DEC 27 -
When I, a freelance writer, bought my precious wee daughter that first present out of my first earning, it did me proud. I felt a sense of accomplishment. Maroon jet fighters lined for take-off — the cellophane gift wrapper depicted this scene. She gently took off the cellophane wrapper on which jet fighters took off and squealed with the delight of a rejoicing four-year-old.
I sit beside the dark beneath the mire: cold grey dusty day the morning lake drinks up the sky. Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup, they slither while they pass they slip away across the universe. Fairy tales lie between storybook covers.
Self-pity and little violins sometimes accompany sad stories. Fantasies suit lonely nights in the village. I imagine my estranged daughter and I chasing after butterflies armed with a collector’s net. Disturbed from their resting places, they would erupt fluttering into the air like a burst of surreal vibrating pulsating winged colours live on air.
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind possessing and caressing me; limitless, undying love which shines around me like a million suns and calls me on and on across the universe. And in my mind I still need a place to go, all my changes are there. In the end, I just don’t get the time. Oh, well, I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home. There’s a sign on the wall, but we want to be sure because you know sometimes words have two meanings.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by; but in the long run, there’s still some time to change the road you’re on, and it makes me wonder. Did you know your stairway lies upon
the whispering wind, and as we wind on down the road our shadows taller than the soul? And if you listen very hard the tune will come to you at last when all are one and one is all to be a rock and not to roll.
Amazing grace: oh, how sweet the sounds to save a wreck like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found. I was blind, but now I see. When we’ve been there ten thousand years bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we first begun, too many ages false and spent, I have already hung this face and flock. He saved us by His endless grace will leave me whole.
Chop me some broken wood, we’ll start a fire. White warm light the dawn and help me see old Satan’s tree. Pass me my hat and coat, lock up the cabin slow: night, treat me right; until I go be nice to know. Kathmandu, I’ll soon be seeing you and your strange bewildering time will keep me home.
Posted on: 2012-12-27 08:36