Wean Yourself
Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of mere invisible game.
Think how it is to have a conversation with a embryo.
You might say, The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.
At night, there are millions of galaxies and in sunlight,
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.
You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer-
There is no other world.
I only know what Ive experienced.
You must be hallucinating.
-Molana Jalal-e-Din Mohammad Molavi Rumi
Shaken
You walked into my life and made me feel
things I did not want to feel. Terror.
Desperation. Unbridled wanting. You remain,
hovering at the edges of my days, throwing me
off balance. Colors seem brighter in your
presence. I want to put each moment we spend together
in a jar, where I can look at it, smell it, caress
myself with it later. Every time we part I know I
will never see you again. Then you are on the phone,
at my door, in my arms. Smooth skin and that smell.
The one I cannot replace or duplicate. I open bottles
of shampoo in the supermarket, trying to decide if
this is the one you use. Should I use it too,
and smell like you or just take it home and draw
strength from it in weak moments? I am embarrassed
by these thoughts, yet I soak in them as in a warm
bath. I alternate between contented and chilled.
I'm not sure whether I'd ever posted the above poem...maybe when I'm next fickle, I can devise some very particular method to rack these things involving a chart and whistles.
My quarter Irish wishes your percentage of Irish a Happy St. Pat's Day...especially if you don't like snakes. 
Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.
From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of mere invisible game.
Think how it is to have a conversation with a embryo.
You might say, The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.
At night, there are millions of galaxies and in sunlight,
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding.
You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.
Listen to the answer-
There is no other world.
I only know what Ive experienced.
You must be hallucinating.
-Molana Jalal-e-Din Mohammad Molavi Rumi
Shaken
You walked into my life and made me feel
things I did not want to feel. Terror.
Desperation. Unbridled wanting. You remain,
hovering at the edges of my days, throwing me
off balance. Colors seem brighter in your
presence. I want to put each moment we spend together
in a jar, where I can look at it, smell it, caress
myself with it later. Every time we part I know I
will never see you again. Then you are on the phone,
at my door, in my arms. Smooth skin and that smell.
The one I cannot replace or duplicate. I open bottles
of shampoo in the supermarket, trying to decide if
this is the one you use. Should I use it too,
and smell like you or just take it home and draw
strength from it in weak moments? I am embarrassed
by these thoughts, yet I soak in them as in a warm
bath. I alternate between contented and chilled.
I'm not sure whether I'd ever posted the above poem...maybe when I'm next fickle, I can devise some very particular method to rack these things involving a chart and whistles.
My quarter Irish wishes your percentage of Irish a Happy St. Pat's Day...especially if you don't like snakes. VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
as always, you amaze me with your way with words.
hope yr st. pat's was fluxoriffic.