When the wisdom tree scattered its wisdom in that place I came to be, many bits and pieces of it were there for me to find. I was out for a walk one day and I came across some of the bits and pieces and gathered them up and here is what I found...
THE LESBIONAGE DRIFT
“Ah, are you in touch? Can you move a mountain with your tongue? Have you heard a rope tighten like a cord stretched too far as if it's about to break? Have you ever heard a mountain cry with its teeth?
The full moon came and went yet you still want to believe, but that's a hard rocket of concern buried somewhere beyond all concern. And then to stumble and sneeze like a rocket and know you are beyond your concern, yet you still want to believe and play a handsome tune for the crowd who come to listen.
Growing old sneaks up on you while you’re living and you don’t notice it until it’s too late.
Then it’s time to forget about what’s been lost and write the memoirs in the time that’s left.
…
The Yeti’s asleep on the foggy beach and the holy nail is saying its prayers as the cloaked dagger slips by in the shadows and the lesbionage of a number ten bus three crows short of a straight line calls you to come home,” said the rusty prayer out on the night.
“Amen,” said the meow cat.
OUT OF PRAYERS FOREVER
Precisely as in an air of expectancy you look up on hearing a word that evokes a memory of home and see two strangers talking about a book you’ve never read.
Walking past you in deep conversation you hear more words that begin to lose their meaning as they disappear into the distance of where you are.
And then the feeling comes over you that you’re lost in your life and far from a home that’s not there anymore as all the old associations float away like leaves breaking off the tree to fall to the ground and become absorbed by the earth.
As a piece of dust you move this way and that but no matter how hard you look to perceive you can find nothing to relate to, even memories that now seem as a fading dream bring nothing but a tired sadness, another thing to let go as you travel on into the realm of a life you chose long ago.
It’s just an old bike leaning up against a billboard; its pleading in retirement long rusted away, and though now useless and junk and out of prayers forever, once, it had a life.
THE CLOAKED DAGGER
“Define me the Muslim-bone on fire in the cold sun where the hard flame of looking is hardwired under the cloaked dagger of a borrowed tune played yesterday that no one can interpret and I’ll show you the measles in the rain of your perception of that where your clandestine understanding has not a hillbilly of rice to see through to the truth that seems so elusive and must surely be buried in the grave where you came from if dust is all you can see.
But do you have to be completely secret in this, hiding in the vision: that bush beside the path that holds so many secrets?
If love is the way then grow bigger, as big as a mountain standing in your boots.
No explanation can define this, so let the suspicion it is so leak out from your deepest place where the hot girl of your dreams is the secret agent in disguise.
But oh, if only we could go down deep and find what we can there,” said the cloaked dagger on the night shift.
MEETING ON THE BORDERS
The cloaked dagger had a small hole that he carried around in a bucket. The scent of this was a cheap perfume in the hot top of his eternity where he was unmasked, so he kept his head down so as not to be recognised.
The meow cat was not fooled by his disguise when they slipped through the dark of the night; and meeting on the borders of their hunt would hiss at him to mark the territory, and in this way the map was drawn of the shades and colours of their boundaries. No other sign was needed.
A FULL REVELATION
The crystal star gazer had an idea that could fit in a pip and so was telling all the world about it, but the idea was quicksilver and ambiguous at best and was not about to be explained away in anything less than a full revelation.
“We see you in our mirrors,” murmured the crowd looking on in their mirrors and seeing the legend of reflections captured for a moment that would later become the substance of their sighs.
And a young girl, as young as the air excited a pedestrian going North on his bike in an endless Tuesday that had a characterless flavour, dauntless and strange.
BANKS OF THEIR DEEP
And the old fishwives fluttering still on the banks of their deep river in the time-train of rumbling urges, not asking for anything where their day comes in for them every day; and falling here they are stuck forever.
But sometimes it’s only evident from the other side of the howl where they never go and not once say: “I am never more scared than when I am separated from my love.”
Another short story of mine from the long ago... https://steemit.com/dreaming/@wales/a-small-breeze-waiting-for-the-rain?fbclid=iwar2xuhn70aog1uhmklrb6kr5pq3kmcoxc7x6qkyhyt6ir11-f_tbyy9db2g
Image from Pixabay
