Notes from an old piano

I guess it's story time again...

A biological given, straight out of a comic book caper came along for an appearance and blew the dust off an old piano that had been waiting for a very long time to be delivered by the morbid crew who had been fired years ago and were now working as government inspectors in the ministry of importance.

The dust from the piano swirled up and out and soon began to make the customers sneeze.

By the time the dust reached me I’d decided to give up on writing books for the blind and as I inhaled the dust I too began to sneeze and was soon just like everybody else until I got up and walked away taking with me notes from the piano.

WHO AM I

Is it for real, or is it some elaborate game played for the money and things that can’t be seen?

Lost in the power hungry mad with fire buckets of rain to fall where the dreamer has no tale but death for the widows to cry over and the light is but some neon flickering in the shadows.

If we dive in this door we are lost where the suitcases stumble over one another in the hall of regret with that no-way-back stream that’s so mountainously high, that falling breaks everything for the pain to come, and the asking is: who are we, and then quietly later, who am I?

Win or lose the enormity of it all is the same, but perhaps in the end the one who loses has the most to gain....
And there’s always a point isn’t there, to be argued over, made up of brief moments of ecstasy, so called, over too soon, then on to the next one, but every next one is less than the last, until in the end you join the ocean, to wash over you, to become it, that vast ocean to be sailed over, finally knowing the feeling, that soundless feeling of being.

I am a little bit full of this that falls with the leaves that are falling forever. But tonight I have to steal something shorter than god yet higher than the wind in the shadows that resonate with what I am where the moon’s beauty shines so bright.

SILENCE

Loneliness comes in many forms and often if it goes on for long enough leads to the desire to scream.

Solitude and silence go hand in hand for the most part and the nakedness of it all is a cold shower that wakes you up enough to take notice that the road is not always a straight one and that not everyone picks themselves back up after falling as witnessed by all the broken bones along the path, bleached and lonely; that can be depressing.

The misdirection of the mind is the root of a forked tongue that fools you into believing that there’s always another tomorrow to follow your longing that comes from deep inside and can only be heard in the silence of your beating heart.
So I went for a walk in the park to listen to the silence.

STROLLING IN THE PARK

It’s time to dig potatoes now for the night is long if it’s not short and walking in the moonlight at midnight is magic.

When I came across it, it was just a shadow hiding in the dark of a silent tree. It had one eye open that watched me as I approached. I sat down on a rock and the other eye opened.

“Meow,” it said and began rubbing itself on my leg. It was a black cat and but for the eyes was almost invisible.

It’s good to meet a friend when you’re lonely but it’s much better to meet one under the midnight moon.

THE OUTRIDERS OF THE SURGE

I don’t know, I guess some days are like that where everything is ‘out there’ and then like a rubber band stretched it suddenly flies back to you as if it wanted to get in or something but pulls up when it’s found there’s no door there but the open mouth of expectancy that only causes consternation and withdrawal to leave what could have been to lie in the dust of I wish and if only.

But maybe it’s a lesson, for what’s in is out and perhaps next time, if there is a next time, when something comes to visit the outriders of the surge can be reined in and surrendered and what is experienced can be allowed and accepted.

AN OLD MAN’S DREAM

When I was younger I lived on the edge, but time stops all that, and even though I was nowhere at least I could go somewhere. Now I can’t go anywhere at all but inside, time takes care of all that... But if you listen to your critics you'll never be able to dance where your soul wants to take you.

There are times when nothing works, and there are times when it seems something could work...and that's the best it gets most of the time.

It is said that rules are for the old guys to brag about with other writers when they are drunk.

It is right here that a hungry burning has come to carry me away to what is really needed and whatever more there is to be said about whatever can be said will have to wait for another time; for an hour inside to meditate is not a bad thing mostly.

Image from Pixabay

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