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Adventure by Ollie

A Search for Purpose in a Random World

Month

November 2015

Stay

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there’s a soft place where we once met

everything else swirls like muddy water

but in that one spot

next door to gray stuff

all the childhood worlds were our own

 

walk in the soft grass with me

spread out your toes, bare the feet

breathe in the breeze

like a freeborn bird sing

stay in this place with me.

 

sun shines on your smile

in so many memories

stay in this place with me.

The Sighing of Stones

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It is right,

that it rain this day.

The horizon stretches beyond reckoning.

Above it is the gray expanse.

Below, dark waves of grain

mirror the wind’s wild man crazy walk,

and I can no longer allow you to say to me,

“I am your God.”

A heap of stones sighs, leans in on itself.

These are the idols we built for you.

They lie trampled,

your own footprint in the mud

from where you went walking where you wanted

as you wanted.

With your capable hands you have wrenched

from my weak one

another of my precious jewels.

Take from the sky another star.

Let it fall,

reveal itself as cold stone,

and waste no more time in brilliance –

a toy for gods to play with.

How dare you celebrate?

How dare you smile on the obscurity of uncarved stones,

stringing them for yourself,

wearing them, rubbing them gently between your fingers?

Bright jewels of the heavens adorn your neck and brow;

comfort you with their pure hues.

Their light illuminates your eye,

and I am jealous.

I sit in mourning

staring at my own empty hands,

and a pile of stones.

In my grief I turn away,

but when I look to you,

I see all my precious ones.

And it is right.

With the Blood and the Oil

But I think I know how to feel.

 

Down on the cold gray concrete,

where blood mingles with oil and

drains into the sewer,

someone rushes by –

running fast, breathing hard.

Tears mingle with the blood,

mingle with the oil,

and across the street, coffee spills down

a long, narrow, toffee colored drain; copper.

It all falls together;

puddles in the smoke filled street

before rushing on to another place

where it ribbons a bright blue highway.

Fish swim it, and there

children play

making boats out of leaves

whose crisp bright outlines

waver in the eddy

discussing with the wind

it’s own navigation plans

 

and the bright yellow balloon floats ever upward.

 

I don’t know what to think about all I see,

but I think I know how to feel.

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This skeleton made of wooden blocks,

vertex upon vertex; skeleton rocked

back and forth like a manual gearbox,

each step jerking; grinding into the wrong gear.

False articulation.

Slipped and slipping

in between the sweet spots,

in the not right spots

highlighted like an oxcart’s

imprint upon muddied roads –

rut, rut, rut, rut, rut, (long hard sigh).

It moves –

wooden blocks in conjunction

hip swing but not connection

slide, slick faced, no coordination.

(Replace missing part with chicken bone.)

It falls

down and scatters;

discordant skeletal matching –

more assembly required.

All throughout the daily ordeal,

we meet detours, blocking,

road closings,

run into frame-less glass

look back; mime the expression: De-railed.

Others walk through –

nothing to it; undeterred and unknowing –

walk upon hip joints -shock absorbent

cartilage coated ball and socket; collagen graduate.

Streets always seem to them

easy to navigate; boring, really.

I speak of the obstacles

in this underworld,

the obstacles in this

inner-world,

the invisible obstacles in the mind.

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