Wavelets
talking to me
incessantly
urging me
to feel
not think…
You know
they tickle
me pink…
Hey, Cath,
do you really believe
in the eagle?
Can you actually imagine
that it’s bald?
That its head is
blindingly white?
Not to speak of
its tail?
Is it within your
ability of conviction
to send
it soaring
into the infinitely blues
far far away and
above our
humanly whining
wail?
You know
it blows my mind
no end…
Wavelets
breathing
whispering:
Anyone can
slay a dragon,
they murmur
But try waking up
each morning
loving the world
all over again
and again
Try to comprehend a
treasure trove million
more than zero
reasons to
fearlessly feel
deep inside you
what you perceive
around you
That’s what takes
a real hero
A Stillness Hero…
Ovanstående poem skrivet i Door County, NW Wisconsin, vid Lake Michigans strand, där mina vänner sen snart 30 år, “The Curetonians” har ett hus på klippkanten. Vågorna, krusningarna, talade ständigt till mig där… I den mån de använde sig av något verbalt språk, så var det av naturliga skäl engelska; därav diktspråket.
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