are things finally over, ever? I doubt it.
things linger, if you can understand
this small concept.
I believe,
this is a small portion of my life,
waiting in front of me-
but it seems so very large.
so very large.
catastrophe of impending things, with a small child
furtively singing holding a guitar
delicate in the corner of a very small room.
a cat crosses the floor in her shy way;
flipping over a small beetle, emotionless
pondering,
leaving the tiny legs to squirm, squirm in the air.
and a soft tinkering of fancy guitar-work from the tendered
and padded hands of a weathered man, far off-
a wordless tune coming gently with the morning breeze
between the two curtains.
the ground is far below these thoughts-
streaming like incense tendrils,
puffing into nothingness
about four feet up.
and there was evening and morning.
1 comment:
Bekah,
I've been reading this over from time to time, wondering what you're up to.
"Are things ever over?"
Here's my small response, written a few weeks back:
Real life is lived on trains
because real life is lived everywhere.
You are who you were before,
plus a little more, when you return
with nothing subtracted.
At the journeys end we don’t begin again
for nothing has stopped
cropped in metal sides, divided into
a day
a day
a day
lived in stop motion.
Every breath is a journey from full to empty,
empty, full, the coastal slide of a tide pool
leaking into sand – filled and refilled,
rising, falling, full under the powers of blended
sun and moon, catching gravities and heated
flight into invisible skies.
Fuel by fuel from star to star
the mind traverses heart, soul and spirit spaces,
the cavities of a world echoing,
[Mt. Home. Car Box. Train Car. Airline Cabin.]
the sound of a child’s time march
from birthwall to city savagery.
Greenline – to city center,
because real life was before and after,
real life is lived everywhere.
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