Hit play on the youtube clip below, enjoy a minute or two, and then read the following.
Some things can't be described as clearly as others. At times only pictures, music, expressions of life experience, and the Holy Ghost are the only vehicles for concepts beyond the power of language. It is with this in mind I attempt to share a thing that I can't really describe any other way. This poem is super nerdy, but what I am trying to describe is so cool. Read slowly if you want to try and understand what I am talking about. I dedicate this little thing to Dad - happy birthday Pa!
It is standing on the field on which many games have been played - knowing this was the last and childhood can no more be delayed.
It is sitting at the table, listening to siblings share their thoughts and feelings. Their growing families and professional decisions are ideas that hover with the smell of Sunday roast.
It is sitting in a big green van, staring at the vast wilderness passing by, frame by frame. Sandwiches from the cooler and piercing sunsets together with disorganized singing led by a smiling sleepy mother.
It is getting on the red machine, putt putting with some sunglasses on. The wind massages and your clothes cling.
It is standing in a grove called Sacred, listening to silence and praying for understanding. The leaves of fire surround the place, light from the darkness and truth from the ground.
It is stapling the paper, and breathing long deep and hard. Walking out and laughing because of your love and hate.
It is standing on top of a mountain, the little lights blinking and the whipping wind nipping. The quiet mountain standing as the rising sun is cutting.
It is standing on the escalator gently dropping to the family below - slightly worn out suit with the black tag swaying, body shaking like the aspen leaves in fall.
It is alone in dark humidity, away from home for the first time. Long days on the street and mornings on the beach. Flying over top, as the plane of pain fades beneath the clouds.
It is in the car, air, ears, and mind after she said she likes you.
It is finishing the math problem, the war of equations stand as a tribute to the scrambling of brains and ideas. The numbers are casualties, the graphs fail to guard, and the scribbles are victorious.
It is on the face of wisdom of a grandparent, layers of wrinkled wrenched experience and the eyes of understanding.
It is the roar of the audience and the brass instruments glinting and shoes tapping. The baton is whistling and the marked pages rustle slowly before they are violently flipped.
It is washing dishes with Dad. The future is opened and possibilities flow from the mind onto the counter and are scrubbed onto the reflecting pots.
I can't really say anything but thanks for sharing this G. I have no idea if this is good poetry but it sure moved your ole Pa!
ReplyDeleteGrey, What a poem! Thanks for sharing that with us. I really liked the lines of dreams lingering with Sunday roast and I could picture you descending the escalator to an excited bunch of people. You have a way with words that create pictures and emotions.
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