Grey moss grows on an ancient tree
Fattened in solitude
Beyond the reach of Humanity.
It reflects in a nearby Loch
A desire to be cut – chopped
Down into pretty pieces,
Ring by ring – year by year
The wisdom accumulated
– in risk of fading.
Lichens cling and clamber
Towards the top of the ancient tree
As it stolidly stands in attention
– pondering the coming peace.
I comb my hair roughly.
My five skinny fingers
Carry soil under untidy nails,
Dandruff cover my shoulders
Like snow on late November days.
Old skin and old scars festering,
While I blow my trumpet
You blow my trumpet
– away,
And I comb my hair
Backwards
With lard like a loony loser
With five digits protruding
Like shovels
Fit for winter rain.
I write my own endorsements
as others never will
understand my point of view
or the struggles deep within
I sing my own hymns
from sheets I pressed and penned
not nearly divine enough – just echoes
of me seeing me being me
I will write my own obituary
on a day with a sparkling sun
where fields wave their goodbyes
and Meadowlarks lament a loss
The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured by buckets picked, nor by uniquely labelled jars stored on shelves in dark cold cellars. Fruit, like life is a dance from dawn to dusk, between birth and death becoming attractive wearing a colourful plumage while still raw and bitter at the core. The full colour only vivid at the end when the sweet scent attracts new pursuers while the rot grows inside. As dusk turn to nightmare our cycle completes, we roam the cold dark cellars in search for uniquely labelled jars yet closed. The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured in a single lifetime — nor in the coins left behind.
I’m tired of observing
My arms flailing like windmills
By a drying desert
Keeping wolves at bay
While tethered truths roam free
I’m tired of observing
People pulling my last leg
By a drying desert
Tapping pockets of gold
While bleeding knees greet*
I’m tired of observing
The distant hollow
By a drying desert
Life drizzling by
With echoes of time fading
*Scots.
Fate lingered. Socks pulled high.
Circumstance sat in silence.
“Are you well, Dear Sister?”
“…”
“Would you like to —“
“No.”
“Would —“
“No.”
“Why —“
“Because apparently Jaysome IS the context. I don’t know how we fit in there, or anywhere anymore.”
“What? Who told you this?”
”The Context Critters. They came back early. Warned by some sort of Magician…”
“Doesn’t bode well…”
“No.”
Blah.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Misery danced alone that night.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Naked feet and a made-up face.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Two steps by four and without blemishes.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
Misery danced alone that night.
Or so they said — proof-less
like an uneaten pudding; their words
not seeing Memories twirl.
Blah.
Blah.
Blah.
Misery danced with Memories
of naked feet and made-up faces,
dreaming of a silent world
— without Blah and blemish.