The Main page Reunion 2003 29, Mar, 2003 Reunion 2002 30, Aug, 2002 Reunion 2000 7 Aug, 2000 Latest message 28, June 2005 Sidebar 30 June, 2005 Links 19 Dec, 04 Page 2 Page 319 Dec, 04 graffito 30 June, 2005 Crossings 10 Dec, 2004 About this page eMail freeverse

We were always writing singing musical, artistic folks and I miss seeing poetry etc.... so please write. Doesn't have to be great awe inspiring just be yourself and have fun! Pam

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Why You Can't Get Wisdom at 7-11


By Eve Birch copyright 2002



We've gotten so used to information being so handy, we mistake it for
wisdom. But it doesn't hold up. The physical disciplines, self help
books, lectures and seminars are fine ways of gathering knowledge and
pretty muscles, or at least someone else's idea of knowledge and
pretty. And, reading the works of established Masters is helpful, when
such texts can be found. But the integration of that knowledge INTO
one's self, that takes brewing time, every time. You might as well just
eat those pages.



Putting that acquired knowledge to the test, applying it successfully
where one finds the opportunity- this is the melding point at which it
can be claimed as one's own. Time, study, practical application and
experience; things that don't come easily- seem to be the base upon
which true wisdom sits. Else where did wise people come from before the
written word was created?



Certainly there are those that seem to acquire it a little (or a LOT)
easier than others. It appears that these special humans are more
comfortable as students than as masters; flow a little easier with their
acquired knowledge than others. I have never met a wise person who held
hate, judgment or shrillness as a part of wisdom, just the opposite. It
seems to me that true wisdom is never competitive, arrogant, or
self-righteous.



The few wise ones I have had the deep honor of sitting with were not
flag wavers or attention seekers. In fact, it was their quiet, easy-going
nature that attracted seekers. The more wisdom they held, the less they
sounded off about it. There is danger in the love of one^Òs own voice.



And, here I am, thinking myself a writer, trying to judge what is
and isn't wise, what an ass.




"Being nice, it's not just for sissies anymore."

-Eve 2002

http://www.freewebs.com/mothershands/
Eve

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Rj belittled, Quick-as you-please
and then, said, "if it wernt for four
it would be five and my dinner time."

He must be losing his mind this time, hes
gone into third person and left and left a
trail of desert sand on the desert to find
find his way. Nothings fixed if it ever were,
only dimming and vinyeting, growing softer
and being washed away, disapated, a disipated
disertation trailing off first to mumbleing
then to silence, finly to putrid yellow fallowed
by a sick pale green blue, and his eye lids
went for purple to a bunch of new born blind
polished western boots.

And what ws anything realy, different sub-
stansheations of disapointment, and creatively
diverse hoels taken out his ego for saterdays
trash. Must be the sudden change in weather,
or the flu ten christmassies ago, they might
as well be the same thing happening at the
same time, they probaly were, for there is
no colour or line, no shade or value, no surface
or plain, just just was left him a desire that
he never learned to name, but since he never
lerned a language or spelling it probaly wunt
av matterd anyway.

But they gave em his visitn ourz
and hes always in love with that woman, the one
with snow white hair and a so gentel walk that
the springs brezz in the best of years touched
with just enough honey-suckel so's youed never
forget and always just smile to think about it.


Yours truely

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once upon a midnight, in the dark road wandering ,barefooted, graveling,
groveling, piercing, screams the night and yet some stillness remains in all
this summer glimmer, like moonlight, faint glimmer of light peeking through
green fields and dark tree limbs covered with green now growing and matured.


anonymous

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Ragdoll

Ragdoll
tossed in a corner
left to die

hair torn and cut
at the crown of her head
clothes torned and ripped
exposed and left alone

the paint from her lips
has chipped
and left her pale
and colorless

only her eyes still shine
brilliant blue
and clouded with the gray
of passing clouds

anouymous

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colors dancing, soft music and memories of you. This old tree is bent with
age, this old land is fallow, and yet dreams flourish. Life goes on they say
in that monotonous voice of stale comfort that reminds one of stale smoke and
liquor, turning the stomach in odd ways. My voice still sings, high like the
wind, low as the sound of frogs contented, and saturated. Sometimes I am
silent like a breath held waiting. Everything has changed, nothing has
changed, time marches but I cant see its minutes trooping by like minature
soldier, keeping rythem, marching through hours and days and years. Better to
live in the present, feel the moments deep within, savor the silence and
breathe.

anonymous

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To good friends and good memories I thank you Lord.

Time is not of the essence, it is only what we measure our lifespans with
it is useful perhaps as a yardstick
perhaps as a bearer of maturity
What is of the essence, what is at the origin is Love
it is the only force that heals
the only melter of cold hearts
and the only thing that matters

P.A.M.

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eMail freeverse

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Reunion 2003 29, Mar, 2003
Reunion 2002 30 Aug, 2002
The Main page
Latest message 28, June 2005
Sidebar 30 June, 2005
Links19 Dec, 04
Page 2
Page 319 Dec, 04
About this page
graffito 30 June, 2005

Crossings 10 Dec, 2004