Quality Time

Who would have thought that the term, “quality time” came from deep in the notebooks of Albert Camus. At least, he gets the credit today.

“Find meaning. Distinguish melancholy from sadness. Go out for a walk. It doesn’t have to be a romantic walk in the park, spring at its most spectacular moment, flowers and smells and outstanding poetical imagery smoothly transferring you into another world. It doesn’t have to be a walk during which you’ll have multiple life epiphanies and discover meanings no other brain ever managed to encounter. Do not be afraid of spending quality time by yourself. Find meaning or don’t find meaning but ‘steal’ some time and give it freely and exclusively to your own self. Opt for privacy and solitude. That doesn’t make you antisocial or cause you to reject the rest of the world. But you need to breathe. And you need to be.”

― Albert CamusNotebooks 1951-1959

Advertisements

Dog’s Birthday

Today is Brookie’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Brookie! She is a best friend and she is 6 years old. She is a wonderful dog. In honor of her day, here are two poems.

First is the Dog section from my longer poem A Terrible Thing.

The Dog

My life is a dance of ten or fifteen years, and I love
to hear my voice ring out into the all-too-silent world.
You can say so much with your silence, like the wind,
but a dog is a turning leaf and a sound.

There is a long river of light when the day gets old
and I grow tired, thinking of my food and where I sleep.
I am not afraid because the pack is with me.
I do not rest alone.
But you will, Man, and it makes me sad.
I have seen our tracks in the dust up ahead,
where they go from many to few, to two then one.
Mine don’t go on very long, but I have no words to tell you this.

~~~

What The Dog Owns

They say that we should live
in the moment, cherish and be
present entirely, the moment
being all we have.

And the future, the infinite
possibility, vast and strange
un-writtenness of it, dark swirling
Maybe of it, belongs to God.

But the past, with its happy smells
bright fuzzy motion, sudden pains
and great meals, long sleepy
afternoons, belongs completely
to the dog.

2017-03-25 20.13.29

J. Kyle Kimberlin

Creative Commons Licensed

The Twilight Sky

Each night is a change
bringing longer darkness
down from the mountains
east of home.

Nights follow shorter days
with angled sunlight.
Little bats flutter up
like troubled thoughts
into the twilight sky.

I stand up at 9 o’clock
and go out alone.
Night after night
we are together
then I’m alone.

Every night is longer
by degrees of solitude
and grief until I stop,
look back before I drive away.

God knows what might
be gone when I return,
when nights are forever
and lonely, and January bitter
toward the end of time.

 

J. Kyle Kimberlin
3rd Draft, 10.11.2017

Creative Commons Licensed

All That Flutters

Keep a notebook. Travel with it, eat with it, sleep with it.
Slap into it every stray thought that flutters up into your brain.
Cheap paper is less perishable than gray matter, and lead
pencil markings endure longer than memory.

– Jack London, March 1903

Here’s a stray thought from my notebook:

Whatever has the power to save us will also break our hearts. 

When We Are Ghosts

When we are ghosts
we will float gentle as light
through panes of glass
and slip into bottles of wine
or perfume and wait to be
poured out. That will be like
being born again or at least
remembered and we will
laugh for many years.

When we are ghosts
we will hide in the cold fireplace
through spring and summer
until the sky turns the color
of a dove’s wing and the trees
call back water to their trunks.
Then when the logs are lit
we’ll make the flames burn gold
and blue and dance into the ashes
of morning.

When we are ghosts
we will pose briefly in the smile
of every dog and wait
to be photographed and alight
in the face of every flower.
No one will recognize us
but we will not be sad, only
wishing forever for the kindness
of sleep.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
9.25.2017

Creative Commons Licensed