Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Did The Song Remain The Same?

There is such a curious link with the past that causes endless ripples and surges to come unbidden to the shores of the present. They typically come to wash away the sand castles I have built and remind me of the truth of where I stand, but every so often some piece of a forgotten dream washes up along with the riptide of deep ocean currents. Some long abandoned view, last remembered the last time I remembered. The last time I remembered it was the last time that I paused from the sandcastle competition long enough to let my spirit drift out over the places my consciousness has relegated to the evenings spent behind closed eyes. Places that stand out like the chocolate truffle that fell from someone else's cart in the whole wheat aisle. I pause, frozen on the beach. Was this tossed aside from some other life? Is it something they want me to buy off a table that stands sucking the marrow from the last pulse of adrenaline in the stadium hall? Do they want me to fuel their cruise, or is it a waterlogged invitation to stride out past the waves?
The merchandise hangs dead from booths, like trophies from the hunt the throngs have never tasted. The dreams of living dreamers hang thick in the air like bloody chum only the hunters smell. The primping pimps and princesses who shoot caged game have nothing to tell as they sell their empty dreams on glossy magazines, but the woods sodden stalker tears his prey to keep the hunger at bay. They spill the blood on the stage and across the page, it's crimson lure seeping past the theater seat and spilling freely into the street. Many, like dogs, will lap insatiably at the gore while few will rise to spill their own. Few will know the truth of the tale they have been told. Few will know the maddening tempter lying just off the shallows, just where the sound of the shore melds with the deep rhythm of unbounded places.
Tonight I am turning over some driftwood in my hands. Tonight I stand at the lapping edge of the abyss' ever moving borders, and I ponder.

Dedicated to a small tribe of driftwood carvers in Saskatoon. Peace to you.


amieedwards said...

Did you seriously write this- that's some mad poetry!

Brad the Dad said...

Vivan, got your comment translated, but I am not sure I understand. Sorry.

Amie, yup that was me rambling late at night with too much on the brain. Thanks for the thumbs up!