Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente,
y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca.
Parece que los ojos se te hubieran volado
y parece que un beso te cerrara la boca.
Como todas las cosas están llenas de mi alma
emerges de las cosas, llena del alma mía.
Mariposa de sueño, te pareces a mi alma,
y te pareces a la palabra melancolía.
Me gustas cuando callas y estás como distante.
Y estás como quejándote, mariposa en arrullo.
Y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te alcanza:
Déjame que me calle con el silencio tuyo.
Déjame que te hable también con tu silencio
claro como una lámpara, simple como un anillo.
Eres como la noche, callada y constelada.
Tu silencio es de estrella, tan lejano y sencillo.
Me gustas cuando callas porque estás como ausente.
Distante y dolorosa como si hubieras muerto.
Una palabra entonces, una sonrisa bastan.
Y estoy alegre, alegre de que no sea cierto.
Pablo Neruda
In weather like this, the homeless hardly can live
and every year makes more of them, none of them like me.
I give to beggars of course, though charity
prolongs their pain. So do market forces.
Strong brains who tackle problems of this kind
need the protection of a cosy house
or several. I manage with only two,
and I love these cold grey rainy Glasgow streets
at home in bed here, holding and held by you.
~Alasdair Gray
Poet
Confined to words.
And their hard shapes
Curves of black crushed and folded under white-cliffed edges.
At least, a collection of fragmented sounds: crude blue-printed motions,
And at most, a small whisper of greatness,
Or perhaps a cleverly woven image,
Maybe even an impulsed hint of some radiant-colored feeling.
Yet still all poured into those unchanging molds
Those cold, indifferent strokes.
And by design some say,
Rhythms abound, yet none to follow,
Hues thrive, yet none to see,
Feelings banging out their loudest selves,
Yet barely heard.
- Jeff Foster
I just came across…
Current mood: 
peaceful
Habitation
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far
we are learning to make fire.
–Margaret Atwood
By evening the wind was still increasing.
The sea was gathering itself up in towering masses that rolled from the horizon, trailing ghostly wads of foam. The sight of these enormous rollers and their fragile, attendant spindrift hypnotized Browne.
He had never been out to sea before and never heard such wind. The boat felt as though she were gliding, airborne. The sky overhead was prison gray. He understood that he was about the experience the true dimensions of the situation in which he had placed himself.
Robert Stone
© 2008
Jeff Foster