Sunday, March 23, 2014
Let the Stories Burst Forth
There was once a young boy who listened and watched.
He lived in a full household, a busy town, a vibrant world.
The world was full of sights and sounds and the boy drank them in like a parched man gulping water from a cold spring.
The boy seldom spoke, and so words and images began to fill his head.
The boy kept the pictures and words inside, until he grew to be an average sized man, with a larger than average head.
And soon the man began to have children of his own.
And when it was time for bed, the children demanded he tell them stories.
So when it was dark and the children were sleepy and the man was tired, he let some of the words and pictures out.
They did not come out as they went in, for over time the sights and sounds interacted and they came back together in unpredictable ways.
Sometimes made up heroes served real-life queens, and made up animals dodged the real life threats that filled the river below.
And sometimes the animals were made of cardboard, and they raged through grassy plains.
Familiar faces and names, like Oprah and Ovaltine, took on unfamiliar behavior.
Even the people and moments of his past took on new lives that were larger than life.
Ships sailed to uncharted waters.
Ancient ceremonies conferred tribal honors.
And icy lakes became the backdrop for great deeds.
For many years, the stories flowed – sometimes repeating again and again – and yet different each time.
And only when all the children were fully grown and had homes of their own, did the stories stop.
And at night, the man was silent.
And the house was silent.
And again he listened and watched.
And again his head filled to bursting – sometimes to aching.
And sometimes, just before he fell asleep, he could feel their pressure, fighting to be free.
As though the beings that inhabited this imaginary world were no longer content to remain captive.
As with all prisoners, once they had tasted freedom, they demanded release.
And the man yearned to emancipate them.
He longed to let the stories burst forth, unbridled by any confinement.
And someday they will.
He lived in a full household, a busy town, a vibrant world.
The world was full of sights and sounds and the boy drank them in like a parched man gulping water from a cold spring.
The boy seldom spoke, and so words and images began to fill his head.
The boy kept the pictures and words inside, until he grew to be an average sized man, with a larger than average head.
And soon the man began to have children of his own.
And when it was time for bed, the children demanded he tell them stories.
So when it was dark and the children were sleepy and the man was tired, he let some of the words and pictures out.
They did not come out as they went in, for over time the sights and sounds interacted and they came back together in unpredictable ways.
Sometimes made up heroes served real-life queens, and made up animals dodged the real life threats that filled the river below.
And sometimes the animals were made of cardboard, and they raged through grassy plains.
Familiar faces and names, like Oprah and Ovaltine, took on unfamiliar behavior.
Even the people and moments of his past took on new lives that were larger than life.
Ships sailed to uncharted waters.
Ancient ceremonies conferred tribal honors.
And icy lakes became the backdrop for great deeds.
For many years, the stories flowed – sometimes repeating again and again – and yet different each time.
And only when all the children were fully grown and had homes of their own, did the stories stop.
And at night, the man was silent.
And the house was silent.
And again he listened and watched.
And again his head filled to bursting – sometimes to aching.
And sometimes, just before he fell asleep, he could feel their pressure, fighting to be free.
As though the beings that inhabited this imaginary world were no longer content to remain captive.
As with all prisoners, once they had tasted freedom, they demanded release.
And the man yearned to emancipate them.
He longed to let the stories burst forth, unbridled by any confinement.
And someday they will.
Sunlit Days
this morning as I sat at home
i felt the world was mine alone
each meadow crafted for my sight
for my eyes only, each moonlight
as turtles walk along the creek
i realize it's me they seek
wild deer and turkey take a chance
to come nearby for just one glance
the daffodils are blooming now
and winds have warmed that will allow
each blade of grass to rise to me
and leaves reach down from every tree
and when I wish for warmer days
then brighter will the sunlight blaze
and winter, though it freezes me
is here because it pleases me
i sing my song for all the land
for I alone each day command
and happiness to all conveys
as I imagine sunlit days
i felt the world was mine alone
each meadow crafted for my sight
for my eyes only, each moonlight
as turtles walk along the creek
i realize it's me they seek
wild deer and turkey take a chance
to come nearby for just one glance
the daffodils are blooming now
and winds have warmed that will allow
each blade of grass to rise to me
and leaves reach down from every tree
and when I wish for warmer days
then brighter will the sunlight blaze
and winter, though it freezes me
is here because it pleases me
i sing my song for all the land
for I alone each day command
and happiness to all conveys
as I imagine sunlit days
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Sunday Poem
Resume
What pays the bills
needs to be filled
but worthless,
can't contain a thing?
What carries weight
what proves we're great
but frail and mute
is a point, moot?
What draws the blood
and, sucking, floods
our lives with endless
vain pursuit?
What is this crap?
A 2D trap?
All life inside
a one page map?
As pants the heart
for cooling streams
So seethes the soul
at endless reams
of bullet points
and years and dreams
Condensed to seem
and not to mean.
What pays the bills
needs to be filled
but worthless,
can't contain a thing?
What carries weight
what proves we're great
but frail and mute
is a point, moot?
What draws the blood
and, sucking, floods
our lives with endless
vain pursuit?
What is this crap?
A 2D trap?
All life inside
a one page map?
As pants the heart
for cooling streams
So seethes the soul
at endless reams
of bullet points
and years and dreams
Condensed to seem
and not to mean.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
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