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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| Now something by someone else: The Stones by Richard Shelton I love to go out on summer nights and watch the stones grow. I think they grow better here in the desert, where it is warm and dry, than almost anywhere. Or perhaps it is only that the young ones are more active here. Young stones tend to move about more than their elders consider good for them. Most young stones have a secret desire which their parents had before them but have forgotten ages ago. And because this desire involves water, it is never mentioned. The older stones disapprove of water and say, "Water is a gadfly who never stays in one place long enough to learn anything." But the young stones try to work themselves into a position, slowly and without their elders noticing it, in which a sizable stream of water during a summer storm might catch them broadside and unknowing, so to speak, push them along over a slope or down an arroyo. In spite of the danger this involves, they want to travel and see something of the world and settle in a new place, far from home, where they can raise their own dynasties, away from the domination of their parents. And although family ties are very strong among stones, many have succeeded; and they carry scars to prove to their children that they once went on a journey, helter-skelter and high water, and traveled perhaps fifteen feet, an incredible distance. As they grow older, they cease to brag about such clandestine adventures. It is true that old stones get to be very conservative. They consider all movement either dangerous or downright sinful. They remain comfortably where they are and often get fat. Fatness, as a matter of fact, is a mark of distinction. And on summer nights, after the young stones are asleep, the elders turn to a serious and frightening subject -- the moon. which is always spoken of in whispers. "see how it glows and whips across the sky, always changing its shape," one says. And another says, "Feel how it pulls at us, urging us to follow." And a third whispers, "It is a stone gone mad." http://www.hanksville.org/voyage/desert/Desert4.html My poetry tries to hint at underlying meaning, quite often. For some it's plain easy to interpret the symbolism. Others take the words at face value. Writing that is rich begs you go beneath the surface to explore, feel. |
| Big picture. Small world. Coincide or co-exist? You might not follow, but use your imagination...plenty of that renewable resource: In this life, we are dealing with real mysteries. We are not trying to figure out if free will or atoms exist...science fiction to commoners without Einsteinian awakenings. We just want to know what to do with ourselves. It should not be to crush candy or be mesmerized by a YouTube video or some life changing meme...for the few minutes. Our time has been compartmentalized rather than compelled to linear wayward time travel. We are not meant to have an impact on this world. We are meant to be consumers of the giants who manage to take control of our world until we die. We cannot unify against the forces that compel us to do their bidding. We are ungrateful curs if we don't acclimate ourselves to the mental mantra meant to lead us into war or consumerism. As one cannot cram the whole world's existence (let alone entire universe) in one blog entry, I leave pinholes of light to allow your eye follow out and seek truth. Not wormholes and other dimensions that we cannot know exist. Yes, that sounds exciting but more than we have the ability to truly take on. We have to think of the immortal words of Prince, we 'just need to get through this thing called life.' And that's a mighty long time. For him 57 years? I'm 58 and feeling every bit as vulnerable to all that preys and the predators in wait. They will not allow free will, let alone dine too long on its buffet. After the hand slap, fingers point to the exit. I ignore them, move about the room. Still no freedom, plenty of escapes. I have been distracted too long. No nuggets, no kernels of truth. It might be right under our noses in a life full of misdirect. We are all too smart to be babies in diapers we can't change ourselves. We leave so much to others, it's a wonder how anything functions, still exists. Machines? Robot nannies? Big brother exists?? Whaaaat? We are on automatic pilot. We have become complacent. Our discourse over social media is hardly social and unacceptable in terms of dialoguing. It's a disconnect. When we want our news now, can we talk to the anchors live and set the stories straight? No. Information is a one way feeding tube. We are not so much lied to as we are denied the true headlines, the most important facts in these stories. We all die before full actualization. How do you think rumors got around about how Albert felt in his dying, yearning last moments? The story ends without us, begins anew with another innocent. 'A sucker born every minute.' Time will not stop in our lifetime. It renews with each purpose to deny us truth. What is real is income to pay for the things we are lead to believe we need and go to things we should not consort with. If the world had a garage sale, we'd line up to look. It would leave us going home empty handed. It has no bargains, nothing we want. We are fine with what we already have...and yet? What we don't know won't hurt us. I'd just like to meet our real parents...scarier than science fiction. --signed, anonymous From the soon to be unwritten memoir: Allegories and Fables Not Meant to Be Your Parables If there were any hint of truth, death. Just meanderings of person bored enough to attempt seek life outside this common utopian existence. |
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Great poem, Brian.
Dreams feel good though. Thanks for posting this one, Brian 
