Since I know that no steps are skipped in Evolution, lest we have gaps in behavior even more difficult than what we see, I admit to fatigue as the years encroach. Coming to mind from a time past is our eldest as he waited for his father to drive him to the train back to Chicago. His words still echo in me. ‘You must get very tired waiting for all of us to catch up to you,’ he said. Taken by surprise I murmured something but what? Was I so easy for him to read? To this day my one regret is not being able to convince those I love most.
At the time this poem was written (journal entry, December, 2015) I had finished Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe. Affirmation, verification, understanding all plied their substance as I approached my 85 years. How much of everything is illusion, how much gravity filled draining away, siphoning of matter because of our Earth Hostess? And I, with a foot in another world, lived it every minute with a paper trail.
How much of everything, life itself, is lived in the head? All of it or much and neatly done but tiring if one is not a ‘walk through.’ The only way to make it count is to take it seriously and play it for real. Else the quagmire deepens and stagnation results and we are still on watch.
The Sound Loaf
Evolution or God
(perhaps one and the same)
finely grinds the meal ever so slowly,
while I cannot breathe with the dust in the air.
But there will one day be understanding
with the digestion of the bread. . . .
The wholeness of the grain
so nicely baked till the hollow sound
is heard when tapped
gives credence to the sound loaf.
I can no longer wait for it all to cool.
It has taken far too long for this bread
to be made and yet still to be digested.
The bellies are still
immature for whole grain.
Pablum is the mushed cereal
of sort for feeding infants
too long in the pram.
I suffered the parents to grow up
and now have no time to wait for the children.