I had a wonderful dream last night. I talked to astronauts about warriors and zealots. And they talked to me about temples and shrines, and all things in-between. We all agreed, that everything combines and re-combines. Our flesh, the only theme without variation. As if by magic, the night ended. And the sun appeared for a shared morning. Leaning towards the light.
Some people step in the air. And the summer cicadas have a sharp look. I look at the stars, pulling me into a sweet surrender. Your love is my weakness.
“Busy old fool” you said. As I caught the breath, of another wakened morning breeze. The darkness banished, I began to search for my words. “Are you not ashamed, you sleepy-head!” I replied. And began to touch another day.
Night, and once again the day. The bloom is over. The streets with a whispered sigh, shoot into the sky like a rocket. No longer singing their mournful song. In a life pocket, the birds become human. I think I will join them.
My heart needs a banner. Not for the history that goes back. Ill-painted, with imminent deaths. But for the golden bowl of memories. From those harbour days, and city magpies with liquid songs.
The sunset: eyes that have wept. I have no desire for talking, just to sing wildly again. Every time two people exchange a smile, dreams are no longer hollow. And the old selves are traded in. Served again, from left to right by neatly painted horses. And partridges, that coo magic words, far and near.
It is late, and I am still waiting for someone to understand my words. How hard can this be? No more than a fish flashing in water. Or a moment to catch your breath. I could forget all this, lying parched upon the earth. But I cherish life, still standing. And so, I will wait.
Look around, we’re all in the same boat here, say something! But we have become so content with this lack of colour. We drift back into a sleep space. Meandering across familiar ground, until we find the dust of our ancestors.
Life, as I find it. A sky, hung with stars and a thousand poems. Arid streets, the only life – petals on a wet river bank. I’m off to the stars soon, there is no confusion.
A Wandering Poet 