Of all the thought-word-and-deeds I employ,
The one called ‘regret’ is the one I avoid.
It fosters an attitude I can’t enjoy,
And I deem it purposeless …
/
And sanctity dressed up in garments of chic
Is more sanctimonious, less tongue-in-cheek;
It bleeds you like leeches, leaving you weak,
and schemes become pointless …
/
There’s no use pretending, it’s out of control,
It’s part of the fabric that makes up the whole.
As krill is to humpback, as milk is to foal,
As dreams are to wakefulness …
/
The crisp orange autumn, the white winter dance,
The glimmer of spring and its promise of chance;
The hotbed of summer that offers romance,
The reams of its fruitfulness …
/
I talked with a shaman ( oh me, desert spy!),
hoping for wisdom, surprisingly shy;
I found I was crawling when I’d hoped to fly.
My dreams, though, were boundless …
/
His thoughts were unspoken, his words were unsaid,
I sat by the fire, him inside my head:
” the living are pitied and mourned by the dead “,
he keened in my consciousness …
/
‘ So what is it’s purpose, this red stuff within,
that pulses and radiates under our skin? ‘
” it nourishes dreaming ” he said with a grin,
And it seemed to make sense, I guess …
/
” You think this reality really exists?
A moral sincere life is governed by lists?
Do you assign value to trust or to trysts? “
he beamed with some carelessness …
/
‘ I think these are none of the signposts we need,
That point us toward solit’ry power and greed,
That lead us away from the kind word and deed,
That scream of our selfishness … ‘
/
He said ” you are learning, you may find the path
That shelters your footsteps like notes on a staff;
Remember that life is to love and to laugh,
And the cream of it’s tastyness
/
Is finding that one mind or group mind of souls
That desires and understands similar goals.
The journey is what will be worth all the tolls “
He leaned in, my ears to caress …
/
… … … ..
I woke in the morning, the bonfire cold,
my life force, my energy crisp, clean and bold,
All traces of shaman felt distant and old
and seemed to be baseless …
/
But ocean is sky blue and grass hill is green
and beach has a blondeness, so lovely and clean,
white flippers break water and seagulls careen
and these leave me speechless …
/
I cannot advise or pronounce or predict,
But my feet are already marching in step
With a rhythm and cadence that soundtracks this trip,
Serene and of worries, heedless …
jmidworth 