between
now and then flowing adored
are
moments of dusk encroaching hovered
promise
of dawn's loom celebrated a bride's dream penetrated
dancing
swaying incarnating the sway of creation
At
least in so far as I can see, and experience, in the foreground of my
life, the horizon is the edge and end of everything. Tho I see
differently in the solitary night silence delight. Wherein there is
an audience of one. Permissible what before seemed impressionable,
not license, but conversation. No answers per se but responsibility
and participation; an opening to beyond the beyond and more: new
territories and vistas. Bliss. Joy.
Confessionally
I will admit idolatry, closeted with quotes, the authors of words and
creation combined dancing; accomplished finished and fine.
Whole
or Holy?!
Then
finding myself fragmented, shards upon the ground of my perceptions.
Seeds scattered. Growing new things thoughts or something else. New.
The
authors of my disaster and destruction are as venal as I (laughter)
variegated various variety motley crew rowing towards the
unknown/unknowable.
No
coxswain am I, but one of the oarsmen thrashing stars; groaning
lubricious and fecund. Trembling desirous. Galley slaves weeping
blood, lives filling the bilge, laughing, shred by the grape shot of
love. Laboring towards the origins of what was immeasurable before
there was time.
Me
thinks the author of us is not silent but still speaking the menu of
life. Suggesting not bananas versus cumquats but perchance a bit more
salt or less. Or would you believe, fasting sometimes? No more six
o'clock news for you little boy, keep rowing the night away. Yes. I
am more like Ruth than ruthless; whether thou go go I; a flea on a
dog comes to mind but I am less than the flea. My sustenance excretes
kindness now boundless. Can I be so bold, or a fool follish, to say:
'what I give is endlessly replaced by more'?
Could
it be that books are not suppositories, nor palliatives, but doubt,
sugar coated? And libraries, temples or churches, if you will allow,
inhaled, consuming me.
I,
simply, must stop ogling women librarians as temple whores or
oracles. Flirting. Wandering the stacks randomly stroking the spines
finding what has recently blow me away. The gods upon my pantheon
have feet of clay. Tears of mirth. (“Writers Gone Wild” by Bill
Peschel)
Slurry,
desiccated, returned to dust, twirling above and about, a desert dust
devil, once a water spout. Ah! Sweet Jesus diving with a bungee cord
I'm in love with words.
Dear
Coxswain, never allow me to lose my awe of thee.
SIDEBAR:PERCEPTION
I
have be found by what I sought.
We
humans tend to see everything initially through a filter. Our favored
point of view: thinking, sensing, feeling or intuition. Why should I
fear what I will never ever take for granted?
The
thought invoked another: the sensing functions (listed) cover a
primary: instinct. Fight or flight, friend or foe; threat assessment.
My reverent awe is another way of saying fear.
The
flea circus I am, my test object/subject, is linging up in chorus saying
YES!
And
it is wisdom to fear God, in Whom I, unlike the dollar currency, do
trust.
Always,
in all things, nothing for naught.
“To
exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on
creating oneself endlessly.”
-
Henri Bergson
130416
02:25 MDT flow of time
©
2013 by Jack Spratt – All Rights Reserved
credit
capture: Mike Brodie A PERIOD OF JUVENILE PROSPERITY
