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Craig Froman Quotes

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Famous Craig Froman Quotes

“A gardener is like a prophet looking out on a barren land and saying, ‘I see corn on that hill, and beans beneath the grove, and lavender in the field, and over there some roses by the brick wall.’ Don’t you think that’s what a good friend should be like? A truly good friend is one who can look at our bare lives and see the fruit of what will one day come from deep inside us.”

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Book:Of Secrets, Spiders & and the End of the World
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“A screaming silence surrounds us. The waves claw the shore in hushed strokes. My words claw at my throat. “In silent words, you speak so much.” “And you, though you speak volumes, say precious little. Don’t you know that words are actors set in motion, and you are the playwright. They can create a mood of harmony or destroy peace in violent isolation. Words are civilians or soldiers; artists or autocrats; worshippers or pagans. They make you rich or sell you into poverty. Master them and you rule, or be mastered by them and serve.” She pauses as if in reflection. “Words can sway the masses; words can sway your own soul.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“I touched the moon last night; a golden glow beyond my grasp. Eons before me it rested there. It will remain when I am dust. My hand now glows from the embrace. Voices echo through nights past, and with the glow, caress my face. My finger faints from what will last. Alone I am; alone secure; the moon will last when I am gone. A Master set it in its’ place, to move the tide, refresh the dawn. Unnumbered eyes have felt its rest; have looked upon reflected light. My heart is moved away from pain; I touched the moon last night.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“But with what wonder has the season come? Its treasure lies in earthen ships, that carry dreams across the foam. And how your memory of Sarah rapes the fleshly heart that once bore scenes, now veiled in smoky stains of tears; it cries as on its crutches leans, and ever fills itself with fears. Be born anew to taste the sky Lay waste cocoon and upwind fly.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“Golden bars make no less a prison than a coffin on a hill. And in caged reformation, one wanders aimless still. The rafters now a recollection of sacred suppression. How the morning dawn strikes mourning confession. Now Death yields a harvest of the living masses. We walk toward its path no earthly power surpasses.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“He had said of me, ‘You are fated to be life’s passive participant,’ but I wrestled fate to the ground and suffocated its’ fortune. And yet, his laughter still mocks me, for though the earth has been my stepping stone, only here at the oceans’ side do I feel at ease. Only in your stillness do I find rest. I am a waning bird encased in a glass sphere; I cannot see my prison, and my cries no one can hear.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“We live as emotional transients in a world of isolation. Oh, if I could only borrow back so many wasted moments, but only the arrogant have no regrets; so much is paid for with borrowed time. The infant road, the child’s path, in the rising tide of the day, is the aged road the dying path, in the dusk where mortals play.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“O, the sorrow of us all, to wander the earth in a shell. And looking to the heavens, we lay to rest in hell. The suffering of the innocent in the midst of Jacob’s well. How the miles fled between us, and that distance is still great. Though on the same shore we now sit, in temporal quietude to wait. The moon is our bright witness; it will lead us to the gate.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“Here on the walkway lie distant dreams of orange in October, with its outer mystery and inner disfigurement. A shrill cry from a little one pierces the blackness, as the moon is shrouded in a solemn veil. “In our bags place a treat. In our hearts some bittersweet.” And I, “Take what you will of these melting dreams; sweet but for a moment.” As the little soldiers walk away, I turn and go to my inner room. Locking the door, I close my eyes...”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“Above this crystal pool are rows of lighted candles, flames flickering in the wind. Carved orange lanterns line the crags. O, ignisfatuus, foolish fire. O, the lantern in the mire. Spirits quaking with the light, demon darkness, far too bright. Orange whispers, yellow cries; ever-haunting, numb good-byes. Good-bye, O childhood; Farewell, my nickel joys.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“Daniel seems to rise above the moon with a brilliance in his eyes. He steps toward the sea and screams, more in defiance than rage. “Mortality; O wretched death and mortality! Decay is a demon dream, schemed in symmetry. O, that death crucified might halt its talons, for all will ascend from the grave! Remember the fallen, the slain; their dust is our foundation. Consider their suffering and pain; for there lies a new creation.”

LifeLightPainHopePeaceDespairDepressionSuicideOctoberHallows
Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“Daniel? Daniel...of what use are the bones of saints? Of what great interest to me are their dusted stories of day?” I stand at a dreadful distance. He speaks, “Silent stones of granite hue; enveloped now in sacred dew. Speak somber words of restless hope... of resurrection.” I hear the hushings of the wind in a rhythmic silence, and turn to see a friar’s lantern on a distant ridge.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“Daniel,” I speak through weariness, “God has given me little hope and less strength. I hear only a voice saying ‘no’ from the wings of this circling stage.” “Ah, because we worship the gods of the arts in our wavering world; the mock souls and masked faces with painted-on peace. What do you expect of a forgery?” He pauses as he turns toward me. “Reality is no longer relevant.” Darkness chokes the moon as we rest on stirring sand.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“For a brief moment two young brothers appear immobile on this rubble. Their faces are serene and still. It is my blood. My brother untouched and unchanged, alive now in some distant place, full of hope and grace. All sweet with no bitter; all bright and no pale. The rough is made smooth; the dark clouds, a dream.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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“All along the crystal cove the woven masks pace and pause from doorstep to doorstep. Shadows dance on the crest of the moon, as clouds, like dark bats, shift through the skies. The children in garments of glib disarray; the parents wear masks that won’t fade away. Olive and amber, sea and sky; salt and sand go winding by. One can sense the cries of hovering birds, the laughter of children, and frost-bitten air.”

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Book:An owl on the moon: A journal from the edge of darkness
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