"In the end, it's not going to matter how many breaths you took, but how many moments took your breath away." -Shing Xiong *** "Do not go where the path may lead; instead where there is no path and leave a trail." -Ralph Waldo Emerson *** "Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget." -G. Randolf *** "We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." -E.M. Forster *** "Imagnination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited, imagination encircles the world." -Albert Einstein *** Defintion of Suburbia: A place where they cut down trees and name streets after them. -(Unknown, found on sticker) :p *** "A lie goes halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on." -Winston Churchill***"Love is the irresistible desire to be desired irresistibly." -Louis Ginsberg ***"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware." -Martin Buber

Monday, September 10, 2012

My Coins (a poem)

My Coins
Written May 5th, 2012

The little wooden box
Has lost the shine on its finish
And appears dim and tires
Like its special contents
But I think the ancient look
Makes it interesting-
Alerts the viewer to a hidden
Mysterious treasure.
A dragon flies across the lid
Suspended in the wood
His maw open in a roar
Warning the evil doers
That he protects the contents

Sometimes, even when I have nothing
To feed the box with,
When I have time
And the mood,
I sit criss-cross on the carpet
Open the box (the dragon lets me)
And dump everything on the floor
And there I sit, sorting, admiring,
For an hour, usually more.
Their perfume of metal tang
And perhaps a little oil
Seeps into the air
And fills the tiny unique tracks
In the skin of my palms.
Most people like shiny, pretty things
But many of these are dull
Past their prime and glory days
And yet, it’s the ancient ones
Those that sparkle like ashes
That intrigue me the most
The grandfathers
Who have traveled to a thousand places
And passed through ten thousand lives.

I roll them through my fingers
Note their age
Examine the engravings of people and monuments
That were important in a past time
The tiniest shrines
I wonder who they met
And how many pockets they settled
And where their favorite place is
That they’ve ever been.
There’s stories in them, and you can hear
If you’re quiet, and listen
I wonder if they miss their
Youthful gypsy days
And long to be freed
Or if they’re content
Settling down and retiring
In the box my daddy bestowed me
With a dragon protecting them.

The typical reason you hear
To justify why people collect
Simple circles of metal-
(Are they really worth anything?)
The reason I say myself-
Is that, like wine, if you let them set
While their brothers and cousins die,
They become rarer
And the longer they hide
The more people remember them,
And miss them,
And eventually, they become very,
Very valuable.
In my old age, or perhaps
For my kids, or theirs,
They can be sold for a pretty penny.

Yet, I bet
When I have ripened
And they have as well
I won’t sell a single one
In my heart, I never collected them
For a value, a profit;
At least, not in terms of money
I gathered them for a worth
Much deeper than that.

I love them, every one
Like a friend
Because they took the time
To tell me their stories
Time and time again
And they fill some empty crevice
In my heart;
A yearning
That I cannot define;
When I need it.
Perhaps it comes from
The tempting, undecipherable whispers
Of the past, a past
My coins have survived.