Posted by: Dahni | March 19, 2017

A Beautiful Heart (the poetry)

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By Dahni
© 2017, all rights reserved

Left breadcrumbs, like Hansel and Gretel
Not to find my way back,
But to share my bread, for anyone that may follow
And not the purposed follow, as follows me, but following after I’ve left them
And found along yours or their chosen path

I cannot prevent the blackbirds of unintended consequence from thievery or the molding of time in their decay

I’ve shared scribbles and bits from otherwise blank folios— unintended numbering or to be bound, for recall

Others just given away for the moment to then be forgot, to perish or to its nether depth, beyond desire or recall
such the like wrought with the ink of wind on parchment of cloud
such as—

I dream the man I want
to see
I write the man I want
to be
Somewhere in the living it’s—

just me

Most, I’ve no drawers of memory to draw from
And there were heaps of journals kept, piled high and purposely left at landfills or fired with the flames of, as if they never were; should never have been
Perhaps those were food, for soil or food, for worms, for I would not bequeath them, even to the soul of an enemy
And there are those crumbs bound or loose, filled with the savage of time and covered with dust

I journeyed on as any other
To find my voice
To find my place
And earn a living at what I love
But when the years pass in plenty and the stores in empty
One has to wonder where the skill
Other than the deft at making much and keeping or just found myself, a volumious quantity, virtually unknown
And there I live now, in virtual cloud
The breadcrumbs that I make
The breadcrumbs that I ate
The breadcrumbs that I eat
The breadcrumbs that I share of my bread of life

Some like casting thought to the wind that it may carry them on
Or pebbles of dreams upon the water that they may spread, circling on and on
Or apple seeds like Johnny that hope might grow
I am neither carving legacy or a memorial into stone that others might remember or others might discover me, long after my breadcrumbs are no more and I am become dust and ash —unrecognizable
No, I leave breadcrumbs to the traveler in pursuit of the destiny they journey on, to make for themselves, to do or to make that is, whatever they do, which defines the word poetry
And the doer; the maker, but a poet of:
Light Writing (phos-graphos photography)

These I loved and did and do
My mettle with the twin balances of wealth and success have been measured, and weighed and found wanton
My mettle and inferior metal not, as brilliant as gold or pure as silver, witness this then— my ignorant and unlearned state, but not from lack of the opportune
For more than others and less than others, I was gifted of much to have made a difference
I have prejudged, judged and have been judged in willful and ignorant and innocent error
For there are only two kinds of errors:
to err in judgment
to err in heart

Errors in judgment may be forgiven and recovered from, after the consequences paid and time spent, released and freed to follow again or fatal
but the others from the heart, difficult or impossible, rarely or never to ever, recover from and mostly always fatal

Long ago my innocence left me at the exposure to the world outside,
But I kept, have kept and keep still my cocoon
I will not grow up
I will keep my heart
My mind and body will keep growing out, but I will not rust out
And at my end, worn-out sleepless,
But I will keep my heart, my simplicity and play
I will love, I will dream, I will trust, I will hope, I will laugh

I am an ambivert—

Not a badge I wear with pride, but it is my skin
Nearly equal as any introvert that would pursue the arts,
For it is an inward drive, its focus, makes one alone
Finding in the mountain cold, the solace of solitude

Nearly equal as any extrovert that would pursue acceptance
For its outward drive, its focus makes one seek the company of others
Found on the warm seashore, renewed out of torpor, by together

Each these their own advantage and each their own consequence,
But I am sufficient to perform to the masses— animated and excited
And sufficient to be alone— shy and reserved

Yet, talk and talk and talk— seldom remembering how often the same is said
Repeating to share as if, any would desire my same joys renewed
But an ambivert finds balance, in permission and encouragement from children and animals to play

Word and word and word and on, in love with words— breadcrumbs
to try and express what is inexplicable and inarticulate
Words that are just images of art, music, light writing (photography), poetry and writing

I am an enigma—
Not a badge I wear with pride, but it is my core
Ignorant and unlearned
I do not know how to write pure poetry
I am not trained to write
I am not an instructed photographer
I am no credentialed artist
I can neither write nor play music,
But all these things have I done and do
And I marvel that they have come out from me

How could such be—
Out from such a vile creature
So imperfect, so fragile
So lacking in intelligence, knowledge, wisdom, understanding, skill, talent—
How could these things be?

What things?
Things that I have done and do like a mirror,
Reflect back to be such as if they were, from the lips of God—
Pieces of life and crumbs of bread,
Of Laughter and Joy, Inspiring, Encouraging, Comforting, Revealing, Loving and Healing

Forsaking all hope or desire, for mere limited and finite fame and fortune, for love’s sake
Would you not share the same with those you love?
But that still, is not why, I left and leave, breadcrumbs!

Perhaps one day, you or others will find and feed on my breadcrumbs,
left along the way of my life
And you or they will be fed and led and then lead others to your breadcrumbs
And of mine you will clearly see, this enigma of a corrupt life,
could not have left these breadcrumbs
cannot leave these breadcrumbs,
But like manna from heaven, bread of life
came from the breath of God that moved in me
and therein lies…

A beautiful heart

Mine breadcrumbs not testament that I—
Not was or was not the man I knew to be
Not was or was not a man after God’s own heart,
But a beautiful heart He sometimes, was able to live in and make manifest
To an eye that would see
An ear that would hear
A heart that would live

A Beautiful Heart

Not meant as a time capsule in a cornerstone of some building
Not a keystone for which some building was built
Nor if find-a-grave then still exists, there to find me, but
I’ve a breadcrumb, a stone that is to be left near a stream
a walkway, a path, a bridge and a bench
My ashes beneath
My date of birth and of my passing
With these my final words:

“This is a breadcrumb
May you take and eat
On your way to becoming
A Beautiful Heart”






December 13th, 1953 — ?

Note: ‘A Beautiful Heart (the story)’, to be posted in the future, somewhere in the cloud

Here you’ve read this in the light, there you can read that in the dark

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