Mine is a western
voice
Calling silently from
the depths of the bath
Peering out from a
surface that tears itself apart;
Minute tears driving
upwards to join with cloud cousins
Who are always
watching down, banding together to gather
The courage to tear
apart and come down.
And I, in a huff of
thought, submerge.
We sing as one, we
western voices,
Though each to
different moons.
It is to the paper now
my whimsy serenades.
I have pinched this
afternoon’s immersing
From garden’s seeding chore.
Instead planting
perspective that now grows slow-mo visions.
I try to still that
eye as I dry and fly
To the blank page. How
much can I save
Of the precious prize
that inspires and dies?
I, in a bathos brume,
ablate.
No big words, sings
the western voice
Booming in on board
rattling spurs.
I just took a bath o’
and my woman works the brume.
Ablate of her good
dinner is fuel for my tune.
And what’s all this of
clouds and surfaces tearing and banding together?
Just say that it’s
steam from the bath behaving like upside-down weather.
And I, in my western
voice, agree.
Published 2014 The Open Mouse
©Montgomery Thompson All Rights Reserved
