bothersome (16/Sept/18)

never mind being haunted by the past, it’s when the present gets in on the act and comes a-haunting, that’s when you need to worry…
meaningful, meaningful, got to find the meaningful in something, the meaningality… yes, yes, that’s it, the reasoning, the reason for, the reason, the reasonality… get the point, miss the point, get the point, miss the point, it’s the compass game, always pointing north… one way, always the same… except when it isn’t… how do I know when it isn’t, I’m not a bird with a highly-developed magnetic sense of which way to fly… nor can I fly, despite the lies I tell myself, that being, of course I can fly, I just choose not too… choices, choices, choisality, the which way: high road or low road, left right, straight on until morning… but’ it’s already morning, where now?… signs, signs, where are the signs, the sine waves signing off each moment like a checklist…. done that one, done that one, done that one…… sigh… sighs… the sound of a wave… a sigh wave… psi, psi, psi-power, siphoning, psiphoning… is it the same as vacuuming, siphoning the carpet?… siphoning a vacuum?… don’t point your vacuum cleaner at the sky at night or it might suck Space in by accident which, I’m sure, wouldn’t be a good thing…… waves sound like wind, or wind sounds like waves, and yet… they are different, or… two side of the same coin?…
… and what about the future… what if that came a-haunting too, how bothersome it would be……

© 2018 robert greig

burrs (14/August/18)

the wind clung on as long as it could but eventually surrendered to drizzle leaving just sweepings barely brushing the leaves as finings of air were dampened and deadened and dragged rebellious to the ground… it hoped to do more, see another day but instead was given only a taste just enough to extort a regret as rain determined and decided its fate… it had fair warning but when does the wind ever listen to any other than itself, too busy gyrating, berating umbrellas, bullying branches, bartering breezes for the calm before that already calmly walked away when it could unseen and unheard… but in the end its enthusiasm got the better of it and frayed becoming threadbare, a scrabbling, babbling, shambling vagrant with nothing to share but a pocketful of burrs…

© 2018 robert greig

rain-rain (28/July/18)

it’s actually a relief… rain… proper rain… not half-hearted apologetic rain but what I could call, bringing to bear all the technical jargon at my disposal, rain-rain… the landscape looks grateful, sighing through the remaining leaves that’ve managed to see it through the previous lack… lest we forget the value of water in favour of blue skies and bikini lines… no doubt some will gripe and moan with the “so that was summer then” as though it was gone in a blink, an awfully long blink if that was the case… what do you call a long blink?… sleep, I suppose… what do you call a longer blink?… death… maybe that’s what I’ll have on my headstone, not dead ‘just blinking’… or half a blink anyway, that’s the thing about blinking, one has to remember the second half of it, the unblink…… I know not everyone wants rain, but then again not everyone engages their brain enough to see the point… oh, to be clueless…… and soulless… do you ever meet people to just come across as just that?… not clueless, there are plenty of those milling about, no, soulless… people who seem to have nothing there, nothing going on, more vacant than stone, who blow through life oblivious to anything outside their own skin… for reasons peculiar I know them as soon as I meet them, first impressions and all, which to me, despite popular opinion, are not just important but inevitable, and on meeting someone anew I just know…. I have no idea how or even why, if it’s a feeling, a smell, electricity, something they say, their eyes, it’s impossible to quantify never mind bottle it and sell it online to the ever-expanding hoards of the gullible…… are people getting more gullible these days?… hard to say as any opinion I have would be loaded in bias anyway, but I do wonder…… the sound of the trees, hedges, grass heads, it slips between words and nestles in the pauses teasing the gaps between letters and indulging in abandon at the end of a sentence when they know it’s their cue to boast and brag and don their finest swishes and swooshes indulging their Aeolian catwalk… it’s the sound of between, the sound of space, that’s why it never stays still…

© 2018 robert greig