Where Love is made

For this is where love is made.

For I have tried my children in the fire of infirmity; in the incomprehensible pain of the flesh.

They are left alone in the dark without guidance or light to see.

I must at my own anguish leave them alone to see, to see if they are of mine own sinew.

If they are of mine own, if they are of mine heart, they will surely, truly be kindred.

Love cannot be demanded only offered and it is only seen through longing.

In the midst of love it is squandered and taken for granted and thus it is only seen when lost.

For in the differential of having and not having is the realization and true definition that gives love its deepest meaning.

Thus the reason for the universe and all existence is love and a God who incomprehensibly demanded it and went away in anguish for this tyrannical demand.

There can be no other way. You must lose to gain. You must die to live.

And, a God in heaven alone is the God of nothing.

You think this is without design, that all of existence just happened?

Look deep and you will see your want; your want to be, your want to go somewhere, your want to do something, your want rise above this earthly, fleshly, limited realm.

You want.

You want to reach someone, to tell someone, to hear someone, to be recognized by someone and to recognize someone.

And a God in heaven alone is the God of nothing.

While the frustration of your limited time, and your frustration with your limited ability and your frustration with others ability to understand your frustration, your reaching, your longing to do and accomplish and to aid and comfort and fix the ills of all is so sorrowfully misunderstood.

So this is where love is made, when you are dried up and all you strength is gone in your anguish to demand love. You came with all your heart to do that spirit that is in you, that thing that you are, this soul, this entity which is you, which is how you were made.

In the image of God were you made, that of Love, Hate, Joy, Grief, Fear, Jealousy and Grace and you are swimming in the void, in darkness hoping and thus you are kindred. For you are kindred and like God knowing God's want.

For a God in heaven alone is the God of nothing.

For this realm is truly designed. It is designed to find the lonely, the broken and the wanton heart that will cherish life even at the cost of its own, lest forever you are alone, lest forever you be alone.

And, love was nailed to a tree, not the tree of good and evil but of life.

Longing

Tell the birds to stop their singing.

Tell the butterflies to go away.

Tell the bells to stop their ringing

Tell the colors to turn to gray.

Have the clocks to stop their ticking.

Have the children stop their play.

Have the harpist stop her picking.

Have the moon to go away.

Stop the river from its flowing.

Stop the stars and crystal sky.

Stop the breezes from their blowing.

Stop all wonders by and by.

Count the minutes I am mourning.

Count the tear drops from my eyes.

Count the depth of this fore longing.

Count the anguish where it lies.

Please the minstrel to stop playing.

Please the singers to go away.

Please the dancers stop their dancing

Please the pain to stop I pray.

All if this because I miss you.

Have you ever?

Have you ever known sincerity?

Have you ever known this calm?

Have you ever held a thing of rarity?

Have you ever sung this psalm?

Have you ever danced this dance of joy?”

Have you ever played this tune so rare?”

Have you ever returned to a children’s toy”

Have you ever played without a care?”

Have you ever seen the mocking bird?”

Have you ever known its laughing tease?”

Have you ever heard that loving word?”

Have you ever been so pleased?”

I have for in your eyes is truth’

and you say you love me.

This Single Woman

I see truth in her eyes through which I can see her soul

Long serving

Hides her pain

Clings to hope

Beams with grace

Gives her most

Cries alone

Wants to share

Longs to understand

Feels forlorn

Prays to God

Sustains with faith

Dulls her pain with drink

She waits and hopes

She dreams of that one shoulder to cry on;

That one who understands.

Loves Rare Scene

Morning broke and for a moment the sun shone through a sever in the clouds;

Nestled in a cabin in the forest, in the wood, we are far from cares and concerns.

The sever closes and the red gleam of the sun dims as more soft clouds envelope us.

You come to me with warm drink and pastry as an ever so gentle rain begins.

It is warm yet cool because of the rain, this lovely soft rain that soothes the mind.

And, then the music begins, that lovely cherished sound that is only your voice.

It is the voice of my love, my darling one that so graces me with her presence and love.

At times I fear the loss of my own soul if she should be gone.

And then you take me with your cunning and comfort, body to body beyond measure.

Nature in the midst of nature and you love me beyond measure, body to body and body to soul. The animals watched with no concern as if to learn from this rare scene.

And the lovely rain came down and ecstasy was known.

I do so love you.

Think Lovely

Think Lovely;

pink roses, humming birds, autumn colors and rainbows.

Think Joy;

laughing children, kind smiles, sweet hello’s and lovers.

Think comfort;

downy beds, cool in summer, warm in winter and hugs.

Think beautiful;

mountain streams, golden sunsets, the fairest of maidens and you.

I WOULD RATHER

I would rather have fifteen years of calm than fifteen minutes of fame.

I would rather be an aged oak standing firm upon the ground than the rush of many saplings that are scattered all around.

I stand against the axmen with ambition to cut me down.

He hacks against my sinew well knowing I am bound.

I would rather be a mocking bird dancing on the wing, for my stage is not ambition and I truly like to sing.

So there you have the mighty oak with a bird to dance its crown.

Laughing at ambition for none could cut him down.

Savor the day and slow down.

Life is long if you choose.

RAMBLING OF THE WAYWARD MIND

Caught with relief on a cool morning after a long stretch of summer heat,

 as the clouds shroud the morning sun,

I’m beset with contemplations of the labor of the day before.

The world around is buzzing with busyness as each individual chases the necessary needs of survival, of want, of pleasure.

This amount’s to labor for the most of us, with the manipulation by the cunning, which are the least of us, that conspire to avoid life’s labor. But always is the constant churning of ambition.

Imagine an iron anchor for a sailing vessel attached to an unbreakable chain.

Now, cast it overboard, hard upon the rocks and feel the wayward ship come to a stop.

Slow the mindless ambition, and rest.

Long life is not hurried.

Be not bored with simplicity and take time to taste and savor.

And the cool breeze washes over me, a breeze I would not have felt lest I stop to feel it.

Understanding

Understanding

I understand

I see, I know, I capitulate

Knowing

Knowing what?

Knowing a fact.

Is your knowing Objective or Subjective?

Singular understanding.

You perceive something to be fact.

This is your singular subjective observation.

Plural understanding.

You and others agree on a fact.

Is that then Objective?

We understand?

I see the man is dead.

We see the man is dead.

Therefore the man must be dead.

But,

I love.

You say you love.

I cannot feel what you feel.

Therefore I doubt.

I only know that I love,

And your love must be proved.

A God in heaven alone is the God of nothing.

The Adoration of Kindness

One might say that grace is the ultimate state of being rising above the noise of discontent. But then discontent stems from want, the want to be nourished, the want to be sheltered from the many harms of our physical existence.

Intelligence can artfully dance upon the sea of our material world. We ogle the masters of the ‘Glass Bead Game’ rendering our service to their wisdom and the very shares of our labor to buy the luxury that can distance us momentarily from our discontent.

Ideologically we weigh in the balance our governance of right and wrong and by discourse defend our means or wage or right to be. Under freedom and democratic argument we determine our justification of the classes from poor to bourgeois to opulent or even megalomania.

One might consider that a beggar on the street that refuses to work, with the exception of mental illness, is a tyrant allowing your children to labor in their stead to provide for their needs and wants. Could this mean that charity in this case is miss-given? Thus many pass by a vagabond with a sign, “Will Work for Food,” unless they will really work for food. Some just succumb and think, “If you are so low that you need to be on the street with a sign, you are truly needy.” They render up a bill or two and feel they have done charities’ call.

So as you meander through this incomprehensible realm look deep into the eyes of your fellows, discerning each individual by the best of your judgment and render grace and kindness where it is due, even unto your adversary when found in need and he will no longer be your adversary.

Now the world is contrary to this with its brutal economic competition until there is devastation, then wonders never cease as the kind come forth to give all that they have.

We are at our best when we are broken and don’t you adore when someone is kind.

For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Contrition

Contrition, contrite, repentance, remorse, regret, sorrow, sorry, penitent, apologetic.

Grace, forgiveness, elegance, refinement, loveliness, polish, beauty, poise, charm.

The order of terms suggests that you cannot have the latter without first being broken.

And thus the necessity of the differential, without it there is no meaning.

Ignorance proceeds wisdom and even God cannot prevent this existential truth.

We weep for our children knowing the path to knowledge is suffrage.

Would that you could tell them but they will not listen until burned.

The world is an incorrigible child not yet contrite. Oh the sorrow! 

The Incomprehensible Beauty of the Differential

The Incomprehensible Beauty of the Differential

So let us think about it in the simple physical realm.

Simple does not mean simplistic but rather not complex which in itself is a differential.

The Cognitive simple physical differentiations by the animal species…

One should recognize that the animal species includes all cellular incarnations from virus to complex protein manipulated complexes. They are…

Light vs. Dark

Hard vs. Soft

Hot vs. Cold

Fast vs. Slow

Macro vs. Micro

The Complex metaphysical differentials by the animal species

One should note that the physical differentials do not exist without the essential animal, the observer, whom existentially places the metaphysical differential realities juxtaposed to raw matter physicality with its cognitive interpretation.

Love vs. Hate

Joy vs. Grief

Fear vs. Peace

Jealousy vs. Grace

Empathetic vs. Indifference

Right vs. Wrong

Just vs. Unjust

Hate vs. Love

Existential Theory / Philosophy

Deal with what is real!

Existential activism - recognize physical vs. metaphysical.

This is not in defense of irrational thinking and this is a rhetorical statement.

There is no separation from the physical and metaphysical.

There is no escape

YOU ARE WHAT IT IS, WHICH MEANS YOU WANT THIS:

LIFE

GOOD NOT BAD

RIGHT NOT WRONG

UP NOT DOWN

FAIR NOT UNJUST

THE POWER IS INEVITABLE

ARISTOCRATIC MEGALOMANIA IS A HUMAN LUST

COMMUNISTIC FASCISM IS A NATURAL EXISTENTIAL RESPONSE

CHOSE COOPERATIVE EGALITARIAN SOCIETAL SENTIMENTALITY

OR CHOSE NARCISSISM … AND UNBRIDLED WANT

You think it won’t happen?

IT ALREADY HAS HAPPENED.

HATE KNOWS NO BOUNDS UNTIL ALL IS LOST

AND THE REMNANTS LEARN ‘LOVE’ FROM THE DEAD

TAKING WITHOUT GIVING DRAINS US ALL

The greatest differential is “To be or not to Be”

“You won’t get this until you are at deaths door.”

So why wait, forgive and love someone NOW!

Before they are dead to tomorrow and the only tragedy is that
'you are not listening.'

Read “Children of the Seven Hills”

A novel by TJ Ginn

“It all makes sense in the end”
Available on Amazon.com

Evening

I whistled a little tune on the sunset of this day.

I whistled a little tune for my dreams had gone astray.

I whistled a little tune for my spirit was light and gay.

I whistled a little tune in the hopes that you would stay.

The light is slowly dimming and your face is slightly gray.

My love for you is brimming and I beg for you to play.

I know your songs and hymning, signs that you're going away.

This day I’m left foreboding, a due, the sun and crimson ray.  Ω

Share the sunset with a friend, and give time for silence, a sweet sound.

  

Take a chance on me

Give it a try. Try your hand with a little prose. Send me a quip at tj@tjginn.com I will post it with or without your name. Take a chance on me and have a little fun with words.

Puerile

             One is drawn to the base to gain definition, who am I, what am I, where am I and what is right and what is wrong or rather what can I do and what is contemptible.

            Perhaps contemptible is too erudite for one must consider the differential.

You would do nothing unless you must.

What does this mean?

You would not get out of bed unless the coals on the fire were not warming you enough.

I do digress to an earlier age when one had to stoke the fire for warmth.

Misanthropic delusions of this age of ease, you merely turn up the thermostat on your gas fired furnace and digitally control your comfort.  

What is worse is that you are too ignorant to understand how the computer integration of your digitally controlled thermostat works.

This is the isolation and separation. You do not understand your realm. You click and paste and play the surface of what is completely manipulated beneath you.

You have allowed it. It is increasing in complexity and no one is responsible.

Try and find someone who will take responsibility.

Come home and plant some seeds and grow real food. You can’t eat a digital phone and video games get boring.

TJ Ginn

For the love of real life.

Free to Fly by Michael Vires

Your Garden

I am enjoying your garden and it causes me verse because I have not one of my own.

Don’t you know that the best we can be is the labor of our own hand and this is lost?

True knowledge of the cultivar and the seed that springs forth is relegated to the dead.

I do not think it is intentional, this dumbing down of our species.

Our children have been coddled away through laziness and shiny toys.

They built the coliseum for gladiator games on the bones of ignorance.

I herald your garden and planting of seed and the treasure of the knowledge it expounds.

Simple times, simple people is not condescension, it is lament.

Let us be thankful that we knew them, these simple times, these simple people and me.

     

Hate

Misanthropic, Misogynistic and Misandry require contemplation even for the erudite elitist on a quest of intellectual pursuit to be sure that they were not deficient in their studies, for even they must pause.

Misanthropic is the hatred of humans of all ilks, while Misogyny is the hatred of women and Misandry is the hatred of the male.

Consider self loathing before any contemptuous considerations. In order to hate something you must be something so all of these become self loathing.

You animal. You defecator. You wash and polish your appearance with perfume to cover your inadequacy and then purport to express your disgust of the existence of others.

Loneliness is you prescription, isolation and separation till you cry for conversation.

And out of the darkness came want. The primal scream to be and not be alone.

And then you hate no one or anything and love is all that is.

  

    

Appreciation

Click to enlarge

Poɛm Noir

I dream in color and passion red with shadows of black and white.

It’s a simple thing that marks my rise from films and histories fight.

It is not a pretty picture though they want to make it so.

The stories are the lecture, on the screens in theaters glow.

They shape the moral ideologue with judgment of the crime.

And we the jury of the dialogue, our opinion is valued prime.

Film noir is dark and brooding, with questions for us all.

It poses lusts and criminal goading, will our social temple fall.

What darkness lurks in the viewers mind as murderous scenes unfurl.

Do they find they are of the villain’s kind as their hair begins to uncurl?

Or is it rather a rapturous plot when the evil villain is caught?

And the lovers swoon in the evening moon with a moral lesson Taught.  

 Ω

Film Noir has a vague definition. Is it a certain type of film that has a dark romanticism?

Look up the definition and you will find it means different things to different people.

Aphorism of Agape

Greek has four words for love…

Storge – affection

Philia – friendship

Eros – passionate/sexual

Agape – brotherly/parental also denoted as true love.

All of these types of love except Eros require no reciprocation i.e. you give love because you want to, while expecting nothing in return. Eros is selfish. Eros needs. Eros wants.

Eros is a lie, lose it. I love the Hibiscus flower; it has no capacity to love me in return.

Great expectations of love suffer only the searcher in vain and when discovered, my fickle nature, I loved only the idea of you loving me. I shroud this in a drape of images in my mind, your lovely face, your statures casual lean, your distinctive voice and your unique demeanor. I have this all wrapped up in a neat little package which are all the things I love about you. It was subtle and cautious as we tip toed into love, both willing and wanton to hear those words come from the lips. I love you.

And now that you have fallen into my lovers trap, I expect you to be the person I have imaged you to be. Familiar, unchanging and sure to respond with the words, I love you, when I beckon with the words of the same. And on the day that you don’t respond to my call for a love assured, I don’t love you, I don’t want you, I don’t need you, anymore. Because, short of your adorable aura, it was me loving me through the eyes of you, and like the true narcissists we are, you were only in the way of my greatest love which is me.

Now when you are done abusing yourself searching for that one true love, give yourself the greatest gift of agape the brotherly love. You love someone just because you love them with nothing in return. All else is wanton and lustful and vain and truly the God Eros is teasing you to fail at the price of your foolish heart. And when you catch them or you are caught, the lust will be done and what love have you, but none.

Eros

            This is a poesy for your curiosity, a quip to quench your thirst, a symposium for Socratic honor to the God Eros. Perhaps the encomium belongs to Plato whose stewardship led to script. A script past down through ages, it leaves us not alone, in the contemplation of Eros and the mysteries of love.

Eros

Scarred and bruised and broken, youth leaves us all so vain, for love is truly fickle when beauty is on the wane. You never lose your wanton eyes and loving of the fair. You did not choose a lovers lies, nor the graying of your hair.

Seeking and learning and knowing, wise sayings from the past. Praises hale to our God Eros whose love eternal lasts. With beauty gone none ring your bell your time is all alone. A well springs forth and time will tell the magic you have sown.

A child came forth, a product of your youthful need to sire, a shallow love of visceral want and object of your desire. A passion not of first request with needs they do require, of spirit and reason and intellect of you they do inquire.

The bell rings a beautiful sound as you answer Eros’ call. A love so strong came raining down bestowed upon us all. Agape love, a giving love, God Eros he had smiled, for there is no greater love, as a parent’s for a child.

Malaise

            Out of the darkness comes fear, the evil, the cold and the cruel. Eyes stare hard in the remembrance of sight but no light is at hand to see. A presence is sensed and quickly I turn to face the direction of my fear, but I am an entity without members, no limbs, no arms and no legs.

            I exist for I am thinking and remembrance of tutor Descartes. What manor of being here am I. What mind, in what body do I think. No windows no doors, am I up, am I down, I dream a horrible dream, a dream whose end I beseech.

            Be done with me, now you let me go, you dastardly cognition, you horrible clutch, you dark and fearful dream of the evil, the cold and the cruel. Stare hard, can you see, can you see stare hard, but no light is there, no light to see. There is no light for me.

            Again I feel a sense of fear, and turn with no limbs to see. Who is there, who is there, I think to yell but no mouth portends to speak. What am I, who am I, where am I, I think that I think to think.

Weeping ensues, or the remembrance of such, I would if I could have eyes. I thrash and I fight in thoughts I take flight or remembrance of such an act.

What am I, who am I, where am I, I dream that I think that I think to think.

The Well of Souls

The boy asked Merlin, “How deep is the well of souls?” Merlin replies,

"Miles and piles of devils trials with Jupiter on the wane, I once began to count the stars, my efforts were all in vain.

I counseled Venus and then Mars their answers were the same, there’s a hundred thousand million souls in every drop of rain."

I Dream of You

I stood up in my little boat and gazed a mile to shore. No paper in hand and still I wrote a song and little score.

Calm seas and peace surround my way; sun setting on the main. I raise my arm to wave to her on land and in the sane.

I won’t be long my nets are full I hail to her in song. I hoist the sail and make the turn; the day has been so long.

Pulling tight the sail to heal and tack I race my boat to shore. Your loving face and warm embrace a thing I so adore.

I’m dreaming verse and words so sweet, to tell you of my heart. The breaking waves on rocky reef my boat she broke apart. Ω

I would survive but the image of you faded and I awoke from a dream a sad but lovely dream. I knew her, I loved her but she was just a dream.

The Anvil

This thing is a block of iron hammered to a tapered point on one end. It is bolted to a wooden stump to place it at a working height so the black smith or smithy can place glowing hunks of iron upon it to pound and shape the metal to something useful.

Fashioned are hammers, saws, shovels, plows; nails and screws and rings and chains.

Iron is a most malleable metal when heated and crushingly powerful when drawn into cold hard steel.

Its strength builds skyscrapers and bridges and ships the size of cities. Its forms are infinite and its compounds blend even to such a necessity that our own blood is red because of it.

Formed into a triangle and hung on a string it rings with a resonance that only it can produce, but the sound I am most consumed by is the sound of a hammer driving down to collide with the anvil.

This clank, driving clank of metal to metal is haunting me now.

I want to be the hammer. I want to pound. I want to drive the metal into a shape that I desire and can use, I want. I need. But, when I swing the hammer I can’t find the anvil. Like swinging in the dark with zeal and missing. No anvil to connect with. The hammer in its ark continues down only to find my shin and in agony I yell, then fall to the ground and cry in disgust till the pain subsides.

I want to hear the clank of the hammer against the anvil because it is my desire to form the metal, I must form the metal; I must.

I’m hammering and in reality, I’m hammering this life, to form it into what I want but my hammer only strikes air leaving me broken at the shin. What else can I do but try again; so I will. I will try again. One day I may hear the clank of my hammer striking the anvil and my life may become what I want you see, my life might become what I want; for what I want is you.

Pensive Rain

On this day I woke to decide a necessary change, a welcome change, a relief.

Gray sky’s and cool morning dew foretell of light rain, a welcome rain; a rain that is due.

Clouds shroud the earth and make the world go away, leaves glisten with a spattering sound.

The agenda of tasks gives way, no work will be done today, no work will be done day.

I can hear birds bustle to rest in the trees away from this welcome rain and the leaves glisten with a spattering sound.

A breeze now and then brushes past my soul and I feel rest, no tasks just rest.

Subtly a sadness is present, just there, not deep but there none the less; none the less it is there.

Is this lovely rain sad? Is this welcome rain a rain of sorrow, a weeping rain, a needed weeping rain?

Washing clean the forest, rinsing down the dust, quenching all the thirst, this rain, this pensive rain, this weeping pensive rain; this needed weeping pensive rain.

A time of sorrow, this time of sorrow, your time of sorrow will pass, it will pass but for now my love let it rain. Your tears, let it rain, this beautiful cleansing pensive rain that glistens on the leaves with a spattering sound, a weeping sound, a restful sound this rain, this pensive rain.

Air

Consider the air, the substance, the thing we know so well but never see.

Air rushes through our fingers and blusters in our hair; it is soft, just soft as soft can only be.

Upon the air rides the fragrance of floral seduction that bees cannot resist, nor humming birds, nor butterfly nor me.

When speeding to the lungs air signals a gasp, desperate breath; could be fright; could be delight; that gasp before ecstasy.

The air welled up by the heat of a day blows ships, pushes waves, makes storms and takes lives.

The air pumped up fills balloons, whistles tunes, and at times puts rings around moons.

It’s just air, never seen, always there, always there, thanks be, always there.

But just yesterday I saw the air. This thing you cannot see.

You were walking toward me and your dress and your hair were swimming. You were the breeze. You were the soft breeze. It could not be separated from you. It could not be separated from you. The air; you were the air don’t you see? Don’t you see?

And with my eyes I breathed you in. I breathed you in.