me.

by Allison Krauss and Union Station
on New Favorite

Of Appreciation and Disappoinment

Tonight I’ve watched
The moon and then the Pleiades
go down
The night is now half-gone; youth goes; I am
in bed alone
It is clear now:
Neither honey nor the honey bee is to be mine again

-Sappho 

Private Island Getaway

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee. 

- John Donne

Neutral Is Not My Color

I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

- Elie Wiesel in his Nobel Acceptance Speech, delivered in Oslo on December, 10, 1986

So We Say What's Mine is Mine and Not Yours

These are the days of the open hand 
They might just be the last 
Look around now 
These are the days of the beggars and the choosers 

This is the year of the hungry man 
Whose place is in the past 
Hand in hand with ignorance 
And legitimate excuses 

The rich declare themselves poor 
And most of us are not sure 
If we have too much 
But we'll take our chances 
'Cause God's stopped keeping score 
I guess somewhere along the way 
He must have let us all out to play 
Turned his back and all God's children 
Crept out the back door 

And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate 
Hanging on to hope 
When there is no hope to speak of 
And the wounded skies above say it's much too much too late 
Well maybe we should all be praying for time 

These are the days of the empty hand 
Oh, you hold on to what you can 
And charity is a coat you wear twice a year 

This is the year of the guilty man 
Your television takes a stand 
And you find that what was over there is over here 

So you scream from behind your door 
Say what's mine is mine and not yours 
I may have too much but I'll take my chances 
'Cause God's stopped keeping score 
And you cling to the things they sold you 
Did you cover your eyes when they told you 
That he can't come back 
'Cause he has no children to come back for 

It's hard to love there's so much to hate 
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of 
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late 
So maybe we should all be praying for time


- "Praying for Time," lyrics by George Michael
Released of Epic Records, 1990.

Polarized Populous

"We’re coming to a tipping point… there’s going to be a huge conversation. Is government an instrument of good, or is it every man for himself?  Is there something bigger we want to reach for or is self-interest our basic resting pulse?”

 - Executive Producer Mackenzie McHale (Emily Morimer) on "Newsroom," an HBO Series created by Aaron Sorkin, Episode 1, June 2012

Newroom on HBO