Thursday, April 30, 2009

a poem and notes on creation

Thinking and Drinking, Again

Clouds drift through a moonless
sea-sky. As I watch them
I wonder: Is God
sending me a message?

You are these midnight clouds,
God seems to say. Drifting, almost
invisible, there but not.
Silent, empty, ethereal.

I drain my glass and roll
over in the hammock.

Enough with the metaphors.

+++++

I like this poem.

Easy enough to imagine this scene. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Just a man relaxing after a long day, sipping some scotch. The kids are in bed, dinner's dishes washed and put away. The man is relaxing in his hammock, watching the moon cross the sky. Letting his mind wander where it will.

He finds that he has reached a point in his life where he's near enough to death, and has enough time for such musings, that his mind often goes to spiritual places. Pondering God and death and his own place in the grand scheme. His thoughts run too deep, he sees a tiny corner of the truth and turns away from it.

This poem is pure fiction. It didn't happen. None of it. I don't even own a hammock. I did once, but somewhere along the line we gave it away or sold it at a garage sale. I don't drink scotch.

I do like to watch the moon and some nights, I suppose, there must be thin clouds trying desperately to cover it.

This is just an understanding of the possible, not something that actually occurred.

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