Smoky, lasting
moments of a mind’s
imaginations
Borgesian
Swedenborgian
monologues, thriving voices
Christopher Marlowe
returned
alive
at 33
behind
the red curtain of an
Elizabethan theater
…
I sit here tub-side
happily sipping
the sacred hookah
all by
myself
…
She thought to herself
as red-gray twilight
sleds across the ramparts
above the city’s
hidden, broken corners
…
When I tend to go
I tend to go
out through
my tiny bathroom
window with
sweet breezes
and dying voices
on my wings
…
Laughing children
down by
the street.
This city,
the shadows of
its faulty gates,
this city, from
the beginning
until
the never-ending
…
On the glacial
prairie lake, on
the gentle prairie, from
the hookah, these
whispers on unendingness do
bend into my ears again,
again, again,
killing me slowly
…
Because no one
knows, the thoughts
continued
thinking, when the deadly
end will come
to this broken-down road
of a world
…
No, no one
knows,
nobody but Him,
the hookah and
the sweet breezes
and the warm running
waters whispered
…
Send me home
when it’s my time,
when it’s my
time my Will will be
going from
me
away where I came
from
…
There is not a
single reason
for anything, and
never was, including for
life itself
(and that is one
of the things
God knows)
…
Let me be brave, let
me
be brave, mother and father,
like
Socrates
when their poison cup gets handed
my way
every day
…
Dale Williams Barrigar (Images also by DWB and the excellent music selection as well!)
Dale
Great flow and each one connects through the city and the hookah and a feeling that maybe everything is as it should be if it could stay that way.
That above is my unedited impression–I let the little atoms hit me and, well, there you have it.
A winning work because it made me feel something!
Leila
(Bob was young looking for a very long time–I think the heart problem finally put some wear on him, but he is still a rolling)
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Hi Dale
A sombre narrative runs throughout, capturing life from the frozen lake to the present, with all its mystery. And when it ends? Only he knows.
God stands before it all and “the sacred hookah.” I admit I had to look up hookah (a great word). I’ve had my own hedonistic experiences with the cruder form of the bubbling bong. Hitting it as hard as I could to prove some worthiness. Never considering a spiritual rite.
The minimalistic word choices capture so much and create powerful images!
Your photos remind me of the poets of the past, who are gone, but still in the breeze.
Great writing!
CJA
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