The synchronation of all things
played upon his imagination
these early gray mornings.
On this particular one,
bogged down in poetic stagnation,
he drained his Cafe Francais
(like before he had often done)
and prepared to take on the day's
challenges and opportunities.
He broke out his pipe and packed it down
with fine Cherry-flavored tobacco.
In the curtain-filtered light,
the smoke curled out in a dance
that was as ancient as it was fragrant.
Flowed by his eyes with mirthful impunity.
He had on his Campbell-colored gown
and was listening to "The Best of Morocco".
In his eyes was the crust from last night
and, as he brushed it out, as if in a trance
he found himself garbed like a vagrant
as he sipped on his Sunni tea.
A vagrant in appearance,
but still philosopher in adherance.
A long beard appeared falling down his chest
though earlier this morn he had looked his Sunday best.
In the calm quietness of dawn
the Sun's rising shadows fell across his lawn,
and gave life to what were just moments ago
a mere ceramic bird, a clay memento.
His lucid dream
in opposition to the Newtonian certainty
that composed his surroundings.
An incomplete tapestry of non-locality
flooded his senses and challenged his boundings.
He having been bound to this chair,
this room, this house, this...
He could go no further in his thinking
as if he had been up all night drinking.
From his lap, the falling book
woke him from his nod,
his senses were bent and shook.
Like clockwork, so mechanically
the outerworld had collided
with the inner instantaneously,
and, so he later confided,
he was born out as if from a seed pod.
The fabric of space and time
became implicated in the whole.
Meaning unfolded
and both waves and particles
fell into his eye's black hole.
And, relatively speaking, he
was neither vagrant or philosopher.
Bottom-of-the-ship barnacles
scraped his unconscious mind
and he, no oceanographer,
finally burst and exploded
with the pain to simply be.
He now had a holographic memory
and his thoughts sprang out super-luminarily.
Faster than light
his mind the confusion did fight.
He rippled as on the pond of life.
He fell from collective unconsciousness
into his chair of great laziness.
His first lucid thought was of his wife
and then he realized only moments had passed
and that despite his current haziness
the forces he'd amassed
had come together at his side.
From his chair he arose,
his sword girded he.
As the bagpipes played,
his men formed 'round
on the damp and foggy ground.
He kneeled upon one knee
and felt upon his chest a red rose.
And Clan Campbell
strode out from the valley
a thousand feet wide
and half a league long.
Later, the men who had died
would get their fine song.
Of when brave Clan Campbell
from the valley strode out.
On wind-born leaves
his life soared forth.
Invigorated and glowing,
his long hair flowing,
he turned the army North.
Weird dreams he had dreamed,
so real they had seemed.
As he puffed on his pipe
to the tune of the pipes,
he marched down the moor
towards that oft-entered door.
Where wife and child waited.
Waited by the rose bush
in the dawning Sun's
gray morning.
----------------------------------------
mindbringer, 13 October 2012
played upon his imagination
these early gray mornings.
On this particular one,
bogged down in poetic stagnation,
he drained his Cafe Francais
(like before he had often done)
and prepared to take on the day's
challenges and opportunities.
He broke out his pipe and packed it down
with fine Cherry-flavored tobacco.
In the curtain-filtered light,
the smoke curled out in a dance
that was as ancient as it was fragrant.
Flowed by his eyes with mirthful impunity.
He had on his Campbell-colored gown
and was listening to "The Best of Morocco".
In his eyes was the crust from last night
and, as he brushed it out, as if in a trance
he found himself garbed like a vagrant
as he sipped on his Sunni tea.
A vagrant in appearance,
but still philosopher in adherance.
A long beard appeared falling down his chest
though earlier this morn he had looked his Sunday best.
In the calm quietness of dawn
the Sun's rising shadows fell across his lawn,
and gave life to what were just moments ago
a mere ceramic bird, a clay memento.
His lucid dream
in opposition to the Newtonian certainty
that composed his surroundings.
An incomplete tapestry of non-locality
flooded his senses and challenged his boundings.
He having been bound to this chair,
this room, this house, this...
He could go no further in his thinking
as if he had been up all night drinking.
From his lap, the falling book
woke him from his nod,
his senses were bent and shook.
Like clockwork, so mechanically
the outerworld had collided
with the inner instantaneously,
and, so he later confided,
he was born out as if from a seed pod.
The fabric of space and time
became implicated in the whole.
Meaning unfolded
and both waves and particles
fell into his eye's black hole.
And, relatively speaking, he
was neither vagrant or philosopher.
Bottom-of-the-ship barnacles
scraped his unconscious mind
and he, no oceanographer,
finally burst and exploded
with the pain to simply be.
He now had a holographic memory
and his thoughts sprang out super-luminarily.
Faster than light
his mind the confusion did fight.
He rippled as on the pond of life.
He fell from collective unconsciousness
into his chair of great laziness.
His first lucid thought was of his wife
and then he realized only moments had passed
and that despite his current haziness
the forces he'd amassed
had come together at his side.
From his chair he arose,
his sword girded he.
As the bagpipes played,
his men formed 'round
on the damp and foggy ground.
He kneeled upon one knee
and felt upon his chest a red rose.
And Clan Campbell
strode out from the valley
a thousand feet wide
and half a league long.
Later, the men who had died
would get their fine song.
Of when brave Clan Campbell
from the valley strode out.
On wind-born leaves
his life soared forth.
Invigorated and glowing,
his long hair flowing,
he turned the army North.
Weird dreams he had dreamed,
so real they had seemed.
As he puffed on his pipe
to the tune of the pipes,
he marched down the moor
towards that oft-entered door.
Where wife and child waited.
Waited by the rose bush
in the dawning Sun's
gray morning.
----------------------------------------
mindbringer, 13 October 2012
