Tag Archives: poem

The Loom of Time by Unknown Author : Dedicated to the Memory of Nicholas Tarr

This post is dedicated to my friend Nick, who tragically lost his life  in a car accident last night. He was a beloved friend to many. May you find peace wherever you are, and know that all of our lives are a little bit brighter because you were in them. You were a golden thread, my darling.

 

Man’s life is laid in the loom of time

To a pattern he does not see,

While weavers work and the shuttles fly

Till the dawn of eternity.

Some shuttles are filled with silver threads

And some with threads of gold,

While often but the darker hues

Are all that they may hold.

But the weaver watches with skillful eye

Each shuttle fly to and fro,

And sees the pattern so deftly wrought

As the loom moves sure and slow.

God surely planned the pattern;

Each thread, the dark and fair,

Is chosen by His master skill

And placed in the web with care.

He only knows its beauty,

And guides the shuttles which do hold

The threads so unattractive,

As well as the threads of gold.

Not til each loom is silent,

And the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God reveal the pattern

And explain the reason why.

The dark threads were as needful

In the weaver’s skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

For the pattern which He planned.


Anxiety

 Image


I am the words that are stuck in your throat.
I am the thought you wish you spoke aloud and the opinion you should’ve kept to yourself.
I am the ache in your joints and the roaring in your ears.
I am the thudding of your heart and the cold sweat on your palms.
I am the unknowable terror that doesn’t exist.
I am the made-up monster beneath your bed.
I am the action that is never taken and I am the reaction that never stops.
I cannot be starved away, burnt away, cut away, or ignored into exile.
I turn every second into an hour and consume every small happiness.
I am the strange symptom you did not anticipate and I am the loved one who never called.
I trade healing slumber for restless wakefulness.
I am the worst prediction and the false reality.
I inject mundane moments with adrenaline and exciting moments with numbness.
I am the endearments you choke on and the curses you swallow.
I am the food left cold on your plate and the snacks you just can’t put down.
I am the shiver up your spine and the flush of heat on your cheeks.
I am the phone call you refuse to take and the phone number you can’t stop calling.
I turn normalcy into nightmares.
I am the twinge in your gut and the blue underneath your nails.
I am the suspicion in your heart and the seed of doubt in your mind.
I am the bricks of the wall around you.
I am the money you aren’t making and the person that won’t talk to you.
I am the strange noises and the nights alone.
I am the impossible assignment and the incredible boredom.
I am your creation and I am your perception.
I am that which cannot be seen and can only be felt.
I am what is holding you back.
The only way I can be eliminated is to drown me in love, respect, and understanding.
To smother me with kindness and compassion.
To suffocate me with unconditional happiness and authority.
It is a conscious choice to release me and realize your potential.
Your potential to lead.
Your potential to learn.
And your potential to love.


Poem: William Stafford

Being a Person

Be a person here. Stand by the river, invoke

the owls. Invoke winter, then spring.

Let any season that wants to come here make its own

call. After that sound goes away, wait.

A slow bubble rises through the earth

and begins to include sky, stars, all space,

even the outracing, expanding thought.

Come back and hear the little sound again.

Suddenly this dream you are having matches

everyone’s dream, and the result is the world.

If a different call came there wouldn’t be any

world, or you, or the river, or the owls calling.

How you stand here is important. How you

listen for the next things to happen. How you breathe.

-William Stafford