If it’s not how you remembered it, it has probably changed. Ally, take heed! This is a living site. I will change a poem on the inhale and again on the exhale.
The poem I’m currently breathing is dying static hum. At the end if the process, when it’s walking in its own two feet or when I’m off of mine, whichever comes first, I’ll post select versions.
I can share the land with the cat. It can have the sunbeams and the cover of tall grass. It can have the mice and the grasshoppers.
I don’t have to try to make it comfortable, or befriend it, or coo over it. It seems happy, skinny as fuck, but happy.
It doesn’t need a name or a rank or any other external validation. It only needs to hunt and rest. It’s free to share the land.
I remember it being born
We were set for three days of storms.
That was revised to two days.
And now it’s two days of rain.
Light rain
Partly cloudy
We will end up with only what we had.
Every time I hear bagpipes and locomotives I want to rewrite The Wind Cries Mary.
It’s always a joy and a disappointment. I am calmed and washed over with love for all sentient beings, secure in the knowledge that the Wind Cried Mary. But disappointment soon sets in when I feel hindered to experience my own distance.
Bagpipes and locomotives
I can hear in the distance.
Rolling on their way to you maybe now you can’t see them but you sigh and they disappear into the muck of a clouded mind until which time they are resurrected by the unseen and unknown forces of a time and a place.
Bagpipes and locomotives I can a’hear in the distance.
