"Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up I noticed I was late
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream" *
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up I noticed I was late
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream" *
As if rising from a Bronte Wuthering Fog a coffee table strewn with a peculiar collection appeared at his knees as he rested on the oft used couch. "What is this ?" he asked. "Are these the aspects of my life, my identity?" One book on the table screamed, "You can't go home again' and another a plough of mystic explorations with whispered mantras. Whyte and Cohen poetics competed for attention. They are all neighbored by journals, one of virgin pages , a canvas for the river of pilgrim words yet to pour out onto them, while another sat filled with recorded half legible reflections, meditations and prayers. An assorted collection of song lyric cheat sheets to be learned and sung to someone at some point in a yet to be defined future took up more space than attention.Technology present in forms of a computer and what few call a phone housed memories in digitalized post-kodachrome photos of children and grandchildren interspersed with images of fond faces and places. Personal poems and musical recordings rest in perpetual residence. Two novels simmer as if to be completed by some magical force. A digital library tunes wait impatiently to be played to soothe the lonely spirits to dance and sing. Lists of co-pilgrims, some near and some far and some departed who refuse to be deleted all await some connection in some form or another. Tools for healing rested for that ever broken foot and aging back sat side by side with a TV remote who controls what will stimulate and what will be a retreat for spinning heads. Empty cup of coffee and oatmeal bowl , contemporary loaves and fishes, indicate recent nourishment of the pilgrim's hunger.
Waking and rising up from the fog the voice cries out,
"Is this my testament? What does all this tell me about me?"
A voice echoes from the wilderness,
"You're a slob!"
Autumn Poem
- Mary Oliver
In the last
jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
it's more
like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
its ticks
and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
to come
through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
to the
sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
and he
begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
from so
many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
Now the
bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
Everything
is Waiting For You
- David Whyte
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings.
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings.
Surely, even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
Everything
is Waiting for you – D. Whyte
Child
of the Wind – B. Cockburn
Sail
on Sailor – Beach Boys
End
of the Line – Travelling Wilburys
Watching The Wheels - J. Lennon
*A
Day in the Life – The Beatles
“One
day I will find the right words and they will be simple”
- Jack Kerouac
“The
only truth is music”
- Jack Kerouac
amdg
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