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Literature Text
There was a spot on the big tree, right by the lake edge,
Which fitted me exactly.
Ground worn smooth by sitting there,
Bark at my back, grabbing at strands of stray thought.
Like that age could see right into me.
So big and slow and wise, just taking it all in;
Sun, lake, rain, me and my turmoil -
All of it -
Then standing still, unmoved by decades passing,
Seasons the ticking of seconds.
If I, as I still understand "me", began anywhere,
It was there as the breeze passed, fragrant,
Just me and the tree, getting stoned like mates.
Which fitted me exactly.
Ground worn smooth by sitting there,
Bark at my back, grabbing at strands of stray thought.
Like that age could see right into me.
So big and slow and wise, just taking it all in;
Sun, lake, rain, me and my turmoil -
All of it -
Then standing still, unmoved by decades passing,
Seasons the ticking of seconds.
If I, as I still understand "me", began anywhere,
It was there as the breeze passed, fragrant,
Just me and the tree, getting stoned like mates.
Literature
Bansid
I heard the lonely Bansid, cry
Calling ocean mist across the sky
I know in the ocean he will die,
When the wind begins to cry
And the moon to lie.
Oh darling, I cry for you,
On the cliffs I wretch…..
Oh darling, come home soon
So I join her wail,
Calling to the soul
Soon to be kept by the water
And I wonder if she knows,
What loss is.
I heard the lonely Bansid, cry
Calling ocean mist across the sky
I know in the ocean he will die,
When the wind begins to cry
And the moon to lie.
Oh darling, you are drowning,
In the fury of the sea,
Oh darling, I love you,
So I'll follow thee,
Throwing my heart to the sea,
Soon to b
Literature
History Burning
the trick is
to make all believe they inheret a
world all their own
remember to erase the words of the
deceased until
death never existed
and put corpses unburied
into neat containers
under every floor
to lock them up tight is
critical;
panic is the plague in this age
and is it any wonder they forget
with puppet parents
who burn books at christmas?
Literature
Dromomania
Every day I turn the key in the lock
Hoping to find you
tucked into the white folds
of an envelope,
of the bath towel I left on the sofa this morning.
But you and I, we haven't the breadth for that sort of thing.
I wish I could send you something of spring,
some distended meteor green with hope.
I'm watching the last of the oak leaves cling
stubborn
and I think
spring may not be coming this year.
There is no birdsong, there is
the furious sleeping of toads in the mud.
I came on the bench
where I slept in the warmth of your memory
this time last year.
Now the thought seems less mine and maybe it was
me you'd dreamt beside,
m
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Comments4
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Very good piece. That is why I love going out to nature. It fills the soul.