Yesterday, I dozed
in the mid-afternoon heat.
I awoke to find myself
lying on my arm & wrist.
And for a full fifteen minutes
my fingers were numb
& wouldn't work.
And my wrist wouldn't
hold upright
the weight of my hand.
This morning I awoke
at 6.12am,
without an alarm.
I was asleep.
I am not sleeping
anymore.
It is time to get to work,
begin the dream;
Dream the dream.
You know the one,
the one with
eyes opened wide.
Start
what it is
I came here to do.
It took me
nineteen years
to get back here.
The world is watching...
The world is waiting...
Begin.
Now.
This morning I awoke
at 6.12am,
without an alarm.
I was asleep.
I am not sleeping
anymore.
And you're no longer
the first thing I think of
when I awake.
It took me
nineteen years
to get back here.
It took me
nineteen years
to
get
back
here.
(c)Brent M Harpur, 2012.
- for E.S.
"Here we lie, waiting for something to startle, to shake us from gravity's pull. And so the sleeping hours are through. What can we do? / So loosen your shoulderblades. This is your hour to make do. Because there on the timberline, deep cold November shines through, soft and absolute."
'Cocoon.' Words (c) Colin Meloy,The Decemberists.
Tonight,
while we sleep,
our blankets will tug at the foots of our beds;
threatening to
(all at once)
fly skyward through
half-opened windows
& block out the stars.
The bucket fountain
in Cuba Mall will cry
a few more joyfilled, sad tears
before morning.
The tiled streets that you called your home,
they are a littler emptier now.
Can you hear
the Capital's wind singing
just for you
a long overdue
song of redemption?
May you find a new street corner
in the fiery heavens,
just below the Southern Cross.
Here, the Maker
will weave anew
for you
a new blanket
out of comets' tails,
supernovas
& bleeding constellations.
Kia-Kaha, Ben.
Rest easy now,
forgive yourself,
and know
that while you made these
streets your home,
You were
a King amongst men.
- For Ben Hana, 'Blanket Man'.
(c) Brent M Harpur, 15/1/2012.
"Much of your pain is self chosen: It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you
heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, & drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy & hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the
Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears."
- Khalil Gibran.
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