Sitting on a rock in the cold sun.
The wind comes up from the sparkling river and whispers of a future spring.
There is yet a core of warmth in the twisting wind, a hope of dog starred August days.
Winter has for a moment lost the thread,
Lady frost is searching for clear moonlight, for razor pinpoints of light on hoarfrost frozen fields.
Poetry is not something that simply spills from the mind unbidden.
No, Poetry is an essence that travels from one being to the next; it is shared by ingestion of life.
A life absent from the poetic expressions found in the trees, the fall colors, the simple poetry of life will never give birth to anything more than a crusty paper of a lie.
One who lives on a steady diet of hard truth, dipped deep in the stone well of natural poetry will become suffused with the stuff until it weeps from the very pores, and spills dark ink upon the page already stained with tears.
‘Lucidity’ is an absolute clarity and understanding. As if all the shadows have been cleared away, and all that remains are hard truths. In average existence, our minds are busy with the details and routines of everyday life; we often exist almost as machines. As if the conscious mind stays just behind the present, and reacts on delay.
I used to work cutting tires for a disposal service; the job was repetitive in the extreme. Pick up a tire, throw it on the table, pull the lever for the ram, reverse the ram, rotate the tire 1/3rd turn, and repeat, throw the cut piece and then rotate again, cut and throw. Then repeat the same process once again. In the mornings I would see my huge pile of tires to cut and it would seem an impossible task because my mind was too aware of time and of my own existence. But after the first 10 minutes I would begin to lose the present and become more detached from what I was doing. Time would then begin to move much more quickly and aside from interludes of clarity (or lucidity) I was just as unthinking as the machine I worked with.
Much as sleep is an existence where the conscious mind loses it’s grip and in effect dies to time for a while, only to be re-joined again upon waking, so it was for me in working that repetitive job. All those hours were lost never to come again. And what did I gain for them? Nothing but a few dollars spent on bills and items long lost to memory.
So I ask you, how many of your waking hours do you spend in lucidity? How much of your life have you really lived, not just existed?
Think back on your life, what are the moments that stand out? The seconds or hours that have defined your life?
Live in Lucidity
Sad soft ripples forget the hills upon which the snows fell. They run down the valleys into southerly forgetfulness.
When these drops exit the lonely land via the great Mississippi; the journey begins again.
I caught one for only a moment.
An edited artistic photo of Scarlette, I think it looks like a fairy in the Glen. 🙂
This is a panorama of Warren, as seen from Washington Park.
The day I took this, it had just rained, and the sky was interesting to me..