It’s not that there isn’t a home…

It was neither long or short or anything in between time, but rather a spot somewhere other than in time that I stood oh so perfectly still – a product of time, but not in time to make much of a difference, like the mammoth navigating the cold but not wanting to be frozen, or have their ivory carved by future artisans into allegories of futility.

And a day is what? And a point is what? And what are the threats…facing you now? Smoke tree round world eyes, brown soul shadows – merry to whom or to what – and the allegiance whispers, and the curry favors, and the headlights pointing into their long stretch of desert night – your bongo bop staccatos, and the mirrors breaking at the sight of your burdens.

Now and forever the wheat will want to grow waving, and the fortuitous will want to help the bedraggled, and the makeshift will seek architects, and the question is what will YOU mean if anything to the gathering of black clothing making signs of the cross, or to the laughter rumbling almost audible out of the mouth of your dreams?

Into this or any other mix you must add the froth of your fathers yearning to have made a difference, the milk of your mothers opium, addled with her thousand heartaches, and the scream of your open spirit awakened as it was at midnight of the day you found that this and for that matter all of your journey’s had been made while sleeping.

For me this was the day I discovered that there was a chair in my mind where I could sit and in fact had sat for hours, and hours of daydreaming about all the rights and wrongs, and the long time comings; when I filtered the strum and hum of the orchestra, sang the melody hymns of abbeys, and declared to no one in particular look – I am me.

Insight is what’s looked upon, the visual world – its colors and rainbows – the image of yourself as a child in the wood leaving breadcrumbs along the no way back path, wanting to be wanted by the worlds hands, some of which touched, some of which guided and then at a future figure of yourself who informs you – traveler, there is no way home.



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4 responses to “It’s not that there isn’t a home…

  1. Hello again. This is a fine, chewy thing. What I like most is the way your imagery, to me, contains an ambiguity that at once invites a deeper contemplation of your meaning and at the same time allows the reader space to play with their own interpretations, to savour the mass of resonances and images conjured by phrases like ‘mother’s opium’ and ‘brown soul shadows’. Definitely something to mull. Glad I came back!

  2. Beautiful, Poetman. And it’s having a powerful tug on me today, especially this:

    “…the question is what will YOU mean if anything to the gathering of black clothing making signs of the cross, or to the laughter rumbling almost audible out of the mouth of your dreams?”

    I would love to hear you read it.

  3. i like the description ‘a fine chewy thing’, but i found it more … dream like? There is so much in there, and the images that got me most were in the fourth paragraph down, and the chair in your mind where you’ve been sitting,

    and of course that insight no one really takes in
    that there is no going home.

    how can that be?

  4. Sack Posset – I remember I once read an interview with a musician where the musician was asked what the song’s lyrics meant, and the musician refused to give a meaning to the songs lyrics, stating that this was up to the listener to make of the lyrics their own meaning…this is kinda how I feel, I rarely offer up my meaning for my poems…Thanks for reading and commenting.

    Julie – One of these days I will figure out how to do that…cuz it is the sound of words that inflect nuance…Thanks

    amuirin – I sure wish I knew…Thanks for coming, I always like it when you do.

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