The sound of gospel singing out live
Down through the valley:
That we have voices to sing
That the person who gets to look
Through my backpack when I die,
Sorting through my things to make sense of
A Me for a moment,
Before sharing those pieces of That Me
Amongst friends,
Has the best smiles, laughs and confused,
Surprised, bewildered eye askews.
That we have this thing named Time
Into which we can sort those Things:
Objects
And our unpracticed sense of The Whole
Agonisingly anchored and weighed in
Only through a deftly positioned, tightly adjusted Lens
Aiming at linearity reality,
Misdirected, perhaps.
That, among those Things,
We have alliteration and assonance,
Rhyming things, beer inspired poetry
With beckoning idea entities seeking physical form
Whispering into our ears
To escort them into our Imagination -
An imagination of a One, apparently.
That we have voices. That we sensate
Sound and image,
Immerse nightly in dreams
Dictated by our own DMT release in sleep,
Willingly - most of us, without fear.
That we dream.
That we find reason for celebration
And a stretching up into the light,
And look for cause to wallow sordidly
In darkness and morbidity
And always catch ourselves either
Breathing or not breathing.
That we sometimes need to remember to breathe
In between.
That we remember
And feel grateful.
That we know what it feels like,
That grateful feeling.
Being full of greatness,
That we can gather in these Group Things,
Salute and praise and raise each other,
Embrace and put heart to heart,
Go crazy with a latest craze.
That we can share a prayer
Or be still
And alone.
That we can share.
That we can sing out loud into the night.
That we are never ever alone
In that
We can share this Planet Place
With beings not ourselves: wolves, birds and serpents,
Ancient cats and tamed burden beasts,
Fern forests, aching mountains, moody rivers,
Incessant seas, mellow meadows and perpetual bone-dry,
Day-hollowed, indifferent deserts,
Gentle giant clouds,
And cruelly unfair high-voltage electrical sub-celestial storm churnings;
Epic and tumultuous stories, myths and legends of gods and alien visitors,
Their space wars and their decisive acceptance or denial of us,
Desperate and yearning for meaning, searching, unwittingly,
To be better, more, apply learning,
To grow, awaken, re-call,
To actualise, energize, amplify
That we are always, essentially, wild and with it.
And that sleep
- That at the end of a Day
Or the End of our days
- is really so sweet,
That.
