As you've probably gathered from the title, it's about circles.
It isn't a new thought at all,
and I certainly don't claim to be its originator
yet it befuddles me time and again
how magically real circles are.
Once you're in, you can never stop,
on and on it goes in perfect completion,
a single whole,
so "right" to our troubled minds.
Yet circles scare me.
Ceaseless perfection is
well, ceaseless.
Never ending, never beginning, just on and on and on
Nothing new, nothing old,
round and round in the routine uniformity
which we chase so desperately
but can never achieve.
It is so wonderful to me
so incredibly perfect
that our lives are laden with imperfection
As I've often said,
we are creators,
always moving and building and making,
doing something new
No moment is like the one before
so let's stop and see it
before it's gone.
So, here's that poem.
Circles
Circle come and circle go
circle fast and racing
circle spin, doors facing
circle high and circle low
but circle lacing
cannot flow.
Circle run in spiral down
circle down the hall
circle cannot fall
circle around the foggy clown
encircles all
of water's drown.
Circle in and circle out
circle funny, laughing
circle up, store's staffing
circle sits within without
to circle's passing
scream and shout.
Circle by the river bend
circle past the sea
circle sipping tea
circle where the dreams won't end
of circular we
fight or fend.
Circle in my empty cup
circle round and round
circle of empty ground
circle low, to fall and dump
of circles found
clamp and clump.
Circle down the foggy night
circle in my dreams
circle all Earth and themes
circles out to do what's right
what circles mean
is candlelight.
