RIGHT NOW
I am walking to Ditamoora, where the magic sky
beckons, and words are still garlanded like blooms.
There are voices in my ears, and I am silently
hearing things: 'the world is a vessel, it holds your
dreams and ways; the path is well worn, though
not by you; there will be a moment when all
mysteries end.'
-
On someone's television, I watched a distant land - ...
they were bombing things as people died. No one
seemed to care : they uttered only silence like a
broken Munch scream. What was I to do?
-
I was born in the September of a year I only
with imagination can remember : there were fields
where some flowers still lingered, and people walked
home, heads down, in hats and fedoras, with women
in black stockings and perfumed hair. Times then were
so long and different, and cars were fat and slow.
-
Should I try to turn a page, or must I? It seems there
is no answer - in angelic waves the grievous markers
drop around us; our time itself, it lingers for just so long.
Enough to find a marker for the dead, a place to rest the
bones. I am walking to Ditamoora, and I shall call it home.
I am walking to Ditamoora, where the magic sky
beckons, and words are still garlanded like blooms.
There are voices in my ears, and I am silently
hearing things: 'the world is a vessel, it holds your
dreams and ways; the path is well worn, though
not by you; there will be a moment when all
mysteries end.'
-
On someone's television, I watched a distant land - ...
they were bombing things as people died. No one
seemed to care : they uttered only silence like a
broken Munch scream. What was I to do?
-
I was born in the September of a year I only
with imagination can remember : there were fields
where some flowers still lingered, and people walked
home, heads down, in hats and fedoras, with women
in black stockings and perfumed hair. Times then were
so long and different, and cars were fat and slow.
-
Should I try to turn a page, or must I? It seems there
is no answer - in angelic waves the grievous markers
drop around us; our time itself, it lingers for just so long.
Enough to find a marker for the dead, a place to rest the
bones. I am walking to Ditamoora, and I shall call it home.
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