Strange and Wonderful
The sky is a strange yellow-grey.
Foreign. Coloring the morning in oddness.
There is wind. Clouds rush by, cinematic scenery,
a match for your mood, uncertain. And not quite afraid.
If only there were ghostly violins,
it would capture your mind perfectly.
And so it is that you are comfortable,
walking in this barren landscape,
Dali, not fully realized, complete with sound.
Wind and waves. In the distance there are seagulls.
You breath in the air. Salty. Unexpectedly warm.
You are comfortable in this place, accustomed to the unknown.
Not in joy. But in acceptance. Sure
that all things change. All truth
shows itself. And everything, even history,
You sit to watch the show,
for the mystery to resolve itself
as new ones emerge.
About this poem
I gave up thinking I understood things and people in my life a long time ago. It’s rarely been what I expected, or even what I was told. Instead I live in the moment, letting what is, be, constantly surprised. It’s not a bad way to live, I have discovered.
Most mornings I wake up, fighting the depressive desire to stay in bed. I never do. I say, in my best circus ring master’s voice. “It’s showtime!” Something about that phrase makes it possible, inevitable that I will get up. Always, the first victory of the day.
From those two things, this poem.