Excited for the weekend

He started the weekend on Weds.

And ended on Monday midnight.

Wth a head full of air,

And seamlessness of days and free-flowing space.

Like going to space.

Like my birthday on fast forward another day that comes to lighten a sage’s face

Bent out of shape and not a care about who is around.

Just a heart for the DIY and downtown.

Lan of Nod

Almost sleeping, but aware.

Almost dreaming in the light, during the lamps of day.

Reverie. I have been pondering in a mind of my making, escaping from D-Central.

Too far way.

Too far way.

Shall I say it again?

Pinching the air with the gasp of my breath in the room I was missing,

When the far off unreality was a step beyond,

Too far for my own good.

As I wake, from illusions of day light flickering across my mind,

I find ambience waiting for me, wondering if I should have seen worse.

But there I was, stationed, sanctified.

Reflection

Dearth ahead.

Me, seeing it, seeing you there,

My head above the undergrowth.

Just able to hear

Just can see ahead

To feel something I see

But not as you feel

I am deep in the undergrowth

I don’t grow anymore

I stopped growing in the undergrowth.

My head just above the undergrowth,

The rest of me below,

Waiting to come through the undergrowth.

I feel something

But not as you feel.

I want to feel more than I do,

But I am stuck in the undergrowth.

Without seeing you,

I would not feel anything at all.

You are hanging there,

I am sinking.

I see I can feel you.

Without seeing you,

I could not feel you.

My eyes sense your pain

My mind is above the undergrowth

My heart and soul in my head,

You keep on hanging there,

A reflection of my grief.

Note:

Experiencing grief for the sufferer is not the actual inner reality of the sufferer. He only sees in the sufferer a reflection of his grief.

Changes

Is your name a pretence?

By you, but who are you?

You are, aren’t you?

A distinctive scowl and careless attitude.

That is in you.

Your song.

Why is your name so different?

Have you had enough of being yourself,

That you had to pretend?

Am I wrong?

Have I mistaken your character by appearances?

When I saw you as you are it was for the first time

Then I had enough already.

You call yourself 1980, but by many other names.

You are known as more and this we know well, so well, by your

Distinctive scowl and careless attitude

This blew me. 1980 is just a name, isn’t it?

You were more than

Distinctive

More than a scowl

More than careless

More than an attitude

For underneath,

You were saying,

“I come as a whist,

But also.”

I was never the same again.

Widow’s mite

You give more than you can—

Every day you give a widow’s mite.

What more can you?

Rich man:

Why am I so afraid to give to someone who begs?

To support a busker, what a dredge

Her songs are no good, she likes her small pleasures.

Her pleasures come and go.

They’re free and gone forever.

Why should I pay for hers? She cannot live by songs!

They are fools.

Needy fools!

She does what she wants

I have to work

Let God give to her!

I do not!

I don’t lend money or give free of charge

Whoever wants my help shall be charged!

I am not untrue

I do my work and so should you.

Poor man:

Why are you afraid to give to a beggar?

A beggar does not pretend

Why wouldn’t a rich man give a widow’s mite?

To someone who cares to sing?

And fill the air with prosperity.

Good things

Why would you begrudge two miserly dollars?

For a performance from the heart

What do you know about charity?

You wretched man of deceit

You don’t do as Jesus says

You like your small pleasures

You just can’t let go of two miserly dollars

One day you’ll do it

I bet you will

It will be for a bet on the races

I know it will.

Rich man:

Busker and beggar,

You are human beings I don’t know

I don’t have to let go.

Poor man:

Why are you afraid to give?

Rich man:

But I tried. In the cold, through the wind, and under grey clouds,

I waited for her

I waited…

To give more than I would, with the feet and hands of Jesus I should, not knowing what may come

She says to me:

I do not need your money.

For when one sings from the heart,

Reward fills my soul.

A pocketbook then, one does not need.

So, the rich man sang with all his might

A widow passed by,

And threw him a coin —

Her left overs from the wages

What she spent on food and rent —

All that she had left to live on.

Money meant for the poorest —

The coin fell by the rich man’s feet.

So he sung even more.

Not to make some money,

But to make his soul

From sweetness and honey.

Every note a hymn, a

Prayer to soothe.

He’ll come to his senses,

Soon.