A Variation Of A Dream. . .

There is nothing new to say. . .
All of life is a variation of a dream.
How often they resemble one another and
easy it is to lose my self in them.
They are a dinner of words,   a potpourri of feelings,
a smattering of knowledge which I inhale and forget.

Old age is upon me.  I dredge the gully for a word
and find I falter, stutter and every one perplexed,
unable to finish my thought.

Let me push my thinking into
whatever place there is space. And then I will tell you
about everlasting life.  But give me time
to test my thinking against another better than me
so I can see where I need to push my thinking.

The currency may not be anything but pieces of gold
or pounds of sterling that I know.
But may be pieces of something not in my vocabulary.
Then how can I feed my children?
Tell me so that I can understand.

You  say it would have to be shrieks and groans
and grunts and sounds of glory.
I need to know because children need to be fed
not only body but mind also.
I will say do this and this again.
See Dick and Jane.  See Sarah, see Mother Mary.
Must we keep picking up our mistakes forever?

And I remember the Emerson
who told me that my god was just as eager
for my happiness as his god is for his.

There is a vacancy in my heart looking for a tenant.

(art by Claudia Hallissey)