If our thoughts grew out of us in a gigantic bubble, perhaps they might give warning to keep us out of trouble.
They might flow on ahead of us in a big balloon
to tell folks what we’re thinking, like in a cartoon.
Sometimes our thoughts scream out at us. At other times they whisper. Sometimes our minds are in a fog. At other times they’re crisper, but with prior warning of dangerous or sad thoughts, perhaps our friends would intervene to circumvent the bad thoughts.
Folks in crowds we’re entering might split to left and right when we’re in a pissy mood and spoiling for a fight. Those we meet might warn us of what we’re about to think, or chuckle at our naughty thoughts and give a little wink.
What would the world be like if folks knew everything we thought? One friend would know we hate her hair, one know we think he’s hot. There would be no mysteries, not one Christmas surprise. No detecting secret thoughts by staring into eyes.
The whole world would be literal. No nuances or mysteries. Strangers would know our secrets, both our present and our histories. No reading of expressions, for the truth would all be there floating in thought bubbles, right above your hair!
“How green is blue?” the child asks,
“What is the taste of pink?” A prodigy koan-master with a novel way to think, such problems keep a child’s mind engaged in matters other than all the daily problems of a father or a mother.
No spider ever stumbles when spinning out her strands, for the feet she walks around on
are really only hands. No specter of a problem
ever plagues a goat. He simply feeds upon the world
and lives his life by rote.
And so it is with children.
They go from thing to thing with no worries of the outcomes
that their acts might bring. They leave to human adults
the worries of such things and simply live with pleasures
that every new day brings.
Be thankful for your bugaboos, though they invade your head while walking down a lonely street or lying in your bed. I know they make you nervous, especially at night. They ramify your countless fears. They niggle, scratch and bite. Fear is the voice of instinct. It says that something’s wrong. It sets action in motion when pain sounds the warning gong. Fear and pain must guide the way. Without them you are guileless. How would we know something was wrong if gall bladders were bileless? Nature’s warning signals, be they physical or mental agitate those normal states more pleasurably gentle. They are our bodyguards and they make us more secure, warning of us problems for which we need a cure. They tell of hidden dangers. Make us more aware. It’s true both pain and pleasure are part of nature’s care.
Throw clothes over your birthday suit, it’s fast becoming dawn. We need to be respectable, so put your jammies on. The milkman will be coming and it would be a plus if when we met him at the door, we had some clothes on us.
Mere speed will not suffice, dear. We also need some raiment.
No need to let the milkman in on our entertainment.
For milk upon our Fruit Loops, there are obstacles to hurdle if we want to eat before the milk begins to curdle. My walker in the hallway, your cane dropped on the floor, the stairway to maneuver, the deadbolt on the door. Folks as old as us should have passed this lusty phase.
Bed for us should merely be a place to laze.
So smooth your messy hair, dear, and try to look less daring. No need to let the milkman in on fun times we’ve been sharing. We should be sharing pastimes like t.v. and crossword puzzles. Who would suspect that we are still into passion’s nuzzles? So in spite of all the cheap jokes, no milkman will succeed me. When it comes to filling orders, my wife still seems to need me!
photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash. Used with permission.
She kept her heart protected securely in a box bound up with heavy chains and secured by keys and locks so no one could purloin it. No one could even try. All potential lovers were forced to pass her by. Not for her two entities entwined into one. As other women sought their mates, she was content with none.
She never walked the nuptial aisle. No vows were ever said. Never spread her gown out upon the wedding bed. Never succumbed to childbirth. Never soothed the brow of a fevered toddler and never until now regretted what she’d missed in life by sealing tight the gate that at last she’s throwing open, but, alas, it is too late.
Prompt words for today are purloin, box and entty. These are all the prompt words posted now and actually, Ragtag’s prompt of purloin is from yesterday–posted too late for me to use it then. I’m going on a four day writing intensive with a friend to work on the book I’ve been putting off for so long, so I won’t be posting again until Monday, but Forgottenman has generously agreed to repost some of my old poems each day on my blog for me—possibly things from so long ago that we’ve all forgotten them, so hope you drop by and have a look. See you on Monday!!! xoxoo