what will happen to all these words, these words that sometimes I can’t even be bothered to press the key hard enough to bring a letter into existence or hold the pen long enough to end one and begin another?… few write something that last beyond the pages they are scribbled on… few have a song, poem, book that years, decades, even centuries later still has a life, is remembered, repeated, reiterated, reinforced through sharing, passed on, passed down, passed around… most will just fade away into somewhere less comfortable than obscurity… do words exist when there’s no one to read them?… words here but not here having been released into the wilds of anonymity never to be seen, heard of, quoted, read despite time spent in birthing, nurturing them… is it enough that they’ve been written at all despite not knowing as to what end, or do they need assurance, an audience, listeners patronising its very metre and form, a some one to become more someones and more someones… is it enough to be conjured into existence only to leave not a trace?……
© 2018 robert greig
I sometimes misspell you, though not on purpose and hope you can forgive my occasional misdemeanour, and you sometimes come out as dairy which I’m sure you’ll understand can lead to all manner of complications… luckily I’ve not mistaken you, yet at least, for diarrhoea, a word itself a nightmare to spell correctly at the best of times without second guessing oneself, not to mention there being two accepted (though not acceptable) versions, the other dropping the ‘o’ though you’ll be pleased to know I don’t approve of that seeing it as a bit flippant to do so… and I couldn’t imagine confiding in my diarrhoea in quite the same way as I would a diary, or even a dairy which would not only be weird but also pointless as its sole advice to any confessions would always be the same, not to cry over spilled milk.
… and as for occasional, there’s another slippery one, one ‘c’ two of ‘s’, one ‘s’, two of ‘c’…… anyway, I won’t bother your pulpiness with this one, thanks for listening and also for not making any crass jokes about pasteurising……
© 2018 robert greig
the sky’s parched, baked hard, become vitrified, or maybe ossified, can it even be either, but they do rhyme, a sky bleached blue… can a blue be bleached?…. clouds when they appear languish like beached whales unsure what to do next or how they even got there, probably all the noise, of the modern world, so much of it, noise, and underwater sound travels even further, at least deep resonant frequencies do, disorienting anything with a finely-tuned but unwary navigation system making “where am I!” guesses all the harder… but the sky isn’t the sea, although some poets seem to compare it so or to something else other than the sky itself, although, they may have a point, can you compare something to itself as itself?… surely there needs to be an other to make comparison possible… but there isn’t always an other to utilise when you need it, like a policeman, or a bus, never there when you need one, or that retort you wanted to say at the time and only thought of later and kick yourself for not getting your clever come-back in at the time…. the brain moves in mysterious ways…. take today’s daily blog for example, I woke up this morning, started scribbling down something on my mind and when I got to slapping it up on screen, whaddya know!, it’s not that, it’s something totally different and unrelated… I could kick myself but actually have you ever really tried kicking yourself, quite tricky if not nigh impossible, certainly to do it effectively, I can trip myself though, and that rhymes, mostly, assonantly at least… I have tripped myself before now, although not deliberately as that’s just as tricky as kicking yourself and if you try it looks more comedic than convincing, but sometimes your legs just get tangled for one reason or another, like your tongue but really that has no excuse as you only have one tongue so it can’t really get tangled as such not being another one in there to snag it on, unless you’re snogging but then that’s a different story entirely… yet again, no rain, good thing or bad thing?… well depends who you ask though no doubt when it comes and as soon as it does and it will, there’ll be someone, many someones, who’ll say exasperatedly, “well (humph!), so that was summer then”…. and much later come the first signs of autumn will be the ones moaning “well (humph!), didn’t have much of a summer then did we”…… there’s no pleasing some folk……
© 2018 robert greig