Morning, morning, hallelujah.
The temperature is well into the twenties, some greyness above, the eternity that's mine ahead of me.
There is a black hole at the center of the Milky Way. How many times has matter expanded and contracted, how many Big Bangs? How distant is the God that lets the machine run and re-set and run again?
Your soul will never escape the black hole at the center of everything, expect as the light next time. Shine, shine, shine.
No frost on the windshield. A fog of breath in air.
The poet can choose the beauty he knows; he can choose a new beauty he doesn't know; he can mend and meld. I know now I am more welded to the past than I used to think. I like to sing what I know. I am like my fellows.
Context is that which gives meaning to nothingness. Without context, nothingness is nothing.
I'll tell you, what I love best here is the title of the post. I want to be someone who greets every morning with hallelujah. It's a good reminder.
I like to sing what I know, too.
Posted by: Rachel | January 24, 2008 at 08:01 AM
Hi, Rachel. Sometimes to feel "morning, morning, hallelujah," you have to say it, and say it again. Practice, I think, makes the hallelujahs come more easily. I mean, you have to say it til you feel it.
Re. singing what I know - I think I'd like to be known as the Poet Laureate of the Most Ordinary....
Posted by: Tom Montag | January 24, 2008 at 12:34 PM
Within the most ordinary is the most holy.
Posted by: poor_mad_peter | January 26, 2008 at 07:10 AM
Yet we tend to forget that, Peter. At least I do. I have to remind myself every day: this, here, now.
Posted by: Tom Montag | January 26, 2008 at 07:14 AM