Looking Through the Our GlassIntending to ponder what now is
I wander in wonder of Priest’s prowess
As I sit in my seat in the shed
Shed of piles of past notes
On what “to know’ is
And shelves of books that I’ve read.
This chilly misty morning
Sparks the dog’s spirits to play
Tails up, standing stark still, until
A blink, a wink and they’re off again
One chasing the other behind the tree
The other chasing him out
Like fractals from the void of nowhere
Now here sheds snapshots like leaves
Falling on the mirror of my pond
Memory on the top
Expectation on the soaking bottom;
Joyful scene — seen future green
Violent encounter — dread future red
Informing the water with their flavor
Decaying into the past
Building the body of unborn future attitude
Gestating in that nowhere of here now
Born continuously
As the changing reflection
Of which side we think we’re on.
Like Stalagmites from drips from Stalagtites
Form pillars and puddles,
Experience builds rigid resolve
And fluid bodies of wisdom
Accumulated with age,
That product of time
Considered a crime
As are so many ways of counting:
Someone makes up a game
Then assigns blame
To ones remaining the same
Though gaining a name…
Priest won’t let me write
He wants affection
He didn’t plan it that way
Neither did I
But I kind of expected it.
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Dedicated to my first literary hero, Lewis Carrol (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson)
4 comments:
He didn’t plan it that way
Neither did I
But I kind of expected it.
There is something in these lines that makes me prick up my (metaphysic) ears. Perhaps it is the core of the sceptic/cynic that lives within?
And what sliver of skepticism might that be, oh, fellow heretic, what leap you cannot bridge, connection you cannot wedge? And in whom does that cynical prick say it dwells?
:D I have opten been called a cynical prick - but never so eloquently
word verification: rants
So what's this sliver so metaphysical, people are dying to know?
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