My daydreams lack a focus. They float by like a cloud. It is as though much logic is simply not allowed. Should plans besmirch my reverie, I’m sure to blot them out, for my thoughts are vagabonds—aimless, without a doubt. A mortarboard and tassel lurk far within my past, and I fear the plans they made simply didn’t last I lie here in my lounge chair, getting too much sun. I should raise the umbrella, for sunburn is no fun, but I cannot stir myself. I’m simply far too lazy. Retirement would be easier if all the skies were hazy!
We hoard her in our gardens where we force her into plots,
confine her in our vases, crowd her into pots. Ambitious men plan towers—trade grass and trees for gold. They overlook one simple fact. We’re all in nature’s hold. Man’s illustrious plots and schemes always come to naught, for the power of nature can’t be sold or bought.
I found it in the city, extending from the curb—
a simple little chain of green, a subtle rus-in-urbe.
Where men would install order, nature overrules.
Those trying to best nature are always proven fools.
For eons, we have buried her, time and time again.
Yet still she prods up from her grave. Nature will always win.
America is frozen—held fast in winter’s maw, her government held prisoner under a greedy claw. For any children but her own, her arms grown arch and cold. No room for diversity. No room for her to hold any but the richest, the whitest and the chosen. No room left in liberty for any but the frozen. “Give me your tired and your poor” relegated to the past by the chilling Nordic air that holds us in its blast.
The thaw that brings the blush of spring—the budding of the flower is held for ransom by the few who have usurped our power. Our ship of state held fast by ice, its sails still bravely strain to crack the ice and open up to justice once again. If they only had the power to billow they might start to bring us back to sanity and thaw each frozen heart. The poor would share the power that only the rich can buy and have their proper portion of the great American pie.
Prompt words today were thaw, power, sail and justice. Here are the links:
Though my diurnal actions may be slower now and measured, imagination’s richer—its journeys fully treasured. I feel the whole world opening. I roam it at my will, unhampered by long distances—undaunted by each hill.
I explore new continents, revisit former haunts. In nocturnal wanderings, I enjoy surreal jaunts joined by friends departed, unhampered by my years. I do those things undone before, conquering all my fears.
Daily, I relate to friends by voice or screen or paper, confessing past adventures, admitting every caper. Laugh over pains and learn from misdeeds that I may have done— each ill-advised decision transmogrified to fun.
Life in the doing’s richer when we have vigor for it, and when our energy runs out, we still can re-adore it. Our memory is a treasure box with contents vast and rare, made richer by each telling. Increasing as we share.
When it came to lyrics, his wit was finely tined. His words were sharp and pointed. He had a rapier mind. When he was at his zenith, his music was sublime. Perfect in its sentiment, exquisite in its rhyme. His tunes were like a river moving words along. All the world’s fine miracles occurred in every song. Each run an apparition that faded out of sight just as the next melodic ghost appeared to take its bite.
His music effervescent, then thundering, then gory, devoured all our senses, flooding us with its glory. He raced us through emotion as though running out of time. Each opus was a mountain, exhausting in the climb. Then when we reached its zenith, he released us from its hold with one brief caesura that freed us from the fold to barrel down the mountain in one euphoric sweep— sliding from the summit down to the deepest deep.
They scribed a single word in stone over his burial mound to describe this musician who married words and sound to take us all on journeys magical and euphoric, and yet the label “Maestro,” just seems too categoric to conjure up this genius who could transport us all to every corner of ourselves within that massive hall. He deserves a finer word. A more distinctive label,
but words fail me as I choose what I’d inscribe if I were able.
When waking hours grow too late, ideas begin to percolate. Chords we’ve found euphonious may somehow seem erroneous when we hear their altered streams filtered through erratic dreams.
Life is made of dreams, we’re told, but when the dark turns drear and cold, however oft we’re told we’re chosen, our potential may be frozen— all our day-lit grand achievements turned by night into bereavements.
We lie abandoned in our beds with nightmares caught within our heads. What a relief is dawning day that relieves our need to pay those ransoms that some dreams demand— cast not in concrete but in sand.
If you’d like to speak of tongues, a creature that is singular is the arboreal lemur that is said to be bi-lingular. One tongue is used for grooming another lemur’s hide to sort out all the hairs from the delicious bugs inside. Bugs provide fine nourishment but hair of course does not. That smaller underneath tongue traps the hairs that it has caught and arranges their expulsion, while the top tongue gets to savor all those juicy bug parts that deliver so much flavor combined with all the flowers and the fruit that it is able to gather to provide the meal for a lemur’s table. So when it comes to dining, when lemurs eat, it seems that it works much better when they work in teams. They form a culinary guild with very simple dictums. One provides the appetite. The other provides victims!