Just the other night, I found myself having to shuffle some stuff around in my garage. You know, making a path to make room for other stuff. Anyway, after I accidentally broke some pottery, I happened across this poem I wrote a long time ago. It was written all at once, in a flood of words, and remains as-was, that is to say unedited, and unrevised.
I remember liking it at the time, but I was traveling when the poem happened, and I lost the scrap it was scrawled on within a few days. As they years marched by, I forgot all of it — save the title and the last two lines. I’m not sure how I feel about it now. I can’t interpret it. Nor do I know what inspired it, so it’s a lot like the writing of a stranger to me. Odd that. If you feel like reading it, come on over the fold.
So long as the Moose exists, I’ll never lose this poem again. Yet another reason I’m glad the Moose exists.
Thirst
the point has been lost
in the struggle, dear,
some of us give – give
of ourselves without
replenishing the stuff
that makes us.
renewal, rebirth, rejuvenation
anything preceded by re-
becomes a struggle, a storm
in which the point, our focus
becomes a fugue of fogs
and yet, dear, we continue,
some of us, ever onward –
that void, that suction;
paying for nothing with everything
pouring water in the sand.
There you have it. Say what you want, do what you want — it’s an Open Thread.
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