From the Sky

(Zuihitsu)

From the sky is rising delirious music – light and sound together, singing and dancing. I look to the clouds; they swirl and disperse and re-integrate. They move constantly, but gentle and slow.

Unless storm comes, then they agitate and deepen, they seem to scowl.

But the sky does not scowl at me, I won’t believe it. From the sky has always come my help, my source of wisdom. Those eyes in the sky that see me clear and watch over me. Those voices that make new sentences in my soul, which I then hear as wisdom, as protective advice. 

Obey the voice of the sky! Then watch the clouds, and move like they. Don’t cower; they’re only going dancing.

I make of my dreams a cloud. I make of my cloud a veil. I drop it over me. It hides me. It conceals me from the world. It keeps me safe. Inside that veil I can soar, I can sing.

I walk out into the world. I am wrapped, invisibly to other people but not to me, in a cloak like fine-spun silk, a cloak of sky.

People don’t see this, but trees do … and birds, and dogs and cats … 

Some young children see it too, I know as our eyes briefly meet.

Written for dVerse Meeting the Bar: Zuihitsu. (Does this meet the form? I'm not sure. It's my first attempt. 'Follow the brush,' we are told. So I followed my random thoughts.  Is zuihitsu the same as stream of consciousness? I'm not a fan of  James Joyce, nor even Jack Kerouac ... but I do love Kimiko Hahn, who has done much to introduce zuihitsu to the Western world.)

If Life is Meaningless, Why Bother?

 

‘Has life a meaning?’ I posed 

as a theoretical question, once, 

to a couple I knew.

‘Has life a meaning,’ 

she returned, ‘– for whom?’

‘Exactly!’ said he.

I dismissed them in my mind

for poor understanding. 

I was 24.

Now, at 86, I maintain 

it doesn’t matter if life seems – 

or is – without meaning. 

Why bother? Because I happened: 

I have a life. Because I wish to enjoy, 

to savour this (arguably random) gift. 

Because I wish that

it count for something.

If only to me. 

Because, whatever it may or may not 

mean in the grand scheme 

(if there is one), 

I may give it whatever 

personal meaning I choose. And

I do so choose.

Written  for Poets and Storytellers United at Friday Writings #223: Why Bother?  (Also, a poet I admired once told me, 'Philosophy is death to poetry.'  This is an attempt to show that they can sometimes combine with no detriment to either – though, some readers may think that I have produced neither!)

My Bones

The bones of my body

are reinforced now

with calcium injections –

effective. Despite the falls (I 

am old) my bones don’t break.

The bones of my long life, 

however – the scaffolding, 

the structure, holding me, 

enabling me – are words, 

poems. Without them, how lost …

Written for Quadrille $245: Writing Down the Bones  (a title inspired by my all-time favourite book for writers, of the same title, by Natalie Goldberg).

I have been a little unwell recently – nothing to worry about, but it has turned off my poetic inspiration for a few days, and I have indeed felt at a loss. Thank heavens (and dVerse, and in this instance De Jackson aka WhimsyGizmo) for the Quadrille form, to which I can seldom fail to respond. It is 44 words exactly, excluding title, and must include a particular word, this time 'bones'.