Reflection is useless
when looking in a stone
the surface unyielding
to any sort of enquiry
And yet,
we would be more intelligent to ask the stone
the pebble
who am I?
then to listen to the rabble that surrounds us in the midst of daily life
The routine
Same people
same thoughts
same places and familiar jaunts to and fro
as from home to work to play places we go
These things hold us in a grip of bland identity
one from which it is very hard to squeeze out of
like perfect shadows
under a perfect sun
they delineate us
each from one another
So and so and so on
and out of sheer boredom and a lack of interest or knowledge
we indulge
patterns.
Who we were yesterday
who so and so is today
for all intents and purposes a bottomless timeless box sits spewing foam pellet packaging
from which we arise everyday
brand new moment, spanking secondhand busted arse human warranty expired sometime after leaving school
before twenty
maybe even younger
When was the last original thought that sprang to mind about yourself?
when you asked a new question
found a different answer
It’s difficult
amidst the pileup of yesterday’s that play familiar tunes to stick in your mind and rotate regurgitating hummm
and there is the task, the job, the role by rote that is given just to you and everyone else
Duty calls with a smoking gun and we deliver ourselves handcuffed and mute to the daily grind, office commute now invading our homes by way of screen that peers at our bookshelves
over our shoulder
and lays a little more format down into that profile disorder called self and other and I
As the faces flick bored eyes over each other on screen and think about the sour dough riser stains on their loose waisted pants neatly tucked out of view
But I digress
who are you when none of this mess is present
and you are merely sentient
‘neath broad sky
the hiss of waving grass around your thighs
no phone service
satellite safety circles high biddable from outer space on the Garmin bouncing at your waist
Who wears your face
when there is no routine to keep your mask in place
no amputated perspective glued together from someone else’s ideology of what you are capable of to weld your idea of self onto
and renovate splendid additions out the front and around behind that don’t quite add up but we keep on sticking them on
like post it notes to the perpetual memories that we hope live on after the eulogy is read
even though we have no idea what will be said
since – it’s all someone else’s perspective after all and lives in other heads
The voice of judgement is silent
mountains only
a small trail
a dirt road
trees for company
and the guileless eyes of birds
wheeling above and chatting in the eaves
Who are you amidst the sharp silence between footfalls on yesterday’s leaves
shadow walking under the sun
everyone and no one all at once
insignificant
nothing
human undone
*I do ramble around in my thinking when writing a poem, but I hope when I’m doing so, and you’re reading that you go around and then back to nature again. It is my favourite place, I like the idea of again and again taking the reader by the hand and bringing them with me back outside to nature. Our nature. Inside and out. Because we are natural being designed for natural environments not artificial ones.
That’s the idea anyway.
Header picture is of a little wizened old tree that I pass by at the bottom end of my walk along the stock route. It’s always the same but the light changes around it making it look beautiful/ugly/ordinary/plain/stunning
Wow! Extremely well written and evocative.
Thanks Lucy, you’re very kind
So sweet, thanks Lucy.
I bet I could talk to you for hours about anything. Lol… 😉
And that would be a conversation worth having 😄
Most definitely 😉
We are creatures of habit. I guess that is what makes our lives less complicated.
Yes, I think with so many options and variety these days routine is comforting
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