NAPKIN WORDS #79 2011 - Dedicated to Mike Prevor
1. SOUL OF SLEEP
When the heart is sad, sleep cries and
fails to hear the curative sounds within
the soul.
What are those sounds and how does one
discover them?
First, the soul hums with the history of
life. One can hear past joys, memories
of people, places, adventures, contentment.
Second, the soul is capable of gathering
sad tears and by an invisible and almost
alchemistic method, turn those tears into
softness, a time back into the womb of
birth.
Lastly, the soul is the fountain of hope,
its spray of optimism begins in a depth
that allow dreams to erase the sadness,
to offer depth to the sleep that is near!
2. THE MAGICAL MIRROR
It is life, it sees its reflection, instead of imagining
its image.
When one looks at reality, one can always see
clearly!
3. REALITY
Life is best lived if one takes the middle path.
Here is where one is most likely to find true
happiness.
Not too much of adventure, not too little of
contentment.
Some people believe they need more, and some
believe they need less. By all means see what you
need in life. These are the discovery paths.
It is these paths that so often have directed most
of humanity to take the middle path.
Sadly, in politics in America, I believe that the
middle path has disappeared!
4. HUMAN GROWTH
One can never become a giant of a person
if led by small prejudices, or even worse, if
one follows a path that leads to hate!
5. LOVE WISDOM
The one who climbs the nearest hill, instead of
seeking the furthest mountain.
That is love wisdom, being near the arms that
hold them wise!
AT EDGE OF A POLE QUESTION
Human existence watches a full moon dance night onto ridges of awe. A toiling may be heard from aches of white tipped eternal ocean, as cresting roars shudder, then slip washboard winds betwixt each offering of sound. Youth creases, from time purchased many long wishes ago, hide age deep in evening prayers, as a beholding mist is raised upon hundreds of brawling gray clouds. Later, winds will be skillfully pushed, shoved, until earth light is exposed to air, leaving nothing but left over debris. A prudent reminder of dappled birthing, fortune signs coveted by man.
Rough waves make grinding, growling noises that refuse a staying. They rush about asking something mortals may never fathom; “Shall anyone ever be capable of discovering God?”
At edge of that questioning, stands a reclusive pole, away from meaning, without a purpose, yet it is there, day after day, night after night. It excludes neither wind, smack of sea; nor does it halt stone, sand, and detritus of night water birthing. Yet there it is, standing always alone. It will not hide. A moody idea of life that refuses to explain what is insisted. It willingly waits an eternity to be understood!
Twilight glows in tinged glare of pink, showering edges of swaying ocean amid ominous clouds. Darting, winking white lights, attach themselves to invisible boats while roving wash of movement, mimicking a writer’s pen, inscribes in etched whispers, “only time of being has a right to silence!” Each thought tread of every soul asks a single question; “Is the heavy heart of being ever content?” It places its burden upon flesh of every man who sits high above an ocean’s sway and hears shouting of colder imaginary twilights, special swirling reminders for humanity.
How little is left of purpose but shudders of memory! Circular dark shadows appear in sight dreams, a strange shaking of chilling sleep bones to a life wide awake.
When blush has left night sky and blackness has crushed all wrinkles of color, doors heavy with closure will open widely to a blinking mass of requiem stars. Angels, soaring about, will grasp at holy prayers floating in eternity. Psalms shall be heard, chanted by those who know of humanities many pole questions, yet give no answers till each heart and thought of those asking this quandary, are sacrificed, delivered to time.
by Edward Hunter