I wrote this poem tonight, to celebrate in respectful remembrance whatever it was that visited me that night, (and who or whatever were the pilots).
Almost 10 years ago now, and still fresh as a daisy in my mind.
I’ll start off with the truth.
You will hear,
Some will see, some will read,
The harshness of my ways of “self”
When I was just a youth.
Perhaps, perhaps, you know, already,
Perhaps you’ve got a clue,
To where my bookshelfed volumes sit,
Half chewed, and
Stare out blankly,
And emit a dusty hue.
Enough, enough of that pretension now,
Of my introducing,
Enough to make you sickly ridden,
Of metaphors and meanings hidden.
Up, far? Left, or right?
Let’s go out,
Prepared to gather up the night,
And search the skies,
For crafts I saw,
(I know I did),
But 21 is just a youth!,
A deeply dark one maybe,
For just the strangeness,
Of the taste of his heart,
In the icebox of the cabin,
That transports the body parts.
But don’t lose track,
The basic shapes, tastes,
And mindscapes remain!
I can see, smell, touch them, now,
As my appetite satiates,
The spaceships show so sign of bombs.
There’s a peaceful breeze,
Its fresh, cold, but it’s not freezing.
Sitting in such company,
“we care” they came to say.
Then conspiracies unloaded,
And I got taken away.
That’s a big old yarn itself.
I’ll save it for another day.
The Humble Rock Dove 