Monday Morning Musings:
“Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.”
–Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game (1963)
“Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth
I look at you, and I sigh.”
William Butler Yeats, “A Drinking Song”
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting
others’ dreadful prose,
I dream then,
want again,
wonder and poetry–
a moonship sleeps through time
dreaming of a glowing goddess
cool, with diamond eyes,
from her starry throne,
she lets a storm moan
and I,
seeing lights from the sky.
watch as mist sprays
plays melodies on garden stones
dances in the light,
a thousand fairies
diamond-eyed.
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting
more dreadful prose,
I watch a morning sparkle and gleam
and dream of conversing with the birds,
how it would be to sing their songs,
flowing thoughts and soaring words?
I wonder of what my slumbering cats dream
(perhaps nothing is what it seems).
Do cats and dogs, do cows
as they graze under the boughs
understand the birds’ songs
moo in harmony, sing along?
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting–
again, that dreadful prose!
And I wonder
why is there such hate
that negates
joy, hope, and reason
that seasons
life with tears and fears?
Why men would rape out of boredom
(Boredom!)
and why a woman,
or a man,
need to be taught a lesson
stressing
what?
What lesson has been taught?
That someone has been caught or bought?
that life is fraught,
so do not dream of what you could be, or brought
about with books and words and second thoughts?
I wonder who could hurt a child,
can their minds ever be reconciled—
the dreadful deeds and daily doings,
the demons in their souls?
no controls, no goals
lives brutal and bleak
do, die, never speak.
Do they never dream of a goddess glowing
her tresses silver and flowing,
or wonder how to converse with a bird?
heard their songs in morning air
happy to be alive, aware?
Where does the wonder go?
Does anybody know?
I spend days writing,
then sighting and fighting–
yes, more of that dreadful prose,
correct the errors, insert a phrase
(my eyes glaze)
then I wonder—
isn’t it time for some wine?
so we go, sit near grapes in the sunshine,
enjoy the beauty of the day
stay
as chatter and music play
in waves around us.
We drink wine,
red and luscious
(no, don’t rush this)
loving it,
loving you
I lift the glass to my mouth
I look at you, and I sigh.
wonder how and why we found each other
created two astonishing daughters
enjoyed days of blues skies and laughing waters,
realize I have found the music and the poetry
in life, in you, in birds, and trees
And though I cannot sing with birds,
I can wonder, dream, and write these words.
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