Before the night fell the grasses swayed. All life was somber and still. A cricket bleeted alone as crickets always do, this one, too early to sing, waiting for night as the orange sun disappeared behind the mountain. The water of the lake was smooth, not a ripple, grasses grew out of there too. Tall grasses that sticking up like trees with thick stems and the brown, very brown, dark brown almost browner than the trunks of the trees on the shore stalks, as I said, stood perfectly still. What happens when the stopping begins. Eyes wide open we seek movement. The poets always sing of themselves in the whisps of winds and sways of leaves, but when selves disappear the remaining former proof lives on, soulless, unknowing, lost.
Too much silence can kill a man says huxley. But huxley doesn’t know anything. He cuts corn down when seasons of corn cutting come. He rushes out to strip the land and comes home a richer man for a season, the good season, in between the times of waiting and loneliness. The poets are always looking for friends in nature. Somehow they know how to relate. Sunshine becomes God and moon the almighty mother. Loneliness doesn’t grip them. They don’t need the flesh and blood of their soul sisters or their brothers. We all fall down.
And stories, expanding in underwater silence, our talents bubbles bursting upon the water’s skin. If we could tell our stories, let our stories come up and be as real to each other as they are to all too often unknowing selves, then we could breathe. But breath is but another dream, another wasted thought to the drowning man, his story and his being watching the round orb of the sun blur and decrease. Eyes on deck. Keep watching says you, but the poet knows that even the underworld is there for him to relate to. Even then.

Published in: on June 17, 2014 at 12:16 am  Leave a Comment  
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Really. Really. Really. They say it isn’t the thought, but, think about it. It Is the thought. It is the very thought of the very moment of the very real you of NOW! It’s all that matters and this isn’t a new age tract. Now is the moment that you hold as you read these words that I wrote then, another now, one for me, but now for you. That’s the way writing works. Face it. You are reading. I was writing. Who knows what I’m doing now, but I know what you are doing. I totally know what you are doing.

So where does that leave us? Is it unfair? Of course. Why? I don’t even know. It just seems unfair. Why or how can I leave you with these thoughts, this thought that is, and not even be present at the moment that you take them in? I guess you wouldn’t want me to be there. I guess you don’t really want to know me. Do I really want to know you? It’s hard to say. Maybe. I feel I know a lot of writers that I like. The problem here is that you don’t really consider me a writer that you like but just a writer who you are reading at the moment. Still. Where am I in all this?

I’m away. I’m gone. You ask me about what I wrote and that you read, this line here, and I will say, ah, well, that and this and this and that and that and that and this and you will smile or laugh or take it in and soon all will be forgotten. You live with your thoughts in your moments and that is all that matters.

Published in: on December 18, 2012 at 10:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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