“Night Time Prose” as the name suggests are a collection of thoughts inspired by the night .
March 1st 2011
The Windowsill
In a windowsill, with the illusion of smoke. An illusion because the glowing embers have gone dim and the matchbox sounds empty but the memory of its Moroccan music plays in my ear, as a pipe, stone-cold, is clamped tightly between two lips, full of delusion and joy. They say ignorance is bliss, therefore delusion enlightenment, and OH how enlightened I feel. The breeze, very real indeed (if that is at all comprehensible in this hazy life) touches my pale cheek, causing me to feel, causing me rejoice! Here from my windowsill, with hot tea in hand, I watch the city sleep, and lights live, for night has fallen on us like a sword cutes the necks of the convicted. I think, I laugh, I give thanks for this windowsill caring me to another world. I know the smoke was a fragment of my imagination (to imagine, what a grand gift!! Perhaps the grandest in the world!) I imagine falling from this perch of mine, this wonderful urban tower-not at all unlike the desert towers made of sand and stone, yes I imagine falling but never landing, falling through time, and love and finally God and there I stay, I don't land, I never hit bottom, but I stay in his marvelous presence and the air I breath is more smooth than tobacco and the water I drink is richer than wine, and the voice I hear is unlike all symphonies combined, because their beauty does not compare. As I finish the last drops of tea, and wooden pipe drops to the tile floor, I hop down from the windowsill, which I never did fall, and close the blinds on these wild dreams. The world becomes real to me, the artificial light blinds, the cracked mirror reveals, and a warm bed beacons, if I heed her call perhaps ill arrive at the same tobacco smokin, wine drinkin, symphony playin dreams. For now I pray, ¨MyFatherInHeavenHollowedBeTheyName AMEN.¨
March 2nd 2011
An Underground Library
The quick and gentle wind swept over my body (not naked, but not clothed either). I winced. Literature long written and even longer forgotten waits on the back shelf. Cobwebs lace the dusty covers and the poems within soundly sleep. Come forth my dear and break open the cover, stiff and old. Turn the pages with your nimble fingers, soft and new. Read the faded words if you can and understand the secrets of the universe, they will reveal, I know they will. But be careful dear, be careful not to tell, keep lips tightly sealed. Dear don’t tell, but show. Show your enlightenment in order that all the world be made whole. Thank you. Now go quickly.
March 5th 2011
Chris a Cat and Dirt
A cat’s shadow escapes into the bushes. The moon and city lights are left helpless. A bouquet of dead flowers rests in the sill of a wide-open window. This window always seems to be wide open, doesn’t it? But it’s better this way, to let the cold fresh air in to stay. Bundle up friend, cause sometimes whiskey don’t do the trick.
A cup of tea waiting for thankful lips to consume it. In the meantime it becomes tepid and bitter-“A lot like my mother,” thinks a girl in the street, wearing beautiful colors and selling sweet chocolates. The hunger in her stomach is a sharp contrast to such simple beauty.
To a lover:
Did you read the love poem I set beside the fire?
No dear, the flames consumed it and left me with desire.
Did you see the flowers picked with care lying in the sun?
Yes dear, they’re still there, withered, dead, far from where they belong.
I hear my voice for the first time in years. It falls fiercely on my ears with distant familiarity and embarrassment, yet it is received with fondness. And just as I am remembering who I am the clock strikes midnight and I’m changed from Snow White to a peasant, smudged with soot and dirt, which my humble home is built and my soul belongs. For…
From dirt comes life
From dirt is born humanity
From dirt springs the first buds of spring-their flowers gathered, torn from their mother: the earth, the beautiful, the holly dirt. They’re removed without care or dignity and arranged and manipulated to form an awkward bouquet. This bouquet I clutch in my hands, wet with sweat and trembling with fear that maybe there is no after life.
I walk neither without haste nor pleasure and arrive out your grave to place this strange treasure.
(God bless dirt from which all of life comes. Amen)
March 6th 2011
Unlike a stone!
Did you notice how the lights went out and the silence fell? Have you realized what few words are passed and those that are, are but a hush like the passing of a chilly breeze on a warm summer’s night? Did you hear the knock at the door? Did you know why the people within left it unanswered? Did you feel the fear that filled the air? And the rain that poured from a sky; blue and clear? Did you see the embers glow from a cloud of dark smoke? And as the cloud grew we shrunk? Did you hear the crashing of waves in this landlocked place? Do you know how to swim? I don’t. So let go of my hand and swim for the water is rising and my stomach turning. There was something in the food. I thank God that stones don’t eat for they will never fall ill or frail. Goodbye.
Mach 8th 2011
Cremation
From my pipe memories of a campfire are brought to life before my eyes city lights turn to stars. I see one falling so I start to run. I trip on a root and lie half conscious on the forest floor and a moose cries and a worm wakes and a bus screeches to a halt and I open my eyes and the smoke from my pipe flows no more, and the red embers have turned to black cold ash, and I thank God that they are not mine, which so easily could have been, sitting pretty in a home thrown pot on your mantle.
March 9th 2011
Shadow people
Shadow people dance
There’s no sun and there’s no shade
They dance all the same
And oh when they start to sing their tree like figures tremble and roots wither and the underworld is let lose!
There was a moon rising, but it quickly disappeared as I glanced upward
There was a star falling, but it never did land
I think how blessed the air is that receives it’s broken holy pieces.
There was a wave crashing, but the sand remained dry.
How beautiful it would be to live within a metaphor. But that idea is no new one and they’ve tried; the young and the old, but it is too far of a place to arrive by foot and trains nor bus dare to wonder yonder, and airplanes get lost on the way. So ill set these dreams aside and sigh knowing that reality aint so bad either.
March 10th 2011
A shadow of your laugh
I wish I were a shadow (oh but I am!) maybe one of a monkey, swinging from trees and climbing onto rocks or maybe one of a pipe, and more, of the smoke that rises from her wide open and slightly sad mouth. Maybe and of most eloquence, I wish I were a shadow of your laugh! (Oh but I am, with great thankfulness and little awareness).
