The rusted wreck
of the broken shopping cart
serendipitously proceeded
from one green plastic
motherlode
to the next.
Its guide,
hidden beneath layers
that could have inspired
Escher’s genius at morphing,
was, however, more evocative
of Hieronymus Bosch.
He mined
each green trove assiduously,
adding nuggets of refundable treasure
carefully
to his creaking, wobbling chariot.
His acute accountant’s mind
kept a running total
in crisp, clean ledgers that,
alone, survived
the culture shock,
the corporate downsizing,
of the Nineteen Eighties.
Sometimes the time
seems right
for me to explain
my feelings.
Then you laugh, or say something inane,
or touch me, and the moment’s gone.
Sometimes the time
seems right,
but I become involved
in you.
Then I giggle, or quote Zarathustra,
or an ancient Celtic poem.
Sometimes the time
seems right
for me to divulge
the secrets of my heart:
you are almost asleep, but you convey,
monosyllabic, your prior knowledge.
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
