Autobiography in Five Short Chapters by Portia Nelson

Chapter I
I walk, down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in...
I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter II
I walk, down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend that I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place,
but it isn't my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter III
I walk, down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in...
It's a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

Chapter IV
I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

Chapter V
I walk down another street.

So Many Different Lengths of Time by Brian Patten

How long does a man live after all?
A thousand days or only one?
One week or a few centuries?
How long does a man spend living or dying
and what do we mean when we say gone forever?

Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.
We can go to the philosophers
but they will weary of our questions.
We can go to the priests and rabbis
but they might be busy with administrations.

So, how long does a man live after all?
And how much does he live while he lives?
We fret and ask so many questions -
then when it comes to us
the answer is so simple after all.

A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,
for as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,
for as long as we ourselves live,
holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man's scent, his touch:
his children will carry the weight of his love.
One friend will carry his arguments,
another will hum his favourite tunes,
another will still share his terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,
then the weeks, then the months,
then there will be a day when no question is asked,
and the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach
and the puffed faces will calm.

And on that day he will not have ceased
but will have ceased to be separated by death.
How long does a man live after all?
A man lives so many different lengths of time.

 

Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight - Galway Kinnell

If one day it happens
you find yourself with someone you love
in a café at one end
of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar
where wine takes the shapes of upward opening glasses,

and if you commit then, as we did, the error
of thinking,
one day all this will only be memory,

learn to reach deeper
into the sorrows
to come—to touch
the almost imaginary bones
under the face, to hear under the laughter
the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
the mouth
that tells you, here,
here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

The still undanced cadence of vanishing.

Denise Levertov Talking to Grief

Ah, Grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.

I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.

You think I don't know you've been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider
my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.

Atlas - UA Fanthorpe

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.

Don’t be nice - Jeff Foster

Don't be nice!
Nice is boring.
Nice is fake.
Nice was an adaptation
designed to win you love.

It doesn't work.
Be real instead.

Nice is a mask
which covers up your anger, irritation,
frustration, disappointment
(beautiful energies you learned to smother
when you were young).

Nice will suffocate you
and everyone else around you.

Nice keeps others
from ever really knowing you.

Take the risk of not being nice!
Take the risk of showing yourself.
Be prepared for others to dislike you.
To think you're selfish, cold, mean,
or even worse: "Unspiritual".

Say what you mean!
Say yes when you mean yes.
Say no when you mean no.

Take the risk
of looking after yourself!

Be prepared to feel alive again.
To feel your heart pounding.
To sweat. To shake.
To wonder if you have the right...

To finally feel your guilt and shame
instead of running away from them.

Be prepared for your 'nice' world
to crumble.

Be prepared to lose your
carefully crafted image.

Be prepared to feel
the rush of newness! 

The Sound of the Sea - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; 

A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.

So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.