Good rubber boots

I was standing in the middle of a deep, clear puddle this morning. Leftover rain in a pocket of wild grass. Being a boy crossed my mind and then a haiku.

 

It’s nice to have

good rubber boots that you can

walk through puddles in.

 

The sky turned grey, almost black and then it began to pour. But for my boots I was unprepared and got soaked to the skin. Everything but my socks and feet. Good rubber boots are awesome.

 

 

This thing happened

Something big happened to me today. With me. I’m going to be vague despite the heaviness of detail, realism and wonder involved. Despite the fact that detail is my thing. I’m just a little too exhausted right now. And my eyes hurt. And I probably won’t post this but maybe I will. I should go to bed but I witnessed an usually significant moment and I need to write it down. Like in a Captain’s log. It happened in a rare-beast-spotted kind of way. The animal lingers. You sit down and it wanders over. Lays its head on your lap or nudges you with nose or antler. It’s all warm and wild presence. Lucid. Shapes shift and reality moves like heat rising off pavement on a really hot day. That kind of thing. And you are awake.

Imagine that when you were young you had a dream. And you dreamed it with intensity and conviction. Eventually though, reality set in, the dream started looking a little more dreamy than reasonable and over time it went away. Life is good. More time passes and you actually forget the dream. Years go by and then one day about a month ago, someone phones you up and says “so about that dream”.

You didn’t ask for this. Didn’t look for it. Didn’t wish it. Life gets very surreal. Daunting. You draw pictures, twist wire, model clay, take photos and materialize an idea. Working almost entirely in the dark. Head down. Working hard but careful not to invest anything more than a little hope and a lot of wonder into what is taking place. It’s quite the little detour but, you know, let’s just keep it real.

This morning I visited the man who made the call. Showed him my answer to his question. It was not what he expected. Not at all. I am not disappointed he said more than once as his pleasure grew. I told him that none of this had been real for me until right now. I just couldn’t let it be. He walked me to the top of the stairs, we were both laughing. He asked about costs, timelines and materials as he handed me a new key to the future.

Not the finest piece of writing I’ve ever done, but that’s okay… its been quite a day.

Blues singer

Poetic flakes and falling leaves

words to dust or mud.

Equal parts light and confusion.

Written read remembered forgotten.

Real like love, hate and fear.

We tell ourselves and others

the way it is. But maybe not.

 

———————-

 

Then this blues woman

twisted at the mike

surrounded by taxidermy

and beat, squeezing body and soul

into every sacred breath.

Semi-dark in the Whitetail Tavern

50/50 draw on a Friday night.

Far too pure for words like these.