This and That Poem

East River Fog, Manhattan Skyline

Truths are neither remote nor difficult to find. They lay there in plain sight, sunlight shining down on them, even in the darkest night.

This And That

Wisps rising out of nothing…
We leak from veils, forming, sometimes ride the same horse we rode out, if, say, we were lucky enough not to slip, spill, fall or be ripped away. We don’t always exit with grace.
Or enter smoothly.

But we penetrate, knowing there’s more. Insights diminish, consuming worlds unfold.
And so, that saddle might be a poor fit for the ass now forced to sit on it.
Bright light’s reckless splash, so strong it ricochets, harsher and meaner, air not warmed by it. You hate it, but you adjust. Love and connections buffer assimilating contrasts.

This program needs some work, you think, whipping by.
Memories nudge us, out of place, wise, knowing more than we know, We come with lessons learned in place, many hands shaping fields of air and light.

And then, it diminishes, and we get our fingers in the dirt, our hearts in the game, our feet on the ground, happiness a soaring thing our bodies follow, We rise, We fall.

It dawns on us, emerging from that strange mist, that everything is wrecked and must be fixed, sooner or later, to be better aligned, gears fucked up and locked can’t be ignored, we feel like we need to do something about it.

We meet resistance. Second law of thermodynamics ain’t for nothing.
But we run, we try to fly, we embrace the green, blue and brown, we climb the tree, we look deep into the night sky, stars reminders, infinity, ever and ever, form is the art.
God is this. And that. This and that, and nothing we define.

Stupidity of believing we can chronicle this and that with those. Words can’t explain the essence flooding minds with tidal waves of feeling.

God is love… You think? Really?

God is thunder and lightning and whispering winds over desert plains and the blue of an eye and the devotion of a dog and the something there that never becomes.
God is derailed, hate, murder, cruelty, mayhem, child abuse, car crashes, bridges falling, all that, all this, and you come as a mechanic, and if you don’t listen carefully, your tools are useless, your preparation wasted.

We fall in love above our family fabric. We extend ourselves.
I never forgot Vicky Ann, brown hair, brown eyes, playing house in her front yard, her Mom inside, mine wherever, plastic plates and utensils organized on the grass, reflecting. 

We’re four years old, and it’s summer. 

And chasing Terry up the slope in our playground, a rush lifts from a distant canyon, and I’m not just chasing her anymore, I’m pursuing for no reason and no reason to think I need one.
Life was simpler, then. I just must.

Same schoolyard, spring discovered in the dirt. Green shoots force their way past the dead, pale, crushed grasses of winter. 
Awakening. Another rush. Warming.

As it all comes back, that knowing, knowing it afresh, the endless tussle with “reality” — a word stuck in my head for years, like My Sharona, resistant, uncomfortable — forces you to manage the collection, the bag of bones, the body met by soul. Some things must be lost.

Buckets tip and tremble. Things fall.

You didn’t come here to accept this and that, but to pull it apart, to blow it up, to squeeze it out, to force change, to let change manifest, all of that, and all of this.

David Stone
Amazon Author Page

Leave a Reply