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A Poet's Journal: February 16th, 2015

  February 16th, 2015 Dreams are enough to make us believe that our own personal view of the world is somehow the secret underlying meaning for which all things happen.  They are the confidence which renders meager doubt into absolute truth and hesitation into full-on action.  But none of us will admit that dreams are reality, that they are not illusion, nor that they are always positive, and yet time and again we are told to live by them, to follow them, and to play the role which we have fictionalized in our heads. Though it is separate in our understanding, the dreams of sleep and the emanations of our waking hours, are but one and the same.  There is even a certain pleasure in pondering if the exotic nature of our dreams holds a meaning to the current situation of our lives.  Such is the wonderment of recognizing the imaginative play of the real and the illusory, or the duality that seems to balance out life, because somewhere within the dream we believe there is a reality at which

A Poet's Journal: October 12th, 2013

October 12th, 2013 Morning and evening have such an effect on the mind that it is a great consternation to wonder if it is the incline of the sun or the opacity of thought that keeps us from experiencing the world the way we think it should be.  From the one we are ever ready to see the intimacy for which to set ourselves down in its presence; and from the other to feel that instant of appearance wherein the whole land shall embrace an ephemeral perspective. Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: October 9th, 2013

October 9th, 2013 The joys and contentment of this world provide us with such a meaningful place that it is rather lamentable to find out that the grounds for their existence are weighed by the ruling hand of man, and man is subject to fault, and that even his fault may be given the appearance of success.  If we are confined to his limits, we are all kept busy by his inventions and make no greater use of them than they of us and though we may submit or rebel to his idea, we cannot change it, but that we are the bearers of this idea as well proves that we are not slaves to its existence.  Perhaps the most worrisome thing about this is that we are driven to get out of life a maximum potential of gain and comfort--cultural perceptions that change with time--and by this pass up what it is that we are actually trying to understand: a reason to have faith in life itself.  But there is also a capacity for a minimum effort, where monetary value only becomes compensation for what is super

A Poet's Journal: October 7th, 2013

October 7th, 2013 To peruse the pages of forgotten books is a pastime in which I shall always partake; and though it turns out that very few sentences are actually read, the mere fixture of the words, or the subject, create an affinity in the mind apt to deeper contemplation.  Hardly can such a book be opened before we feel exist a mystic relationship with what is old, and even more so to the obscure, and far from leading us into a clear path of understanding, that same awkward and unsettling sentiment transfixes us and our thoughts drift back and forth upon the page until it is no longer the story to which we are attached, but the power of our imagination.  It is only when we feel we need to know something that words become our greatest let down; they are but a means to the mysterious--for even among the driest of archaeological accounts there remains something so unilluminating, that were the greatest poet to take up their theme, he could not inspire a finer feeling than the de

A Poet's Journal: September 23rd, 2013

September 23th, 2013 A flock of geese passed on the 20th--only the second to date, the other being sandhill cranes.  The 22nd marked the equinox and the moon rose with such grandeur that I was able to follow the contours of a crater with my binoculars until it was enveloped in the earth's shadow.  It makes us wonder what things we would see if we could only look hard enough; or rather, if we could focus our mind on one thought with such illuminating perception, what would our view from the earth look like and where the paths of migration lead? Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: September 18th, 2013

September 18th, 2013 The prospect that lies before us is one of invariable gaiety and I say this not because the light lays long upon the hills or the colour of the horizon changes into some inebriating spectacle, but because, at this time, those solitary and lonely birds that fly so far from our view we cannot give them a name, those whom no eye captures, but hears, now make themselves known in the flocks that appear from the window.  How must the heart swell in perseverance and fortitude when neither anticipation nor worry keep him close to the tops of the trees, but only a long and very ancient chant to urge his mind to some far-off dwelling!  Now on the fence-line singing of an evening tale, he swirls in the air to those who are the beginning and the end of his sentiments, and amidst the change and steady hold of our surroundings, flies across the distant sky to his existence. Douglas Thornton